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He turns on his heel but pauses in the doorway, glancing back at Gerard and me with a wicked gleam in his eye. “Oh, and guys? You might want to wipe down that counter before Oliver sees it and has a conniption. You know how he is about cleanliness.”

With that parting shot, he saunters out of the kitchen, whistling a jaunty tune. Jackson follows close behind, muttering something about needing to find his happy place.

And Gerard and I? We clean up and leave the kitchen, taking what happened to our graves.

36

GERARD

Strolling into my room, I plop down in my desk chair and open my laptop. I honestly didn’t think the Ice Queen would listen to me and stop mentioning Elliot on her blog. She sounded really unhappy about it in her Thanksgiving post, and I was fully prepared to cut all ties with her.

But she came through, and I couldn’t be more proud. Of course, that means I have to send her pictures of my feet now. I don’t know what I was thinking with that suggestion, but since I’m a man of my word, it’s time to put my best foot forward.

I lift one foot and rest it on the edge of my desk, taking a moment to examine its size. My foot is enormous, easily dwarfing the wireless mouse beside it. I never thought about my feet as anything more than what gets me from point A to point B. I mean, I get the appeal of a nice butt or a strong pair of hands. But feet? They’re just…feet. Right?

I rotate my ankle, watching the way my thick Denver Broncos socks—Elliot got me them for Christmas!—slowly pull down, revealing a thin dusting of blond hairs.

Flexing my toes, I watch the tendons ripple beneath my skin, visible even through the comfy cotton. I trail my fingers over the top of my foot, gently massagingit.

Suddenly, I see my feet in a whole new light. They carry me effortlessly across the ice and propel me at breakneck speeds. There’s an undeniable eroticism to them that I’ve never appreciated before.

I carefully peel my socks off and drop them on the floor. I make a mental note to pick them up before Elliot returns from lunch with Jackson.

My bare feet are even more impressive. They’re tanned, and my toenails are neatly trimmed. Each toe is perfectly proportioned and looks like a big nub carved from marble.

Dang. I have sexy feet.

Propping my heel on the edge of the chair, I position the camera to get the underside of my foot. The rough, callused skin is proof of the countless hours I spend on my feet. I trace a finger along the edge, shuddering slightly at the unfamiliar sensation. It’s ticklish…but in a good way.

I press my thumb into the thick pad below my big toe, and a low moan escapes my lips as I knead the sensitive flesh. Electric tingles shoot up my leg, making my cock twitch with interest. I had no idea my feet could be this responsive.

Putting my phone down, I get lost in the intoxicating exploration. My head falls back as my other hand slides up my thigh almost of its own accord, drawn to the growing bulge. I palm myself through the fabric, hips thrusting forward eagerly.

I force my eyes open and refocus on the task before getting too carried away. I snap a few more photos before bringing my foot to my face and examining it up close. The earthy aroma of clean male musk fills my nostrils.

I breathe it in deeply, savoring its raw, primal scent. My tongue flicks out to wet my lips as I fight the sudden urge to shove my toe in my mouth and suck on it as if it were a binky.

Yeesh. I’m really getting into this.

I didn’t think I had a thing for feet, but the evidence is undeniable and throbbing between my legs. The thought of the IceQueen poring over these photos, touching herself as she drinks in every detail, is enough to make me fully erect.

I push back from the desk, and my cock strains almost painfully against my sweatpants. I need to get more comfortable.

Traipsing over to the bed, I flop down on my back, the mattress creaking under my weight. I arrange myself with my head propped up on a few pillows so I can still see my feet.

My sweats are tented like a circus big top. I’m harder than I can ever remember being, and it’s all because of playing with my feet.Who knew?

Lifting my legs, I point my toes toward the ceiling and admire how my ankles align. The position also makes my calves flex.God, that’s hot.

I grab my phone again and zoom in, capturing it forever. I’m so lost in my lewd foot worship that I don’t hear the door open.

Elliot’s voice cuts through the haze of lust. “Hey, Gerard, I just got back from…uh…”

He stops mid-sentence as his eyes take in the scene before him: me, spread out on the bed with a massive ten in my sweats, holding up my large feet as if presenting them as an offering to the Lord.

I freeze, my phone still aimed at my toes.

Elliot blinks at me behind his glasses, his mouth hanging open. I can only imagine how this looks. His eyes flick from my beet-red face down to my impossible-to-miss boner and then up to my feet hovering above me.