Page 33 of Slick Trip

I knew I was being ridiculous. I was twenty-two years old and hiding in a motel bathroom because my best friend’s little brother smelled too good and made small noises in his sleep.

What the fuck even was my life?

I ran a hand over my face.

Another soft noise came from the room—a hitch in his breathing that sounded a lot like an invitation. I let the towel fall and, telling myself this was purely a matter of survival, wrapped a hand around my aching cock.

Don’t think about him.

That lasted maybe half a second. The moment I started stroking myself, Cooper was everywhere.

I stopped, jaw tight.

No.

I fumbled for my phone, choosing a random porn video. I muted it immediately, then picked up the pace, rough and deliberately detached. I didn’t need this to be good. I just wanted relief. But every time my hand slid up, the fruity fragrance seemed to thicken in the humid air. At least the screen in front of me kept me from imagining Cooper.

Mostly.

I came with a grunt, bracing one hand against the sink, already knowing it hadn’t fixed a damn thing. This was basically a band-aid over a bullet wound that would keep bleeding until the tension between Cooper and me ended—or exploded.

When I returned to the room, Cooper was sleeping more peacefully. I picked up the blanket and draped it over his small frame, tucking the edges in so he was cocooned. Then I sat down in the armchair in the corner.

Because there was no way in hell I was getting into that bed now.

11

Raisins

COOPER

I felt better when I woke up. Still starving, but the bone-deep exhaustion from yesterday had settled into a restless energy. I’d slept surprisingly well, considering I’d been forced to share a bed with my archnemesis.

Jon was already up, zipping his bag so efficiently it sounded aggressive. He looked fresh and annoyingly awake. He’d even shaved. I didn’t have that problem. I couldn’t grow a beard to save my life—not that I wanted to.

Stretching luxuriously, I glanced at his arms. The way his biceps bulged under his sleeves, the ink coloring the hard ridges of muscle. A violent surge of want shot through my belly, fast, unwelcome, and very fucking inconvenient. It was so easy to imagine those arms pinning me down, his heavy weight pressing me into the mattress until I almost couldn’t breathe.

It was one of my favorite daydreams.

What? No, it wasn’t. My favorite daydream was Jon stepping on a Lego, or falling into a cactus.

Obviously.

He gave me a curt nod. “Morning.”

“Yes,” I managed, pushing myself upright. Then I froze, clenching the blanket to my chest. The situation between my legs was impossible to ignore, and I really didn’t want Jon witnessing it.

“We should get going,” he said, checking his watch.

“Yes.”

His brow furrowed. “What’s wrong? You’ve said yes twice.”

“Is it illegal in the state of Missouri to agree?” I snapped.

He sighed. “No, Cooper, it’s not illegal. Just out of character. If you need a shower before we leave, can you get to it? We’re behind schedule.”

“I do need a shower. And I will get to it. But you need to turn your stupid head around.”