Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 74298 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 371(@200wpm)___ 297(@250wpm)___ 248(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74298 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 371(@200wpm)___ 297(@250wpm)___ 248(@300wpm)
A moment later he had stripped naked, and I reverted to my standard attitude when we showered or swam naked together while camping, keeping my eyes away from his ass and his junk. I just wanted to act normal. To feel normal, even though there was basically no chance of that.
I pushed off my own clothes and got under the other showerhead beside him, the hot water beating down on my sore muscles after a long day.
“We did a great job in here,” I said as I shampooed, looking around at the hexagonal glazed ceramic tiles lining his shower walls. “It was one of our best renovation jobs, I think.”
“Of course we did,” he said. “We killed it, on this whole house.”
I had to agree with him. Tristan had finally been able to purchase this place, his first home, a couple of years ago, and we’d slowly turned it into a house even nicer than my own.
“Clearly that’s why you shouldn’t move back to Colorado,” I said, massaging my shoulder under the heat of the shower. “No place there could ever be as good as this. And it definitely won’t have Squirrel Nascar.”
Tristan let out a laugh. Squirrel Nascar was what we’d deemed the little patch in his yard that was supposed to be for an herb garden, but had turned into an oval-shaped dirt path that squirrels zipped across every morning.
“Maybe in Colorado, I’ll have Deer Nascar in my backyard instead,” Tris said. “Shit, fuck me, maybe it’ll be Bear Nascar. That’s terrifying.”
I let myself glance over at him. The water was cascading down his body, falling in rivulets along his chest as he closed his eyes, leaning back and washing the shampoo from his hair.
It was almost unfair how good he looked. Over the years I’d known him, Tristan had only gotten hotter and hotter, collecting new tattoos, working out more, and growing into his face. Sometimes I did double takes, remembering the Tristan I’d first met, kind of scrawny and lost-looking, like a stray.
He looked hungry, back then, because he was hungry, for a new life, a purpose, a place to belong. Now, he had found it. I fucking loved the man he had become.
My eyes briefly flickered down, involuntarily, to the deep V-shape that went from his lower stomach down to his groin, and immediately I knew it was a mistake. I felt my cock begin to chub up, just slightly, seeing how stupidly sexy my best friend was.
No.
No, no, no.
For fuck’s sake. It was like my own polite nature was coming out to whack me with a big stick. I never wanted to be the gay guy who fantasized or objectified my straight friends, and somehow, in the last few weeks, my own body and mind had been betraying me, every chance it got.
“All right, let’s get the fuck out of here and go to Red’s,” I said, reaching for my own showerhead and twisting it off in one quick motion.
“You’re done already?”
“I’m plenty clean. Your slow ass just needs to catch up.” I bolted out of the shower and got a towel around myself, hoping to hell that my dick would start behaving.
Tristan was just laughing at me from behind the steamy glass of his shower. “I was just about to ask you to scrub my back,” he joked. The kind of joke we’d always made to each other. The kind that should have meant nothing at all.
Maybe it was good that Tris was moving away, after all. Clearly it was getting harder and harder to stop myself from drooling over him. The last thing I needed was to fuck up the best friendship I’d ever had by making it weird.
Because I needed him. And I’d even scared off a couple of guys I’d dated over the past few years by trying to get too serious and committed too soon. If I fell too fast even for gay guys, what chance did I have with my straight best friend?
I had to keep it cool. Keep myself controlled, the way I’d trained myself to do my whole life. Because I couldn’t imagine a life without Tristan in it.
A few hours later—and two beers and three free tequila shots later—I sure as hell wasn’t doing any better at Operation Stop Fucking Drooling Over Your Best Friend, Stupid.
Because Tristan looked so fucking hot it was going to kill me. He had his fitted leather jacket on again over a soft old black band T-shirt, and his hair was pushed back in its perfect dark swoop.
“And, we’ve got another round,” Red said from behind the bar, grabbing the bottle of premium tequila and pouring another shot out, sliding it over to me with a lime wedge.
“More?” I asked, blinking at him, already warm, fuzzy, and drunk.
“More. Ordered for you, by that guy sitting alone in that booth,” Red said, nodding over toward a super buff guy who was looking over at me and Tris like we were meat.