Total pages in book: 122
Estimated words: 117872 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 589(@200wpm)___ 471(@250wpm)___ 393(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 117872 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 589(@200wpm)___ 471(@250wpm)___ 393(@300wpm)
He laughs, a little incredulous. “I made you nervous?”
“I want to make it good for you,” I admit. “So yeah.”
“You did,” he says, then turns around, grabs his plate, and puts it in the sink in seconds flat.
I laugh at his speed. “I take it you’re ready for that rematch?”
“I’m a fast learner, Jason. And I have an excellent recovery time.”
A few minutes later, I have everything I want. Beck, naked, in my bed. I explore his body, lick his ink, play with his dick. Use my hands, my mouth, my tongue. I drive him crazy, and he stays with me the whole time, strung out, high on my touch, savoring every second.
When he finally, at last, comes in my mouth, he shouts in pleasure. Then, once he’s finished, in victory. “I fucking lasted!”
I crack up. But when I slide next to him, and he wraps a fist around my cock, I stop laughing. He asks in that no-bullshit voice, “Can you show me how you like a hand job?”
“You know the answer,” I say, but I show him anyway, and soon I’m coming too.
Once I’ve recovered and cleaned up in the bathroom, I return to find Beck perched on the edge of the mattress.
Portrait of a young man who thinks his hookup will kick him out.
I should let him go. It’ll be easier for us if tonight doesn’t spiral into a sleepover.
But I want what I want—his warm body against mine for a little longer.
I flip off the light, cross to the bed, and squeeze his shoulder, giving a subtle nudge toward the mattress. “C’mon. You know you want to try my Alaskan King.”
He smiles in the dark. “Okay.”
The simplicity of his answer makes me happier than it should. But I’m keenly aware that this heady feeling is short-lived. We shouldn’t be messing around on the reg.
Or again.
Still naked, just the way I like it, Beck slides under the covers with me.
I think about tomorrow, and the next day and the next. We’ll still be rivals. Our teams are enemies. The fans want wins.
They don’t want their two quarterbacks fucking.
Reality will be a bitch in the morning. But I have to deal with it tonight and make a plan to get him out before dawn.
This won’t be uncomfortable at all.
“You should set an alarm. An early one,” I begin, feeling like a jackass for saying this.
Beck nods, resolute but with some regret that tells me he wanted to stay longer. Hell, I wanted him to stay as well, and I’m dying to say so. But I’ve got to make sure we’re on the same page about secrecy first.
“Or I can set one for you,” I add, focusing on brass tacks.
“I can do it.” He reaches for his phone on the nightstand, where he left it when we started round two. After he sets the alarm, he puts down the phone. “I’ll leave at five. Is that okay?”
He sounds younger than his twenty-four years. I doubt he imagined his first time with a guy would feel this awkward after.
“Yeah, that’s great,” I say uncomfortably. We just had two rounds of hot sex, and now I feel like we’re dirty little liars.
But I don’t know how to change the mood.
I can’t ask him to come over this weekend and watch the rest of Unfinished Business and tell him I’ll make the kick-ass charcuterie board I never served him a year ago.
Sure, we can be friends. I’m friends with plenty of guys on the Renegades, after all. Trouble is, I don’t have friendly feelings for Beck at all, so the let’s-be-friends play would be harder than any trick play in football.
My gut twists tighter as I try to close the loop on the exit plan.
“If you go through the back door, my yard opens into an alley.” I laugh humorlessly. “Not like a dark alley or some dangerous stuff like that.”
“I know what you mean.” Beck nudges me with his elbow. “A fancy person’s alley.”
This time, I laugh for real. “Yeah. I live in one of those ’hoods.” It’s true—the back alleys exist for garbage, so the homes can maintain all their curb appeal upfront.
“Alley works for me,” Beck says, like he’s not letting this request bother him.
But I sure hope he doesn’t think I’m ashamed of him. “Look, I’m sorry. One of my neighbors is Zena Palladium.”
“The billionaire philanthropist?”
“Yep.”
“You do live in a rich person’s ’hood,” he says with a whistle.
“But her place is way bigger than mine, I assure you.”
He coughs out a “humblebrag.”
“Shut up,” I tease, but I’m relieved the tension is starting to seep away. “Anyway, she hooked me up with my cat sitter, and ever since, she’s been bugging me to do a deal with her dating app.”
“You’d have to get on the apps then?” he asks, voice strained.