Off Campus

By Amy Jo Cousins

Everyone's got secrets. Some are just harder to hide.

With his father's ponzi scheme assets frozen, Tom Worthington believes finishing college is impossible unless he can pay his own way. After months sleeping in his car and driving a pirate taxi for cash, he's ready to do just that.

But his new, older-student housing comes with an unapologetically gay roommate. Tom doesn't ask why Reese Anders has been separated from the rest of the student population. He's just happy to be sleeping in a bed.

Reese isn't about to share his brutal story with his gruff new roommate. You've seen one homophobic jock, you've seen 'em all. He plans to drag every twink on campus into his bed until Tom moves out. But soon it becomes clear Tom isn't budging.

Tom isn't going to let some late-night sex noise scare him off, especially when it's turning him on. But he doesn't want any drama either. He'll keep his hands, if not his eyes, to himself. Boundaries have a way of blurring when you start sharing truths, though. And if Tom and Reese cross too many lines, they may need to find out just how far they can bend...before they break.

Warning: This book contains cranky roommates who vacillate between lashing out and licking, some male/male voyeurism, emotional baggage that neither guy wants to unpack, and the definitive proof that sound carries in college housing.

THIS EDITION IS A RE-RELEASE OF A PREVIOUSLY PUBLISHED VERSION. MINOR CHANGES ONLY HAVE BEEN MADE.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Amy Jo Cousins
• Release date: Mar 27, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370923861

Amy Jo Cousins

A.J. Cousins knows one thing for sure: the people who read and write romance novels are the smartest, funniest, kindest, and most optimistic souls on the planet and finding a place in this community has been like coming home. She lives in Chicago, where she writes contemporary romance, tweets more than she ought, and sometimes runs way too far. She loves her boy and the Cubs, who taught her that being awesome doesn't necessarily have anything to do with winning. Please visit her online!

Book preview

1

His bed was missing.

Exhaustion gnawed at Tom’s bones and crawled up the back of his neck to settle in at the base of his skull, a tightening ache that radiated all the way through to his eye sockets. His eyes were scratchy and dry, his entire body felt grimy, and his arm might fall off if he couldn’t put his duffle bag down.

He’d been driving for forty-eight hours straight and the only thing keeping him going in the last twelve hours had been the promise of a hot shower and a bed, a real, honest-to-God bed, at the end of the road.

But his bed was missing.

He opened the dorm room door again and double-checked the number on the plate above the bulletin board covered in quotes, comic strips and photos he was too tired to examine. The need to sleep was kicking in hard. Hallucinating the dorm room number was not out of the question.

23B.

Nope. That’s what it said on the letter from Residential Life he’d been carrying around in his wallet since July. The words You have been approved for off-campus housing at the Frances Perkins House for returning students,—returning being a polite way of saying too old to tolerate the kids in the dorms—had been a mantra for him the last two months of driving a pirate taxi in Boston this summer, knowing he still had to come up with another ten grand before September 1st.

He’d damn near gotten that room number tattooed on his ass, he was so fucking happy to have made this happen.

Turned out that losing everything could turn you into an entirely new person overnight.

He dragged his brain back under control before he started obsessing again about everything that was different, all the shit he’d had to figure out how to do, or do without, and took three steps back into the room.

Fuck it.

He dropped the duffle bag.

This was home for the next nine months, with a bed or without one. Damned if he was going to worry about this tonight. The right half of the room was clearly taken by another student, a neatly made bed lengthwise against the wall and a wooden desk and bookcase in the corner by the window. The left half of the room, though, had been transformed into something like a living room, the desk buried under a mammoth TV/DVD/stereo set up and the bed—there was his bed, damn it—transformed into a couch via a shitload of pillows.

