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Fuck. Why was this so awkward, and why did I want to give the guy aftercare, like he was some kind of precious pearl who needed a little TLC or coddling?

If I’d even tried it, no doubt he would have punched me. He was prickly as fuck.

I threw myself onto my bed and closed my eyes, trying to figure out how to play this. Seeing McNeely vulnerable and meek was throwing me off. Yes, I’d suspected he had a submissive side, and I’d sure as hell suspected he wanted to fuck around with me, but I hadn’t expected to see the vulnerable side of him quite like this.

I imagined being lured by a sweet pink puppy belly, but as soon as I reached out to touch it, the animal turned out to be a feral, rabid wolverine intent on gnawing my face off.

No. Better to pull back. Tuck the experience away and see what he decided to do with it.

I’d never been a betting man, myself.

But if I’d placed a bet on whether my roommate would bolt after our hookup, I would’ve won big.

15

BETT

The last time I’d become obsessed with something, I’d been eleven years old, and Stephen Gostkowski had just kicked a fifty-four-yard field goal with one second remaining to keep the New England Patriots undefeated.

Before that, I’d been a soccer player, on club and travel teams since I was four or five. My team had been great—friends as much as teammates.

I’d never been a big football fan either, though my dad had dragged me to several Demere, UGA, and Georgia Tech games over the years. “Networking events,” he’d called them.

I’d liked them fine, but I’d always enjoyed soccer more.

Then one of my dad’s clients up in New York had invited us to the game. Hearing the solid thock and watching that ball soar through the uprights had triggered something in me.

So when my middle school PE teacher looked at me one day and asked if I’d ever thought about kicking footballs, my ears had perked up.

Coach Chavez had taken me aside after that, showing me how to kick a football through the uprights while my classmates ran warm-up laps on the track.

It had taken me a little while to hear that same thock. But the sound had triggered an addiction. An obsession.

The one and only obsession in my life…

Until now.

Now, I found myself obsessing about my roommate. About the way his voice had made the little hairs on my arms stand up straight. The way his warm, musky cock had felt and tasted on my tongue. The way my brain had gone radio silent when I was at his feet.

At his mercy.

And fuck, how I’d wanted to be at his mercy. Wanted to make him feel good, to be good for him. It was mortifying. Horrific. Insufferable.

I had no idea what to do with this newfound information.

Deny it? But that would mean never getting to do it again.

Accept it? But that would mean admitting to the smug asshole that I wanted him.

Stall? Maybe. But it would only put off the inevitable, right?

Thankfully, the decision was taken out of my hands early the next morning when someone from my father’s campaign staff came to fetch me for a command-performance family outing to church, followed by a soup kitchen volunteering gig (for the media) and then an appearance at the Falcons game downtown.

I stalked my phone, as if Elliot Vaughn would ever text me.

Spoiler alert: he didn’t.

And that was fine. Of course it was. But after hours of nothing from him, I got so in my head about the entire thing, I took my parents up on their offer to spend Sunday night at home in my own bed, if only to avoid facing Vaughn’s smug expression when I finally made my way back to our shared room…