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)
“I’m presuming that’d be part of the deal.”
“Are you going to? Get on the apps?” He sounds irked at the idea that I might date and maybe, too, that he just showed his hand.
But I don’t mind him asking. This tension is way easier to navigate than the slip-you-out-under-the-cloak-of-night convo. “Neither. No interest in the apps. Or dating,” I say, easily speaking a simple truth. Beck fights off a smile, then he seems lost in thought again, so I keep going. “But I need to tell my agent to turn her down. And if Zena sees you leaving, she might hit you up for a deal,” I add, trying now to make light of my run off in the dark request.
But why? Why the fuck am I still trying to make our morning plans seem like no biggie?
“Jason,” he says, sighing but giving a soft smile. “If anyone gets it, it’s me. Trust me. I know the score. I might not be experienced, but I’m smart.”
“I know,” I say, wanting to fast forward to sleep. But at least he’s on the same page as I am. He understands this can’t be a thing, and we have to protect each other. “I’ll wake up with you. I’ll show you the alley.”
“I think I can figure it out,” Beck deadpans.
I sigh, annoyed that I keep misstepping. “Fuck,” I curse, dragging a hand through my hair.
Beck pushes up onto his elbows. “It’s easier if I go now,” he says, then sits lightning-fast.
No way.
I don’t want an unexpectedly amazing night to end like this—with a slice of shameful cake for dessert. I grab his wrist. “Don’t.”
He doesn’t look at me. “Don’t you think it’s just safer? It’s midnight. It’s easier to leave while it’s dark.”
My pulse spikes. The intensity of my desire for him to stay shocks and motivates me. “Yes, it’s easier,” I say as I slide my hand up his forearm. “But if you didn’t play football, you’d stay, right?”
I wait desperately, hoping his answer will match mine. Thank fuck he doesn’t take long to give a confident “yes.”
I cup the back of his neck. “If you were some other guy who came over, made me dinner, and then made me come really fucking hard—twice—I’d want you to stay.”
Finally—fucking finally—the rest of the tension in me vanishes. That’s what I wanted—to tell him the truth.
“Yeah? You would?” He sounds . . . awestruck.
I jerk his arm, tugging him back down onto the bed with me. “Yes, asshole.”
“Okay, I’ll stay . . . cocksucker,” he deadpans.
We laugh, and when our laughter fades, I get under the covers all the way and in bed for the night with my rival.
I press a kiss to the back of his neck, then inhale his skin. God, he smells good. Just the faint hints of his aftershave remain, but the ends of the scent still stir my body. “But . . . if you hate cuddling, you actually should go,” I say playfully, warning him.
He’s quiet for several long seconds. Such a Beck move. “This may shock you, but I don’t actually know how I feel about a guy cuddling me.” He’s Mister Matter-of-Fact again and thoroughly hard to read.
But he’s opened himself up to me tonight. It’s my turn to take the lead. “Do you want to know if you like it? Because I’d really like to show you.”
“Yes. I want you to show me,” he murmurs, giving me the RSVP I want.
“Good.”
I’m as determined to give him the cuddle of a lifetime as I was to blow his mind—and dick. I wrap an arm around his chest, sighing as the warmth from his back radiates into my skin.
He scoots closer, giving me the start of his answer to the cuddling question.
“This is nice,” I mumble as I drift off.
I savor the next five hours with him curled up next to me.
When Beck’s alarm blares, it jars me awake. But Beck doesn’t rustle. He’s still snoozing as the noise rattles my eardrums.
Jesus. It’s like a car alarm. I sit up and drag a hand through my hair. Beck stirs but barely moves.
I don’t think he’ll sleep through that forever, but I want to turn off that infernal sound. When I set a hand on his warm shoulder, he murmurs, then opens his eyes slowly.
He blinks, then looks my way, all soft and sleepy. My heart clutches.
“Hey,” I say gently.
I just learned he doesn’t wake up quickly—and I like knowing this detail about him far too much.
He swallows, then mumbles, “Sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you up,” he says, embarrassed.
“It’s okay,” I say, trying not to smile as he reaches sluggishly for his phone, then shuts off the annoying sound.
He has no clue he takes so long to wake up, which is sweet.
But now that he’s up, he swings his legs out of bed quickly, hits the boy’s room, and is ready in under a minute. I pull on boxer briefs, then I walk him downstairs. He grabs his purple hat from the foyer, and we head to the back door. I peer through the window. Darkness shrouds the yard. The sun won’t come up for nearly two more hours. I push open the door and meet his gaze.