Page 121 of The Build-a-Boyfriend Project

“Maybe . . .”

Eli stares at Peter, at the sharp features that still look so soft on him. He feels his heart thudding again, wondering if this is the moment to tell Peter. The article is done, at least the writing part.

There’s no conflict of interest, not anymore.

He could tell Peter. Tell him the truth.

I think I have feelings for you.

It almost feels like he’s admitting them to himself for the first time as well. He might as well be with how hard he’s been fighting them. Peter was never an option. Hell, Eli never thought he’d want another option after Keith.

But he can’t deny what he’s feeling.

Peter finally turns, the wide line of his mouth breaking into a smile when he realizes just how long Eli’s been looking at him. “Iced Americano.” Eli says the words carefully.

“What?” Peter almost giggles.

“Can I kiss you? For real?” Eli asks him. Of all the words he could think of, he surprises even himself when those slip out.

Peter’s ears turn red. “Um . . . yeah . . . yeah, you can.”

“Do you want me to?” Eli asks, just to be sure.

“Yes,” Peter says after a moment of silence.

And Eli closes the distance between them. His hand automatically goes to cup Peter’s cheek, his skin soft under Eli’s touch. The kiss is short, chaste, and Eli pulls away after just a second. But Peter shocks Eli when he goes in for a second kiss.

This one he lets linger, kissing Peter softly before he dares to prod at the seam of Peter’s mouth with his tongue. Peter’s response is automatic, letting Eli in. He’s still so careful, not wanting to push Peter’s boundaries, not now. But he can feel a desperate heat rising in his stomach. He wants this so bad, to taste Peter, to feel him come apart at Eli’s touch.

And if the tenting in Peter’s sweatpants is any indication, he wants this too.

“Sorry.” Peter pulls the jacket into his lap, desperate to cover his shame. “Guess it’s been a while.”

“Don’t be sorry.” Eli laughs, his hand finding the jacket.

Eli still can’t help but think it’s so adorable the way that Peter stumbled through that sentence, how quick he is to embarrass, the blush showing through the neon darkness of the bowling alley.

“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to—”

Eli silences Peter with a hand on his thigh. “I know that jacket covered it up all night, but I literally cannot get the image of how perfect your ass looks in that costume out of my head.” Eli says the words low, close to Peter’s ear, so he can make out each and every syllable.

He leans back, watching the words register on Peter’s face, his throat bobbing as he tries to swallow nothing.

“What are you thinking about?” Eli asks him, leaning in to rest his chin on Peter’s shoulder. “Tell me the truth, Peter.”

“I, uh . . . I had to sit down earlier,” Peter admits. “Because your shorts rode up when you were bowling, and your butt just looked so . . . perfect.”

“Good.” Eli rubs Peter’s thigh, squeezing softly. Peter’s reaction is immediate. “You mean you got all worked up in front of your coworkers like that?” He dips his toe in the water.

“I didn’t mean to,” Peter says. “I just . . . couldn’t stop staring.”

“Well.” Eli’s hand dares to drift further and further down. He’s waiting to wake up from the dream, to realize that he’s still in bed, having one of the most visceral fantasies he’s ever experienced. For Peter to utter the two-word coffee order that would put an end to this endeavor so that he can offer to take Peter out for a late-night dinner that isn’t the curly fries they inhaled an hour ago.

But Peter remains silent, even as Eli wraps his hands around the half-hard length still obvious through the sweatpants. He should probably reflect and think about why Peter dressed in a Spider-Man costume paired with loungewear is enough to drive him up the wall, but he doesn’t have the time or the energy. He’d rather lean in, nibbling on the lobe of Peter’s ear, grateful that the tall back of their booth hides them from everyone in the now nearly deserted bowling alley.

“Ohh . . .” Peter lets out a low, guttural whine, and it’s music to Eli’s ears.

“Come on.”