Just Say When by E M Lindsey

Author:E M Lindsey [Lindsey, E M]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Six

“So now comes the part where you do the filling,” Enzo said. They were two hours into filming with all the pauses and the prep. Blind or sighted, it would have been impossible to make the pasta in a twenty-minute segment, so they were working in fits and bursts. The pasta they’d kneaded wasn’t the pasta they were using to roll and fill, but he felt fairly confident what they had whipped up would have been usable. But he was getting tired, and Tristian seemed to realize it because he was sticking to Enzo a lot closer than before.

“You still doing alright?” Tristian asked.

Enzo smiled. “This is a lot more work than I thought it was going to be, but yeah.”

“You want me to help you? We can Ghost it,” he offered in a tone that was impossible to misread, and he laid his hand at Enzo’s waist.

Enzo’s face flooded with both embarrassment and need. “Uh.”

“Don’t want you to get lost,” Tristian added.

It was an offer with an out, and he could have taken it, because being filmed like this—he knew he wouldn’t be able to hide how he felt. The world would know.

But maybe…

But maybe, that was okay. Maybe the world didn’t fucking matter, and maybe Tristian deserved better than his hesitance. Even if he turned Enzo down, he deserved to know he was wanted.

“Thank you for keeping me grounded,” he said. He felt Tristian’s fingers spasm, and he ached to peel the blindfold away and read his expression, but he promised. He could hear the mechanical whirring of the fridge, the soft steps Tanner made as he moved to get the best shots, the faint hum of his ice maker. Everything felt so big and so small at the same time.

“It’s only fair that I return the favor,” Tristian said. His hands moved to cup the back of Enzo’s shoulders, then trailed down to his hands. His skin heated with the path Tristian made, and his face was red-hot by the time the other man’s palms cupped over his. He went relaxed, pliant, let Tristian guide him to the sheet of pasta, rested his head backward until they were in contact in almost every way they could be. For a minute, he thought he heard steps on the kitchen floor, but he was too far gone to care.

He imagined doing this without a camera—with less clothes without pressure to be anything but together. He imagined how Tristian might push onto his toes and press his mouth to the curve of his neck, how Tristian’s clever fingers might reach for his shirt, might pull his pants down to his knees—touch his cock, cup his balls, then slowly finger him until he was open.

A brush of warm air against his neck make him shiver, and he moaned. The sound of it startled him back to reality, and he went instantly stiff, trying to pull back, though Tristian kept him steady.

“It’s okay,” he murmured. Enzo started to shake his head,

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