"Come on, Jim. Jim, please, please. My back is up against the wall here, man. I got nowhere else to go. "
For a moment, I just stare at him incredulously. This mass of energy and bounce in my home, under my feet 24/7? Is he fucking kidding me?
I've seen how he lives. Smelled the funky food he eats, and the musty, dusty scent of books that he trails behind him like a long scarf.
He'll clutter the place up. He couldn't keep a warehouse tidy; what's he going to do to the small, orderly space I live in quite happily and, did I mention, alone?
Where will I even put him? A week of tripping up over him, listening to him snore and snuffle at night, worse than the hiss of the pipes and the creak of the floor, and move around my space by day, invasive, intrusive, in my face.
He's in it now, anxious eyes and pleading lips, but there's something else there, too and I can't quite --
I picture him in the morning, sleepy frown and rumpled robe, night-sour breath wafting over me, the warm, toasty smell of his skin wrapping around me, a whole push/pull attraction thing going on.
Except, he's straight, from what he says, so it'll be a one-way lusting. The kid knows all my deepest, darkest secrets, knows what a freak I am and gets off on it, but he doesn't know I mapped the shape of his ass through that stolen white lab coat. Doesn't know how much I got off on slamming him against the wall of his office, his body arching up against mine as he fought back.
I think I'd like to keep at least one part of my life private.
So, sorry, Sandburg, no room at the inn for you. It'd just get --
"Jim, one week. One week, and I promise, I promise, we'll be out of your hair. Come on. One week, man."
His mouth's so fucking tempting when it's begging.
I sigh; capitulate, and I know, I just know --
Messy. It's going to get messy.
Two weeks later, choking on the pungent reek of his socks, abandoned under the couch, because we couldn't wait to get to the bed to fuck and stripped off right there, I know I was right.
He's messy. But we can work on that.
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