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I’m not drunk, just a little happily buzzed, so if I hold off on having any more, I can give myself time to sober up and go home.

Still, I take another sip of what’s in my glass and savor the smoky flavor as it slides down my throat. “This is good,” I say.

“Yeah, it is.”

In my periphery, I see Des turn his head, so I roll mine to the side too, both of us looking at each other now, each holding a glass and smiling. It’s wild seeing him grown up—the facial hair he didn’t have before and the experience in his eyes. It’s not like this is the first time I’ve seen him, so I’m not sure why I’m noticing it more now, but I am.

“This is fun,” I admit. I shouldn’t have said that, but like what happened before, being around Desmond works some kind of magic on me that loosens my lips and makes me talk to him in ways I don’t do with others.

“Yeah,” he replies. “It is.” His tongue sneaks out, sliding along his thick bottom lip, and I wonder if it tastes the same as it did all those years ago, if my body would remember the flavor, only now it would be tinged with whiskey.

“Play basketball with me.” I stand, looking for a way to change the subject before my dick betrays me and I show him exactly what I’m thinking.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Desmond

Oakley stands. There’s a part of me that wishes he hadn’t changed the subject, that we could just sit there and continue talking, but I like the idea of playing ball with him too. The competitive streak between us has always hit differently with him; it finds pleasure receptors I didn’t know were there. Maybe they’re dormant unless I’m around Oak.

It’s a dangerous way of thinking, one that I feel guilty having, considering our situation, but I would never do anything to act on my desire for him, so does that make it okay? I don’t know that it does, and guilt immediately wrestles with my desire to play ball with him—but then Oakley holds out his hand and says, “Come on, Des,” and I have no choice then, giving him my hand and letting him pull me up.

I grab the ball, and we head over to my court. I toss it to him, letting Oakley start. He bounces it back to me and says, “Check,” before I lob it back in his direction.

His gaze is intense as he dribbles. I put my hands up in a defensive move, not letting him get around me. Oakley tries to go right, but then spins on me, moving left. I don’t lose him, though, bumping into his body as he backs up against me, trying to work his way to the basket.

When he manages to find some space between us, he turns and shoots, my hand in the air not doing its job to deter him, and the ball falls through the net.

“One–zero,” he says with a grin.

“Luck,” I reply, before taking off my shirt and tossing it to the side of the court.

“You think that’s going to help?” He grabs the ball and passes it to me, the back lights on my house illuminating the way for us.

“I don’t need help. I got this.” I go right at him, dribbling and trying to make my move on him. Oak is good at keeping up with me, keeping his feet moving, hand up and sticking to me like glue.

When I turn around, trying to back my way toward the basket, he guards me even closer than I did him, our bodies bumping together, my ass hitting against him as he tries not to let me score.

Fuck, I wish he could wrap his arms around me, wish I could purposely press my groin into him, feel every inch of his sweat-slicked body against mine and—

His hand shoots out, poking the ball away from me.

Motherfucker.

Oakley gets the loose ball, then makes a layup.

“Two–zero.” His grin is even cockier than the last time.

“Don’t get used to it,” I say.

“It’s fun beating you.”

“I bet you wish you could do it more often.”

He flips me off, and I laugh before we continue the game, both of us going at each other, not letting up. When the score is five to four—me up now—Oakley loses his shirt too.

We grapple with each other more than we should, initiate more contact, and the whole time I’m telling myself it’s just a game, we’re just playing ball. I’ve had as much contact with other ball players as I have him. The difference is, my body didn’t like it as much as it does with Oak. Fuck, what is it about this man?

It’s nine–all when Oak has the ball, and this time it’s me who goes in for the steal. I miss, but he bounces it off his foot, the ball rolling away.