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Summary
Greg follows him leisurely, watching his arse in his jeans. “Any particular plans this evening?” He teases.
Alex sets the milk carefully on the kitchen table, then stands there, awkward, a spare part. “I don’t know how to answer that.”
What does it say about Greg that even that sentence gets him going? “Lucky for you, I do. Sit down.”
Alex puts his hand on the back of one of the chairs, but Greg lifts a finger, muscling in on Alex, using his wider shoulders to cram the man into the space between counter and table. “Ah, ah,” he warns, “I said sit down, but I didn’t give you permission to use my chairs.”