Seriously. He didn’t even know they made pillows in that shape, long narrow cylinders that lined the length of the bed against the wall, with another manic spread of throw pillows smothering the whole thing. The entire setup looked comfortable enough to have him knocked out and unconscious in seconds. But judging by the coordinated frigging color scheme, his new roomie might not be the kind of guy who appreciated an unwashed, smelly dude passing out on his designer blankets.

He thought of the one set of shitty sheets stuffed deep in his duffle bag and wondered whether he’d pass out first if he had to dig them out and make a bed before he could go to sleep.

He bent down and started tugging on the zipper. No sense bitching about it. Just get it done. He could leave a note on the door maybe, so his roommate knew not to wake him up. Assuming he wasn’t stuck with some asshole who would take that as some kind of challenge.

If anyone woke him before dawn, he’d cut their arms off with his teeth.

Now, where the fuck were those sheets?

He heard the door open behind him, but his reaction times were so slow with the need for sleep he was still figuring out what that sound was when the light tenor voice smacked him from behind.

Not that I don’t appreciate the view, babe, but what the hell?

Tom stood up and turned so fast that his head spun and he put out a hand to steady himself. The kid who’d moved up right behind him jerked back and pulled his hands up in front of his chest, his head leaning back even farther. Almost as if he thought Tom was coming at him.

The kid so clearly didn’t want to be touched that Tom yanked his hand, about to grab the guy’s arm for balance, back to his own shoulder and then had to catch himself before he stumbled and tripped over his own feet.

Sorry, he muttered, not entirely sure what he was apologizing for. Probably for being here, which by the look on the kid’s face, was not cause for a happy happy, joy joy party.

His roommate, he assumed, grimaced and waved a hand in the air as if to say, Ignore please.

He looked at Tom for a minute, not saying a word. Finally he raised an eyebrow and looked pointedly from Tom to the half-opened duffle on the floor, wrinkled clothes spilling out like the stuffing from an old couch with a split in the seat.

Tom looked back at him. Caught himself leaning forward and drifting into an upright snooze after a moment and stood up again.

What were they talking about?

Dude. The kid waved a hand in front of Tom’s face. Wake up, guy. What the hell are you doing in my room?

Oh right. Introductions.

I’m your roommate. He couldn’t tell if it was shock or irritation on the kid’s face. What the fuck was his name again? They’d put it on the sheet with the rest of the info, while apologizing that they didn’t have a single for him like most of the Perkins students enjoyed, but all Tom could remember was 23B. Damn. Way to make a good impression. Sorry. Tom. He stuck his hand out.

Aww, hell no. The kid had the grace to look a little abashed when Tom took a step back at his vehement denial. But he didn’t back down. "I do not have a roommate. The dean promised me a single. I’ve been here for three days. Nobody told me anything about a roommate."

Tom would’ve felt bad for him if he weren’t so fucking exhausted. Screw the pillows. He’d just lie down on the floor and wrap himself up in a sweatshirt if he had to.

Sorry, man. The paper says 23B. He held up the crumpled letter he’d kept in his wallet for two months. Almost jerked it away when the kid reached for it. He had to remind himself that he was actually here, back at school after being gone for fifteen months, and he didn’t need that letter any more to prove it to himself. He let go.

Shit. Shit. The kid glared at the letter and started pacing back and forth between Tom and the door, as if he were thinking about busting out into the hall and calling for help to remove the intruder from his room. "But they promised."

When he looked up for one unguarded moment, Tom was shocked to see his eyes glitter with tears that weren’t allowed to spill over carefully applied black liner around thickly lashed eyes. That struck Tom as unusual enough to inspire him to take an actual look at his new roommate.

The kid looked like some kind of skinny British rock star, tight black jeans slung low and held up with a studded metal belt. He wore a skintight T-shirt with a band name on it that Tom was sure he should recognize. Bright green Chuck Taylors and a wrist cuff that matched the belt. Straight jet black hair that spilled over his face, blocking most of one eye, giving an odd pirate effect to his glares, which he was shoveling in Tom’s direction like a pile of shit that needed to be tossed out of a stable.

