"What is it?" he asked, his voice strangely low.
Blair was not sure at all what 'it' was. He realized two things in that moment:
One: he was absolutely terrified of Nikita Tarasov. And two: he was absolutely, undeniably attracted to him.
He wasn't sure which was worse.
…
The cab ride home was silent as a grave. More than once, Nik suggested Blair might be a little drunk, suggested he could just sleep it off at his place rather than enduring the drive all the way home.
He's inviting me back to his place, Blair's panicked brain kept reminding him. Normally that would have been an intriguing opportunity— he was dying to know where Nikita lived—but now it carried with it that unpleasant, awkward undertone of unrequited sexual attraction. Blair would have sooner dove into the Puget Sound.
"Thanks, but I'll be okay," he kept saying. And eventually, Nikita stopped asking. Blair didn't look him in the eye.
