Spencer Cohen Series, Book One (The Spencer Cohen Series 1) by N.R. Walker

sweaters, no matter how cute they made him look.
    I started to unbutton my shirt. “What are you doing?” he asked.
    “Well, I can’t wear your shirt over the top of mine.” I got the last button undone and shucked out of it. “Don’t worry, I’ll pay to have them dry cleaned.”
    “It’s not that,” he said and cleared his throat. He tried not to look at me, but he seemed unable to help himself. I had no problems with him looking. “Your chest is bare.”
    “Hey,” I said, deeply offended. “I have some chest hair.” I patted down the fine fuzz.
    He laughed, but he was blushing so hard even his ears turned pink. “No, I mean you don’t have tattoos on your chest.”
    “Nope. Sleeves only.” I looked down at my shoulders, where the ink stopped and bare skin started. “What? Does that surprise you?”
    “Well, yeah. I just assumed you’d have them, well, everywhere.” He was still blushing, and trying not to ogle me, and trying not to smile.
    “Nah, not yet. Maybe one day. They’re kind of addictive, but I like what I have so far.” I slipped on his shirt and started to do the buttons up. “If I found the right one, I probably would.”
    He considered this, but didn’t say anything.
    When I had the shirt on, I lifted both arms out. “This fits me pretty well, actually. You have good taste in clothes.”
    He granted me a small smile. “Thanks.”
    I started to roll up the sleeve, but stopped. “Sleeves up or down?” I asked. “Do you want him to see them or not?”
    “It’s up to you,” he said.
    “Well, no, it’s up to you actually. You said before he wouldn’t ever think you’d go out with a guy with tattoos, so I can leave them down. It’s no problem.”
    His eyes met mine, and he shook his head. “Up. Don’t be someone you’re not.”
    I scoffed out a laugh, though it was hardly funny. “Well, that’s exactly what I am. Actually, that’s what I get paid to be.”
    He looked away, like the individual threads on his clothes were the most fascinating things ever. “Yeah, I guess.”
    “But thank you,” I said. “For wanting me to be me.” He had no idea what those simple words could possibly mean to someone like me.
    He gave me a tight smile, then he pulled his sweater off by the hem and hung it back up straight away. Then he undid his shirt, and without a word, he slipped it off. He raked through his clothes, not finding what he wanted, then he went for his folded shirts. He plucked out a grey one, but before he could put it on, I said, “Stop.”
    He spun to look at me. “What?”
    There I was, without one lick of shame, staring at his body. His very perfectly toned, perfectly defined chest and abs. “Fuck, Andrew.”
    “Oh,” he said, and I almost groaned when his blush crept down his neck and over his chest. He fumbled with his shirt.
    “Feel free not to wear that,” I offered. “Because, Jesus.”
    “I told you I work out,” he said, pulling the shirt on regardless of my almost begging him not to.
    “Yeah, but you didn’t say you were fucking hot.”
    He totally laughed me off, disregarding every compliment I could give him. Andrew was such a mixed bag. He was shy and a little meek even, yet so forthright in other ways. I could usually pick a top or bottom, but he left me utterly confused.
    “Okay, personal question time,” I announced.
    He hung his head. “Oh, no.”
    His reaction made me smile. “Remember, you can veto me at any time.”
    “Sounds ominous,” he mumbled but looked at me expectantly. Waiting, dreading…
    “Eli. Did you top him, or did he top you?” I really had no business knowing. Sure, it told me the relationship dynamics between them, but I’d never asked any other of my clients anything so personal. But with Andrew, I needed to know. I wanted to know what he was like in bed.
    He was shocked at first—that much was clear—and his clothes were suddenly fascinating again. His brows furrowed for a moment, and I thought he wasn’t