Tom felt irritation give an adrenaline jump-start to his system. Fuck. If he got into an argument with this kid, it’d rile him up and take him that much longer to settle down and get to sleep. He was too tired to hold up his end of a debate. He’d end up lying there, wherever there turned out to be, and he was not kidding about the floor, coming up with all his good one-liners long after they’d stopped talking to each other and become the kind of roommates that had to draw a line with tape down the middle of the room and forbid each other to cross it.

The kid was still pushing back at him, now practically throwing the letter in his face.

Listen, I don’t know why they sent you that, that, piece of crap in epistolary form, but the dean promised me a single and I guarantee you this is a mistake. He crossed his arms over his slim chest and nodded.

Great, kid. I’m thrilled for you. Even though I don’t have the faintest fucking clue what you’re talking about. New rule: People using big words when he was dead tired would be shot. But it’s nine p.m. on Sunday night. Nobody’s gonna straighten this out until tomorrow morning. So, since I have a freaking piece of paper that says I should sleep here, maybe I can just— a huge yawn ripped out of his mouth, catching him off guard mid-sentence, —sorry, sleep here.

He saw the doubt creeping in halfway through his little speech. Really, there was nothing they could do about it tonight. Maybe in the morning he’d find out that the school had come up with a single for him after all. Good news all around, if so.

After the months where he couldn’t set foot outside his front door without being swarmed by people, Tom was looking to fly low and solo under the radar. A nice anonymous single room, no matter how small and crappy, in an off-campus dorm where no one knew him would be a fucking slice of heaven.

But that was tomorrow. No chance for good news tonight. And he wanted to sleep, goddamn it.

Please. If I don’t get some sleep, I’m gonna die. Begging was not at all out of the question.

Maybe being too tired to argue was gonna work in his favor. His maybe temporary roommate sighed and directed the air up to blow his bangs out of his eyes. The kid looked at the bed with regret.

I have my own sheets, Tom offered. I won’t mess up your things. If you tell me where I can put your pillows and stuff for tonight. Bet they can figure this out tomorrow.

He didn’t know why he wasn’t telling this kid to fuck off and leave him alone to sack out on the bed that by rights belonged to him. Maybe because of those suspiciously shiny eyes, clear now, in that moment when the kid had seen that Tom’s letter was real, crumpled and faded with re-readings though it was. For whatever reason, he wasn’t looking to pick a fight or try to muscle his way into making this kid back down.

He just wanted to stop moving for one night. One night under a roof that belonged to him, even temporarily.

In the end, the kid was too nice to make a big stink out of an unpleasant situation. Tom could see the moment his resistance gave up the ghost, at least for tonight. His shoulders dropped from where they’d been lodged up around his ears and his hands relaxed, hung loose and open at his sides.

Ahh, fuck it. His voice, when he stopped bristling with anger, was lower. Smoother. Just, let me do it. Okay? Go, get a snack or something. It’ll be ready in fifteen minutes. He eyed the bed-cum-sofa again. Make it twenty.

In the end, he told Tom about the bar across the street that served decent food and beer in glasses that weren’t dirty.

Not that I’ve been there. Ten more months to go, he said as he held the door open, silently pushing Tom out of it and pressing up against the wall as he squeezed by. And that was weird, because Perkins House was supposed to be for older returning students who didn’t want to put up with the chaos and noise of the dorms. Or for scandal-ridden students like Tom, who the college would just as soon keep out of sight. The door was almost shut when Tom turned back for a second.

Hey, kid! The crack widened and the kid looked out, most of his body hidden behind the door. What’s your name again?

Reese. Reese Anders.

He didn’t stick a hand out. Just shut the door.

Tom abandoned his duffle with a kid whose name he’d known for all of three seconds and headed across the street.

