Bodyguard University: I Hate Loving You

Slashing Hearts

Kinn's Point of View:

I walked Porsche into the tsunami of clothes he called his dorm room and shut the door behind us with my foot. He was lucky I had experience with knife fights. What kind of idiot tries to intervene in a knife fight when he's drunk? He could've been severely hurt. His decisions really worried me sometimes. We only managed to escape thanks to my fighting skills and ability to hotwire a motorcycle.

I flickered the light on to his room. The only light he had was from a lamp so dim that the room reminded me more of prison. I was half expecting him to have a cellmate. Scattered papers, clothes, and books cloaked his floor. His furniture looked like he'd never seen a duster in his life. There were a few posters plastered on his walls from video games that I'd recognized and liked to play myself. I enjoyed anything with guns.

Porsche kicked clothes away leading up to his dresser and raised his shirt, revealing a delicious row of chocolate abs. I wondered if they tasted as good as they looked. I gulped. He really did have an amazing body. I could've looked at those shoulderblades all day, the way they spread apart so beautifully, like angel wings were meant to be placed there. His skin tone was just as blessed, painted by the brush of a golden volcano.

"Turn around," Porsche said, tugging his shirt over his head. He must've sensed my admiration.

"Why? We're both guys," I said, closing the distance between us. He paced back, almost stepping on a textbook, and furrowed his dainty eyebrows.

"Just do it." His cheeks faintly tinted red. Strangely, a quick tempo drummed in my chest. Porsche topless had an unpredictable effect on me.

Swallowing hard, my gaze trailed to his crotch. "Do you have a small dick or something?"

Not that I care. Big or small, all are welcomed.

"No!" Blowing a dramatic gust of air past his lips, Porsche manhandled me and spun me around, facing his bed. "Stay," he said sternly.

I rolled my eyes until they settled on his nightstand. Tucked beside his lamp was a framed photo of him and his father, along with a couple of books about defense techniques. I scanned more of his room, noticing a desk in the corner full of scattered papers and pens. He was such an accomplished person, yet all I saw was chaos.

"Where are all your trophies?" I asked. I doubted he'd shoved them under his bed like a forbidden porn stash.

"At home," Porsche said. I could imagine the giant case full of trophies, ribbons, and medals. His father probably wanted to steal his glory.

I fiddled with my belt buckle, clinking the metal as I ran it through my pants loops.

"What're you doing?" Porsche asked, voice faltering.

So you've turned around for the show.

"I'm not sleeping in my clothes," I said. "Care to spare me some?"

"Let me see what I have."

I whirled back to Porsche and watched him rummage through drawers of shoved shirts and sweatpants. All this money, and not one maid had told him how to properly fold a damn shirt. It was triggering my OCD.

Porsche gave me a T-shirt full of holes and a pair of faded-gray sweatpants.

Though he was thinner than I was, we wore the same size clothes. As Porsche was bending down to tidy up his floor, I secretly stole a whiff of his shirt. It mostly smelled like detergent, but his strong aroma still managed to linger. I kissed the soft fabric before switching clothes. Porsche gawked at my chest but quickly averted his gaze when our eyes met. Gay or straight, my display was always appreciated.