I’m on the dark side of the truck, and they are on the other end of the lot. There’s distance and shadow and the angle is wrong for them to see me and I know this—I know this—but it doesn’t matter, because my heart is slamming so hard against my ribs it feels audible. I’m standing in a parking lot with my cock in my hand thinking about a man I work with and?—
Don’t.
Don’t you dare.
Do not fucking come right now, Rhett.
The orgasm hits me anyway.
Of course it does. Because apparently my body has decided that sheer mortal panic is the exact right finishing ingredient, and I spill over my fist in two weak, graceless pulses while every muscle I own locks up simultaneously—nearly silent, teeth clamped so hard together my back molars ache, forehead mashed against my forearm, one hand white-knuckling the truck door to keep myself vertical.
It is, without question, the worst orgasm of my adult life.
I didn’t even get to finish while thinking about him.
The couple crosses the lot without looking over, gets in a car on the far end, and drives away.
I don’t move for a long moment.
My legs are shaking slightly. Not from the orgasm, which was roughly as satisfying as getting cut off before you finisha sentence, but from the adrenaline, the cortisol, and the particular biological punishment for having just done what I did in what is essentially a public place.
I look down at my fist.
“Great,” I say out loud. “Really great, Rhett.”
I shove my cock back into my pants, then use a discarded flannel in the back of Dawson’s truck to wipe off my hands, reminding myself to throw it in my laundry later.
Then I straighten up, fix my clothes and hat, and lean back against the truck like nothing happened.
The worst part isn’t what I was thinking about.
The worst part is that I was thinking about him watching me. About what it meant that he was jealous. About that look on his face at the bonfire—the one I told myself was nothing, and my body just?—
I put both hands flat against the truck and breathe.
I think about Molly and feel nothing below the waist.
I think about Colt looking at me across that fire and I’m already getting hard again.
I push off the truck.
I’m not doing this. I’m not standing in the parking lot of the only bar in Cedarbrook having whatever this is. I’m going to go back inside. I’m going to look Colton Dawson in the face, and I am going to feel absolutely nothing, and that is final.
My phone buzzes.
Notfuckingagain.
Unknown Number:
Well. That was something.
Fuck you.
It buzzes again.
Unknown Number:
See what I told you, Golden Boy? Told you so.