At the bar, he slid his ass onto the cracked red vinyl of a round stool and groaned at the sight of two dozen microbrews on tap. The bartender was old and grizzled around the jaw, chewing on a mangled stir stick. Tom ordered a pint of whatever was cheapest on tap, flushing a little but aware that whatever was left in his wallet had to last him until he could get back to the city for a couple of nights driving over the next weekend. When the bartender carded him, he didn’t know whether or not to hope the man blamed his cheapness on his barely legal age or not. He’d be turning twenty-two this winter, but he felt about a hundred and three. If he could make enough cash on the weekends, legitimate cab driving or pirating it, he could focus on his classes during the week. But his budget wasn’t going to allow for much more than ramen noodles and generic two-liters of soda this year, so he might as well get over feeling shitty about looking cheap right now.

He also hadn’t eaten since that morning. When the bartender slapped a pint of something pale as straw on the coaster that was obviously going for a third or fourth use, Tom added a basket of cheese fries to his tab.

He’d grown used to eating crap in the last year. Amazing how expensive it was to eat good food. But junk was cheap wherever you went.

He started nodding off over his fries with a half a pint still sitting in front of him.

Hey, kid. For a second, he thought he was listening to himself talk to Reese. The guy made him feel ancient. Probably the same for the bartender, watching him. Go on home before you faceplant in that grease. G’wan.

He stood, streamed the rest of his beer down his open throat in one long swallow, and pushed the glass and two dollars for a tip toward the rail.

Thanks, man.

Back at the room, Reese was nowhere in sight. Probably went to rustle up some friends and bitch about the asshole who’d showed up in his nice, put-together room. Which was only fair if he hadn’t been expecting a roomie. But most of the pillows were gone from the bed and the countertop cleared off the second dresser in the room. Tom’s shitty sheets must still be in his duffle, because the bed was made up with a matching set of some kind of semi-shiny bronze sheets and pillowcases on the two more obviously made for a bed pillows.

A folded piece of white notebook paper stood out on one of the pillows.

T- Just sleep on these sheets. The bed was already made up. Plus, your sheets are really pathetic. Seriously. -R.

He stripped off his jeans, T-shirt and socks, leaving them on the floor where they fell at his feet. There was a moment of guilt when he slid between the sheets and wondered if he should have grabbed a quick shower first. But between the muttered curse at realizing he’d left the ceiling light on and the switch was all the way over by the door and the second jaw-breaking yawn of the hour, he fell asleep.

He never heard when Reese came in.

At some point, God knew how many hours of catch-up sleep later, but not enough, obscenely bright sunlight was streaming in the uncurtained window as the sounds of another person moving around the room, opening and closing drawers and a door or two, brought him far enough out of his coma to hear the kid getting dressed.

Hey, kid. His voice scratched in his throat. He didn’t bother trying to open his eyes, blinded even with them shut. Reese.

What?

Any chance you can get the blinds, man? I need another couple before I’m human again.

A huff of breath that sounded as if it wanted to be a laugh but was trying to pull off annoyed. Then the short whistle of cord running through a pully, followed by the bliss of dimming light.

Thanks, kid. He shoved his head under one of these fucking softer than a baby’s ass pillows he was not thinking about stealing. I’ll go to Res Life first thing, ’kay?

Something that sounded like you and me both made its way through the down fluff wrapped around his head. And then the real darkness fell again.

---

Hours later, Tom found himself arguing with the woman behind the scarred wood counter in the Residential Life office until she snapped at him.

It’s up to you, Mr. Worthington. If you’d rather wait to see if you can get a single room next semester, we can change your re-enrollment date. But there aren’t any open singles in Perkins House, no matter how much you tell me there has to be.

Tom blew out a breath and ran his hands through his hair.

It’s just… He tried to figure out what was stopping him from letting this poor woman go back to her work. This kid, Reese, he seemed pretty sure that there wasn’t supposed to be anyone else in his room. And he looks at me like I’m a serial killer or something. He thought of something. I don’t even know if he slept there last night.

