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“Matt. Matt. Wake up.”
He may have only just woken at the creaking of the bed as you climbed in with him, but even half-asleep he marked the way your movements were clumsy and uneven. The blankets rustled next, before you unceremoniously tugged them down away from his body. He grumbled at the removal of the warm, you-scented sheets he’d happily curled up under, cold air wafting across his bare skin.
“Matt. Matt. Hey. Matt.”
He inhaled slowly, letting the air in the room bring him more awareness. The lingering scent of alcohol helped him put the pieces together. Now he knew why your syllables had all gone soft around the edges, hazy and thick. “How’d your night with Foggy go?” he mumbled, grunting as you rolled him over onto his back.
You had that furrow in your brow, the one you only got when you were very, very determined. It was an expression usually reserved for emotional declarations or trying to beat Foggy at Drunk Uno. “I have something to tell you,” you slurred, climbing up to sit astride his waist. “‘S important.”
His lips quirked and he settled back on the pillows, getting comfortable. This could only be something good. “Well, if it’s important, I guess I could listen.”
You crawled further up his body, and he sighed happily at the warm drag of your skin against his, his hands dropping to rub affectionately at your thighs, playing with the hem of your sleep shorts. You remained focused however, hell-bent on whatever goal your drunken mind had latched onto. You didn’t stop until your face was even with his, and for a moment, he almost thought you were going to kiss him.
You didn’t though. Instead, you just stared, with an expression his senses told him was incredibly solemn.
“No matter how long you try to make eye contact, sweetheart,” he whispered to you, working to keep his tone and expression just as serious and failing miserably, “my eyes won’t start working. I’m sorry.”
You took his face in your hands and shook it once, gently, before stilling. “Matt.”
“Mm?”
You abruptly reversed course, rocking your way back down his body. He had only a moment to frown in confusion before you gracelessly planted your face against the center of his chest.
“You have,” you told him gravely, your voice muffled by his skin, “the most beautiful chest I’ve ever seen.”
He only just bit back the rough laugh that tried to escape him. “You—”
“I’m absolutely serious. Grade-A titties, Matt,” you said reverently, your voice and your heart rate radiating nothing but drunken sincerity, so much so that his body shook with the effort it took to hold back his laughter. You rubbed your cheek lovingly across his chest. “Perfect size, shape, and curve from edge to edge. Delectable nipples. Sheer elegance. Elegant chest, Matt. Angles. You have them.”
Angles?
It took everything in him to keep it together, though a grin still managed to slip through his grasp. “I wasn’t aware you’d charted the angles of my chest. Should I be concerned about what you’re doing to me in my sleep? Cruel to measure a helpless blind man's chest while he’s vulnerable.”
“Don't worry. I would never hurt you, or these,” you sighed, sliding your face against first one side of his chest, and then the other like you were some sort of drunken cat. It felt… really nice, actually—enough to send a pleasant little shiver down his spine. He would have been able to focus more on the feeling if he wasn’t trying so hard not to laugh. “I think about your chest all day sometimes. It’s a distraction. You have no idea.”
“As beautiful as it-as it apparently is, I’m not sure it’s worth suffocating yourself with,” he huffed, finally unable to hold back his laughter as you buried your face in the center of his chest again. The shaking of his body almost jostled you out of place but you managed to hold your ground with a determined grunt.
“Shows what you know,” you scoffed, sliding your hands up to cup both his pectorals, fanning out your fingers to grip him lightly and squeeze. He couldn’t help but purr and arch up instinctively into your touch, pressing his chest into your hands. “God, what a way to go that would be. I’d die happy.”
“I wondered why your eyes kept focusing there some days.” Another fit of laughter overtook him as he reached up to run his fingers through your hair, his mind already considering all the ways he could use this against you. “And here I thought you were appreciating my ties. I’m absolutely heartbroken. Is this what you’ve really been thinking of? Seducing me for my… my chest? Positively obscene. I’m a good Catholic boy, I’ll have you know.”
“Good Catholic boy with a heavenly chest that makes angels weep, Matt. Angels weep. And you wear these-these tight button-up shirts sometimes, and it makes it hard to think, because all I can see is this.” You rapped your forehead lightly against his chest in demonstration, letting out an agonized groan.
His grin only grew wider. “You have no idea what you’re giving me, do you?”
“I give you only the truth,” you slurred solemnly. “Foggy talked about the truth tonight at Josie’s. ‘S when I knew I had to tell you.”
“You’ll regret telling me all this when I start wearing those shirts on purpose.”
“Worth it,” you murmured. He let out a delighted rumble when you pressed a slow kiss, aching with fondness, against his chest before you settled down against it with a happy sigh, closing your eyes. “Absolutely worth it.”
-x-
You’d been trying to listen to the presenter at the front of the room for the past hour. Trying, being the operative word, all thanks to Matt, who was attempting to put you in the grave.
It had started when he chose a seat directly across from you. That had been a little strange—he almost always took a seat next to you when he could get it. But that was fine. For all you knew, there was an uncomfortable draft gusting across your side of the table, or an irritating noise only audible on this side. It hadn’t bothered you.
No, what did bother you was when Matt had reached up to fiddle with his tie, because when he’d released it, settling his arm on the back of his chair, his tie had fallen off-center, exposing the straining buttons of his white shirt.
And you’d been staring at those buttons for the past hour.
It wasn’t… it wasn’t like the shirt was going to rip or anything, but the fabric was still pulled deliciously tight across that powerful chest of his. It didn’t help matters that the fabric was faintly translucent in this light, allowing you to further map the shape and curve of smooth muscle, zero in on the dark shadow of his nipples whenever he moved a certain way. You knew what was under there, knew that shape and curve and feel like the back of your hand.
When this was over, you wanted—no, needed—to get your mouth, face, or hands on his chest, or you were going to die. Just a hug, even, so you could press your face into him, direct center. That would tide you over until later, wouldn’t it? You growled quietly, lifting up your pen to chew on the end. This just wasn’t fair, being taunted by that stupid fucking shirt of his, taunted with what you couldn’t have for at least another hour. It was like he was—
You narrowed your eyes, suddenly noticing his subtle smirk just before he inhaled slowly, drawing your gaze inevitably back down to his chest. The gradual motion, purposefully slow and almost lazy, forced the fabric to gape just enough for you to catch a glimpse of skin.
He was… He was doing this on purpose.
He was also too far away to kick under the table.
You lifted your hand and dropped your cheek into it just enough to hide your mouth. “Gonna pay for this, Matt,” you whispered under your breath. He only stretched, taunting you again as you watched the play of muscle under his shirt.
Oh yeah. He was definitely going to pay for this, in exactly fifty-eight minutes and thirty-two seconds.