He slips the key into the old lock, looking back at you apologetically as he fiddles with the jingling ring.  He finally manages to finagle the key into the latch and he pushes the squeaky door open.  The hinges creek like the bones of an old woman as is slowly swings open. You step cautiously into the doorway.   Despite the decrepid exterior, you are pleasantly surprised by the brightness and warmth within.  It is still in need of alot of work but you can see the potential inside.  On the far wall is a beautiful rock fireplace that dominates the room. The meticulously placed stones reach from the floor to the ceiling in a random but perfectly ordered way.  The floors are very worn but still maintain that rich cherry glow beneath the scuffs and years of tarnish.  The door ways and window are all trimed with that same rich cherry wood, still in fairly good condition, giving you insight into what the floors must have once looked like.  You peer through another door and see the kitchen, obviously in the throws of a remodel.  The cabinetry is installed and new appliances shine beneath sheer plastic sheets covering the counters and floors.  The smell of paint hangs heavy in the air.  

 

    Ristain disappears into a room to the right.  You follow him slowly, not sure if you are supposed to stay put or not.  You walk through another cherry trimmed doorway and find him with his back to you, pulling his shirt over his head.  Your heart races at the site of the contours of his back and the rippling muscles of his shoulders.  The muscles flex as he pulls off the shirt and tosses it on the mattress. He turns around and jumps a little, seeing you standing there.  You immediately react, more than a little embarrassed that you followed him in here. 

 

"I'm sorry...I thought.....I should have......I'm sorry..."  you stammer clumsily, trying to explain yourself.  

 

You find it hard to think, standing there in the presence of the sexiest chest you might have ever seen.  You have to make a concious effort not to let your jaw flop open like some braindead hill billy.  He smiles coyly and walks over to the bed, rocketing himself forward onto the unmade bed in a less than graceful belly flop.