I’m sure you’ll work it out. She slapped the folder containing his file shut and threw him a bright smile. If not, you can always check back in a couple weeks, see if anything’s opened up.

He could take a hint.

Writing off his chances of making any progress here, he headed back to the dorm, still feeling hungover with fatigue and the sensation of having come to a sudden stop after an eternity of hustling at top speed. Everyone around him, the students crossing the quad or checking mail in the campus P.O. or hauling enormous white Target shopping bags into the dorms, seemed to be moving in fast forward while he trudged through some kind of temporal molasses. The disorientation was fierce.

It didn’t help when your brain went off on labyrinthine tangents just to figure out how to say, Damn, I’m still tired.

Since he didn’t have anything until a four p.m. appointment with his advisor, another crack at sacking out seemed like a good plan.

It was only when he got back to his room, at least his room for now, and heard the music blaring from behind the closed door did he realize that his room might not be the most restful spot on campus today.

He braced himself and unlocked the door, feeling enough like a guest to give a half-hearted knock, one that certainly couldn’t be heard over the techno crap, before he pushed in.

Either his roommate had ears like a bat or he was watching the door for Tom’s return, because Reese was planted like an immovable object ready to meet an unstoppable force ten feet inside the room, hands on his hips, wearing nothing but a pair of cut-off black sweats, a yoga mat unrolled flat on the floor behind him.

Well?

It wasn’t really a question. More of a demand.

Tom shrugged. They told me no dice. He slung his backpack on the bed he’d apparently still be sleeping in tonight, talking loudly to be heard over the dance music. Techno with yoga? He blocked the curiosity that spiked in him. None of his business. You?

No answer other than the elegant yet impatient wave of one hand that Tom had already figured out meant Reese didn’t care for the answer to the previous question and so was skipping it.

A dice shortage all around.

He raised his voice again and stared pointedly at the stereo.

Listen, I need some more sleep before I meet my advisor at four. Any chance we can take a vacay from the techno for an hour or two?

Reese swiped a remote control from his bed and pointed it at the receiver.

Blessed silence.

Until the kid went off on him again. Tom eased himself down onto the edge of the bed and did his best to look as if he were paying attention while he unlaced his shoes.

Listen, what’s your name again? Tom? He nodded and kicked his running shoes off. You can’t stay here.

Sorry, kid. But here’s all they gave me. Trust me, if I could get out of your hair, I would.

Did you even try to convince the Res Life lowlifes that they’d fucked up? Shit. The kid was pacing, three steps and turn, three steps and turn, across the small open floor space. Those jerks couldn’t find their own assholes with two hands and a flashlight.

Tom flinched. Vivid. But there isn’t anything they can do about it. There’s nowhere for me to go. You can’t blame them for not fixing it. We’re just stuck.

Reese’s laugh was short and bitter. Yeah, well, they don’t exactly have a brilliant track record with me and roommates.

Tom could tell there was something there, loaded and heavy behind the sarcastic words and the sharp head shake, but the pillow at his hip was calling to his head like a Siren to Odysseus and Reese didn’t look as if he was really up for probing questions anyway.

He shrugged and stood up to slough off his jeans, planning to crash in his boxers and a T-shirt. It’d been a long time since he’d stripped in front of a stranger, at least in a situation that didn’t involve enough alcohol to sink a battleship, and he was weirdly aware of Reese watching him.

Not like pervy watching him. More like someone plotting how to do away with him. Speculative. As if he were measuring Tom with his eyes and figuring out where he could hide his body.

He stripped the comforter way back, not wanting to sweat his ass off in the early September heat of a summer that wouldn’t quit, and slid under the sheet to lie on his stomach. Kid could keep talking if he wanted. Tom was pretty sure he could sleep through an air raid alarm, much less a cranky twenty-year-old. He punched a pillow up and wedged it under his cheek.

You can’t stay here! Agitation overload. And still with the pacing.

