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Summary
“Hi, hi, sorry I’m late, I’m Awsten,” he’s saying enthusiastically.
Geoff shakes his hand, a bit dazed, his eyes acting on their own and following down the line of his neck. His softer jaw flows down, his shirt hugging at his shoulders and chest and dipping into his waist. Geoff might be going insane; he has a vision of grabbing that waist tight and pulling him in close, leaving bruises all over his soft skin. Pushing it this way, and that.
“I’m assuming you’re Mr. Wigington?” Awsten says.
Geoff’s knees go weak, hearing that out of that sweet mouth.
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aka, the guitar instructor au