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“Well…” I start, and he bursts into laughter. The tension between us starts to settle into something softer.

Warmer.

Careful.

I think maybe I should let go, but his grip on me tells me he doesn’t want that. Not yet.

Taking a breath, I say, “Thank you. I didn’t expect you to trust me with that.”

His grip on me loosens, but only so his fingers can draw careful lines between mine. The movement is both wildly erotic and very soothing, and it’s the weirdest sensation ever. I want to pin him down and fuck him stupid. But I also want to wrap a blanket around us both and exist there without having to think about the weight of my life on my shoulders.

It’s a fucking problem.

“You trusted me with your son,” he says after a beat, and yeah. That’s one way to rip the rug right from under me. “Of course I’d trust you to know that about me. We’re friends.”

Friends.

Yes.

Or something like it.

So why does hearing that sting so much? I bow my head and nod. “Of course. Well. I should probably go.” I start to pull back, but his grip on me turns to iron.

“You…would, uh…” He stops, and he’s definitely not making eye contact now. “You’re not, like, living at your apartment with your ex, right?”

I feel a physical revulsion at the suggestion. “No. I have no idea where he is. He’s supposed to be getting served with the divorce papers sometime in the next two weeks.” If I can manage to track and pin him down, but I’m done trying to count on that.

“Oh.” Easton laughs, and the sound is gorgeous. “Are you seeing anyone?”

I blink at him. “Like…dating?” He nods, and I can’t help but scoff. “You realize that, attractive or not, I’m not exactly a catch, right? We just talked about this.”

“Yeah, but…I thought you were being humble,” he mutters.

“Humble?”

“Self-deprecating? I don’t know!”

I give myself a moment, then ask, “What is this about, Easton?”

His head falls back, thudding against the wall, and he closes his eyes. “Don’t say my name.”

“What? Why?” I start to pull away again, but he’s like a fucking stubborn octopus, suctioned to my skin.

“Because it…I’m…” He groans, then grunts and sits back up a little. “Would you just answer my question, please?”

“I just don’t see how it’s relevant⁠—”

“I want to kiss you, okay? I want to put my tongue in your mouth and maybe touch your dick—maybe you can touch mine. And I want to make sure asking you to do that with me isn’t asking you to cheat on someone. Uh. Besides your husband, who doesn’t count because he fucking sucks, and you should have been divorced years ago.”

And, well, if there was anything in the world I would have expected Easton to say to me right now, it wasn’t fucking this.

EIGHT

EASTON

I don’t know what the fuck has come over me. I’m a brave guy. I can’t do my job without having a nice little pocket of courage kept at the base of my spine, but I’ve never been able to use it for something like this. I used to get shaky knees asking a woman to dance at a club.

And usually, I’d let the mood do the talking for me. A drink, a dance, some sweat, some heavy petting to the beat of EDM. And then she’d come home with me, and it would be great.