His eyes were getting tired of tracking the back and forth. Resting them for a moment was clearly the best option.

Just a moment.

Don’t worry. Hardly be here.

I don’t care if you check in once a quarter, dude. You having a key to this room is not an option.

Sorry. He was really drifting now. S’okay.

"No, it’s not. I’m gay, you idiot."

He could tell from the dramatic flounce to the words this was supposed to be a big deal, so he made a valiant effort and cracked an eye open.

I noticed. So?

Which was enough of an answer as far as Tom was concerned. It wasn’t as if he could miss the rainbow flags on the door and the walls, or the black and white photography posters of naked people, all of them male.

Reese’s sexuality was not exactly a state secret here.

No surprise to hear that Reese didn’t consider that answer satisfactory.

So? I suck cock and kiss guys and you’re telling me you’re okay with that? His disbelief was raging as he took two steps closer to where Tom had perked up a bit at those last sentences, looming over the bed.

In that order?

What?

You do it in that order? Suck cock and then kiss? Seems a little backwards. This conversation was enough to wake him up a little. Opening his eyes, he propped his head on one fist and watched Reese fling himself into the wooden desk chair.

Seriously? That’s where you’re taking this conversation? He grabbed a pen out of cup on the desk and started tapping on the edge of the seat between his widespread legs. You wanna talk about blowjobs?

Tom shrugged one shoulder. Just saying. There’s no way you’d get a girl to go for that.

Yes, well, guys sometimes have a more pragmatic approach to sex. And can we not talk about vagina please? It ain’t my thing.

Well, shit. When you call it that, it ain’t my thing either, Tom said and laughed. He dropped his head back down, but kept his eyes open. Reese reached for a strip of gunmetal gray fabric that turned out to be a stretchy headband and pulled it over his head and then pushed it back across his hairline, pulling all his chin-length ebony hair off his face. Tom realized he hadn’t actually seen Reese’s entire face before. He’d had half of it covered with that sweep of straight, dark hair until now.

He was a good-looking kid. Probably got plenty of cock-first, kissing-second action, Tom thought and kept the grin off his face. But seriously, with that dramatically pale skin and the cheekbones, plus the puffy lips and the skinny but muscled abs he was showing off with the stretched out waistband of those sweats, he could have been a model for one of those clothing companies whose catalogs looked more like high-class porn than sales books.

And now it was definitely time for that nap. That was more brain time devoted to how gay dudes probably wanted to fuck his young roommate than Tom was really comfortable spending.

I’m out, kid. C’n we take this up tonight? He rolled over to face the wall for emphasis.

I do not, under any circumstances, hang out with homophobic jocks and their fuckhead buddies. The kid was like a terrier with a bone, worrying it to death with tiny teeth.

Tom told himself not to answer. To let the kid wind down. He couldn’t keep ranting forever.

Well, I’m not an athlete anymore.

It was too bad he couldn’t be convinced to take his own advice.

"But you were an athlete!" Reese practically pounced on him and said, Ah ha! like a cartoon villain. With his face to the wall and his eyes shut, for all Tom knew he actually had made some kind of melodramatic one-finger pointing accusation.

Jesus, kid, shut up. I was a virgin once too, but everything changes. And I don’t have any fuckhead buddies here. Not anymore. So how about we keep it that way and you can ignore me and pretend I’m not here, okay?

No answer. Praise God. A lot of barefoot stomping, which wasn’t really a big deal since that was pretty quiet anyway, and some aggressive drawer opening and closing. If Reese thought that kind of nonverbal protest was going to drive him out then Tom would break it to him gently. Not a chance.

He was almost out cold when he heard their door open and shut as Reese left.

And Tom would have been a lot less relaxed if he’d understood what Reese said as he left.

See if you can ignore this.

2

Tom forgot all about Reese’s last throwaway challenge by the time he got back to their room late that night after a less than encouraging meeting with his advisor and a solid four hours in the library trying to catch up on the pre-reading for his senior seminar on Ethics in Business. Ha. As if he needed it.

