Total pages in book: 63
Estimated words: 61037 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 305(@200wpm)___ 244(@250wpm)___ 203(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 61037 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 305(@200wpm)___ 244(@250wpm)___ 203(@300wpm)
“But you took them off during sex,” I say.
Owen swings his gaze to me. “Well, you’re close now and you were pretty close then, River. I was able to see all of you and I was definitely able to get a good visual on your dick.” He slides a hand along my thigh under the water, grabbing my leg. “My, what a big cock you have, dear. This is your cock, right?”
“Yes, you got my third leg,” I say, then his hand sneaks between my thighs, and he gives my dick a squeeze. “Ah, got it now.”
Owen lets go, but I’m not satisfied. I’m ravenous for every last bit of info. “Do you ever leave your glasses on during sex? Would you? Or is it the sock rule?”
His lips curve into a curious grin. “Well, do my glasses destroy your erection?”
I shake my head. “The opposite. They enhance it.”
“Do you have a glasses fetish, River?”
“No, I just think they’re super-hot. But evidently, I find everything about you super-hot,” I say, waving a hand at him.
“Is that so?” He sounds thoroughly delighted.
“Yes,” I say, no teasing, no flirting. Just the plain truth. “Though, honestly, I always knew you were gorgeous. But apparently, I’m just realizing tonight how attracted I am to you. It’s kind of hitting me hard, and all at once.”
“Thank you,” Owen says, then parts his lips like he’s going to say more, but instead, he just adds another “Thank you.”
He sounds grateful, but now I wonder—do I sound like I only want the physical with him? Like I’m simply objectifying him for the way he looks? Like a hot, built, Clark Kent lookalike I want to bang?
Ugh. It does sound that way. Even though that’s not the full truth. I want to bang, kiss, and cuddle him.
Then see him again tomorrow.
This is why it’s so hard to mess around with a friend. Do I talk to Owen like any other guy I’m dating? Do I ask if he’d consider me as boyfriend material?
But on the other hand, if he says yes, am I truly ready for the risk?
What if we don’t work out as a couple?
Tonight, we’re all new and electric. But this is a honeymoon. What would we be like in three months, six, a year? Would I fall out of desire for him? Would he for me? And would we truly stay friends? I’m not convinced we could, and the possibility of us splintering feels like losing a vital piece of my heart and soul.
My head spins with too many terrible outcomes, so I shift gears. “What were you like in high school?”
Owen laughs. “Do you mean if I was a jock or a nerd or a popular or a geek?”
My eyes roam up and down his chest. “No. What were you like? Were you outgoing? Were you quiet? Were you friendly? What did you do on weekends? I already know you wrote for the school newspaper and did the morning news. And let me tell you, if I saw you on my high school TV station, I would have always known whether we were having quinoa or tofu for lunch.”
“Is that what your high school served?”
I arch a dubious brow. “I grew up in a Northern California hippie community. You bet your sweet ass those were the choices. And I bet yours were the same at your private school in the city.”
Owen shrugs. “You’re not wrong. And to answer your question: I wasn’t quiet, but I wasn’t as outgoing as I am now. I didn’t have the confidence I do now, to go to bat for my players in my job. To listen and to learn and to find just the right opportunities to tell people’s stories—all of that comes down to confidence and patience, and I think I honed both in college.”
“Me too,” I say, breezily as the water sloshes around us, and a bead of sweat slides down the side of my face. “Well, not how to be amazing at PR and insanely patient, since that’s your thing. But how to have the guts to chat with anyone. How to make people feel better—how to listen.”
“You’re good at all that. A great bartender, and a business owner too.”
I wiggle my shoulders. “King of the gay bars.”
“Is that what you envisioned you’d be when you were in high school?”
“Ha. No. But I wish. If I knew then I’d be the Mayor of Gay San Francisco, I’d have had more confidence to ask out guys.”
Owen growls, like a dog warding another away from its toys. “Jealous?” I ask.
He shrugs, then laughs. “Pretty dumb to be jealous of guys you didn’t date in high school. But I do think it’s amazing you’re the Mayor of Gay San Francisco now. Well, self-proclaimed mayor,” he says, nudging me with his elbow.