Josh busies himself with making something for dinner—spaghetti is about all he has that’s enough to share since he wasn’t expecting a guest. DeMar sits perched on one of the stools at the counter bar, sipping a glass of red wine and watching Josh work. Every now and then he makes an appreciative sound in the back of his throat, a sexy half-growl whenever Josh leans over to retrieve something or turns away from him. The message is clear. He’s still interested.
Josh tries to distract himself with preparing the meal, but he sees DeMar from the corner of his vision and can’t even look at the man without remembering all he can’t see. The rich chocolately skin between DeMar’s legs, the darker hue of his balls, the fringe of fuzz that rings his c**k. The small whorls of his navel, the thin smatt
