Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 85608 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 428(@200wpm)___ 342(@250wpm)___ 285(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 85608 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 428(@200wpm)___ 342(@250wpm)___ 285(@300wpm)
I know his scent isn’t still lingering in the air. It’s been hours, after all, but my brain is fried, and I smell him all around me. I avoid looking toward the door to the sauna for the longest time, but then I just give in, thinking that immersion is the best answer.
It’s not. It’s torture, because I sit in the sauna for over an hour, sweat pouring off me, running a real risk of dehydration with all the blood in my body and higher-function reasoning settled a handful of inches below my belly button.
I can’t even acknowledge the guy in the sauna or respond to him when I walk in and hear him say, “This place makes me the same way, buddy.”
He’s referring to my out-of-control erection, to my inability to fucking control myself in public places.
I didn’t touch it, didn’t stroke the goddamned thing, although those demands were strong enough to make my gut clench.
By the time I shower for the second time, I’m pissed, livid, ready to hate the entire world because of Archer-fucking-Bremen.
Arousal isn’t a new thing. Erections aren’t a new thing. Desire isn’t a new thing. I’m a sexual man, and I’ve been that way for as long as I can remember.
What I’m not, is a man controlled by his dick. I’m a patient man, a man who has always enjoyed a little delayed gratification.
My body itches to go to his house when I dress and climb into my SUV. I imagine the way the early morning sunlight would look teasing his naked back, how his sleepy, early morning smile would taunt me from his bed as I stood in his doorway.
Then I drive straight to the office because Archer is a client, and I’ve always put my job above my own needs.
But after the assignment is done…
I squeeze the steering wheel, my knuckles turning white with the effort.
The case ending means several things. It opens the door for me to give into ideas that have become mountainous in my mind. It means I’m free to do what I want.
It means I won’t be seeing him again, and I’ll be moving on to the next case. It means he’ll become a part of my past.
I think that bothers me the most—Archer becoming history, someone I once worked with.
“Fuck,” I growl as I climb out of my SUV and head toward the elevator, bothered by something that hasn’t even come to fruition yet.
I nod a hello to Pam before heading into the break area. More than half of the guys are sitting around, drinking coffee, and I head to the machine before saying anything to anyone.
“Who are we getting today?” Jude asks, pulling out his phone and taking a picture of something on Wren’s extended phone.
“What do you mean?” I ask, knowing he’s speaking to me.
“Are we getting happy-go-lucky Brooks or sullen, pissed-off Brooks.”
“A mixture of both until I have my coffee,” I tell him. “What are you doing?”
Wren has moved on from Jude and is now holding his phone out to Ignacio. I swallow the lump, trying to force its way up my throat with the thought that they’re looking at something online about me and Archer. We’ve been in the tabloids a lot in the last six weeks, but I was never bothered by that because I knew the guys didn’t pay attention to that kind of stuff. I’m sure Wren knows, and I’m certain Deacon does, but my boss was the one who put me on the assignment. I’m terrified they realize just how easy it has been for me to pretend to be in a relationship with Archer, that they know me well enough to see true desire in my eyes rather than acting.
“Taking donations for True Self Living,” Wren says as he holds his phone out for Flynn.
“What’s that?” I ask, pulling out my own phone so it’s ready when he makes his way to me.
Wren does this on occasion, picking a charity in town that needs help. Deacon always matches our donations and then doubles it. We have fun seeing just how far the man is willing to go before the amount gets too high. Not once has Deacon backed down.
“It’s a local foundation that provides counseling and living arrangements for queer teens that’ve been displaced,” Wren says as he steps in front of me.
“Displaced.” Jude scoffs. “That’s a nice way of saying their parents kicked them out of the house and they have nowhere else to go.”
I scan the code with my phone, keeping my eyes down.
“Nice,” Wren says when he sees the amount I type in.
“What did he give?” Finnegan demands.
“You know the rules,” Wren says.
We never tell the others how much we donate.
“How many digits?” Finnegan pushes.
“Five,” Wren says, his eyes meeting mine and holding them for a long moment before he turns to walk away.