The professor was notorious for the blinding white lights of interrogation he shone on the students in his class on the first day. Anyone who made it through without crying or telling him to fuck off got to stay in the class. After that first hideous day, the prof actually morphed into a rigorous but compassionate teacher. Thinning the herd, he called it. Tom had thought he’d have plenty of time to check the texts out of the library in Boston, and that had actually been the easy part. But finding time to read about the social responsibilities of businesses to the communities in which they are located when he was spending every waking moment driving a cab to get his first semester paid up before the final September deadline for registration was harder than he’d thought.

Of course, it wasn’t as if he were reading Playboy or Entertainment Weekly. Even an Econ major like Tom had a hard time staying awake over seven hundred pages of the ethical and philosophical issues in product liability law. That shit was better than Xanax for chilling him right out into sleep mode.

In any case, he needed to knock out another fifty pages, which felt more like five hundred pages by the time he finished looking up all the words he didn’t know in the textbook glossary. And he’d decided that studying in his room would be okay, if he could show up and say hi and not make this kid think he was an asshole, something he’d been reassuring the kid about since walking in the door.

When he saw the hot pink bandana tied around the doorknob of their room, he groaned out loud.

Oh, fuck me.

Or rather…

In case that booty call flag wasn’t clear, Reese had stuck a piece of notebook paper to the bulletin board with big block letters and an arrow pointing to the bandana scrawled on it in black marker.

YOU KNOW WHAT THAT MEANS, RIGHT? COME BACK LATER.

A LOT LATER.

Fucking fantastic.

Tom dropped his backpack on the linoleum floor and slid his butt down the wall until he joined it. Great. No way was he walking all the way back to the library now. He figured Reese would have mentioned a boyfriend during the whole cocksucking conversation earlier, so maybe this was a random hookup. A new twist on revenge sex. Call it drive-out-your-roommate sex.

He’d just have to hang out in the hall and hope that whatever dude his roommate had picked up was a quick and unsatisfying lay. Propping the text on his lap, Tom dug deep and tried to focus on tax laws for non-profits in the U.S.

It didn’t take long for distraction to set in.

Once he’d settled in and the only sounds were the flicking of a page and the occasional hey of a passing resident who lived down the hall, the quiet took over.

Which made the noises emanating from behind the closed door to their room that much more impossible to ignore.

The first soft, low moans that slipped out under the bottom edge of the door, that tiny gap a window into the action behind the solid wood plank, eased their way into Tom’s subconscious without him really being aware of it. It wasn’t until he went to adjust his jeans, shifting on the floor and pulling the denim away from his crotch, that he realized his dick was waking up and noticing that something going on was making things a little tingly.

What the fuck? The Internal Revenue Code was never exciting enough to give him a semi.

A low groan vibrated through the door and he realized he’d been hearing the urgent sounds of sex for a few minutes now. Long enough for his dick to notice anyways. Although he was a little surprised that he was getting turned on by the sounds of two dudes going at it, it was clear his body thought eavesdropping on his own personal porn show was perfectly fine.

Equal opportunity voyeurism, or whatever the word for listening to someone else get it on was, was apparently his thing.

He laughed self-consciously, glad no one else was around to see him blushing at the idea, and looked back down at the page. Getting his head back into the paragraphs on taxation was even more of a challenge as the moans escalated in intensity and loudness until Tom started glancing down the hall every couple of seconds. He wasn’t sure he wanted someone to come along and see him sitting here, listening to some dude getting his rocks off, which he or anyone else within twenty feet now couldn’t possibly avoid doing.

The guy who was moaning was a little over the top too, with the Oh God’s and the Yes’s.

You’re not making a porno, buddy. Easy.

Great. Now he was talking to himself about two guys fucking.

And really, what did he know? He’d known Reese for all of twenty-four hours and almost the first thing the kid did