Page 40 of Iron

As his breathing slows, he nuzzles into my chest, then mumbles, “Can’t believe I told you about it.”

I grin. “Orgasm torture is hard to resist.”

“You should teach the CIA.”

I finally laugh.

When we turn our phones back on, it is close to midnight. I silence social media immediately, do not need that kind of vitriol in my life, and TJ follows my lead. Text messages and emails, I will answer tomorrow.

A voicemail from Geoff. Short and to the point. “Guess he trusts you. Don’t break him.”

Something a bit more threatening from Ben. “You take care of that boy. He is special. I’ll make sure your career is over if you don’t.” Why does that make me smile, too?

“Anything dire on your end?” I ask TJ, tugging him under my arm as he types frantically on his phone.

He just shakes his head and keeps typing. “Nope, just folks checking in,” he replies. “Dad won the bet, Caleb is pissed. Geoff checking in.” He stops typing for a moment. “I asked him for advice. About you. Just so you know. He may be a bit of a mama bear.”

“Oh? Ok, I’m forewarned. Anything else?” I jut my chin at the phone.

“Nah. Guys from the college team being typical dickheads.”

“Block anyone who isn’t on board,” I growl, and he shivers.

“You know what that growl does to me,” he grins.

“We need sleep.”

He sets the phone on the bedside table. And rolls on top of me, tugging my phone from my fingers and letting it drop to the floor. He slides down my body, kissing and licking as he goes.

Guess we’ll sleep later.

31

TJ

Iwake up wrapped around Gavin, sun barely up, and for a few moments I forget there’s a golf tournament happening at all.

His alarm goes off, and reality asserts itself. Tee times, scorecards, the actual job neither of us has any business ignoring just because last night happened.

“Ninth place,” Gavin murmurs into my hair, still half asleep. “Not bad for a guy who spent half the night with my chin on his taint.”

“Shut up.” I bury my face in his chest, grinning so hard it hurts. “We have golf to play.”

“Yeah.”

“You’re teeing off after me.” I’m not awake enough to make more sense than that.

“Lucky you. I get to watch you post a number I have to chase.” He kisses my temple. “No pressure.”

“No pressure. Zip. Nada. None at all.”

Neither of us moves for another ten minutes.

By the time I’m standing on the first tee, sun properly up, I’ve mostly shoved the whole glorious mess of last night into a box labeled later and locked the lid.

“You’re doing the thing,” Caleb says, not looking up from the yardage book. “The face thing. Where you look like you got railed.”

“Caleb.”