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Watching

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I could become addicted to those lips if given the opportunity. I won't be, but I'm watching him, and wondering what it would take to see him closing his eyes and parting his lips, waiting for me to kiss him. Jesus, he's beautiful, and I think he wants me. I think I can tell what the look in those eyes means.

He keeps looking up at me from under his lashes, and then there's this expression I can't read. I don't know what he's saying with it. What he wants. What he's asking for. I know whatever it is, I want to deliver on it.

Those lips. Jesus.

We're heading out tonight, going drinking after we finish work for the day. And I'll probably make my move then. Or at least I'll let him know I'm open to it if he makes a move on me. Wonder where that'd get me. Anywhere?

But he--

--oh.

Oh, he's not alone.

That's interesting. The man he's here with looks as if he could be twice his age, and the way his hands wrap around Christian's shoulders, it's pretty obvious this is not just a friendly relationship. Not just a fatherly relationship. It's--

--well. I think I know what those expressions meant now.

Another night, another fine acquaintance with my right hand. Damn.

Damn, because I was beginning to think I knew how those lips tasted. I could see them parting for mine, could see the way he'd kiss me back. I could feel the way those hands would twist and clutch in my shirt.

Someday.

Maybe.