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Luke grabs his package. “We’re the same height here.”

I crack up. “We are.”

Our laughter subsides, but all I want is to keep riding this feel-good wave with him now that I’ve caught it. “And,” I say, taking a pause for dramatic effect, “I might have rented a McLaren to drive from San Francisco to Wine Country for Jason’s wedding.”

His tongue lolls out. “Fuck you,” he mutters.

“Well, yeah,” I say dryly.

“I’d say I hope it’s foggy and no fun to drive, but I might have to take it out for a joy ride this weekend in Napa.”

“Like fog would stop me from driving that beauty,” I say.

“Won’t stop me either,” he says.

I can picture the scene. Luke with his sunglasses on (or not if it’s foggy), his grin wide, handling the sweet sports car like he handles a man. It’s a damn good image. But then, other images from this coming weekend pile up too. Like, him and me and all the other guys at the B&B. Toasting to Jason and Beck, with Nate and Hunter there, then Maddox and his man Zane, and Gunnar and his dude too, Rafe Rodman.

Sure, I’m looking forward to Jason’s wedding, but for the first time I’m dreading it a little. Luke and I were just friends the last time we hung out with the crew before the auction. Now we’re friends with benefits. But how long will these benefits last? And will the other guys be able to tell we’re banging behind closed doors? Luke and I are on a group chat with them, and the whole bunch of us are constantly messaging. But that’s digital. Seeing them in person is, of course, vastly different.

Luke won’t want them to know. I don’t either. What we have is too uncertain, and far too private.

But I won’t find any answers tonight, so I’d rather ask Luke other questions.

I lean into him and cover his soft dick with my hand. “How’s your stamina?” I ask in a low voice. “Want to come again?”

He turns to take a sniff of my hair, then lets out a throaty rumble as his cock hardens under my palm. “There. I’m ready. And my stamina is off the chain,” he says, then he races to the bedroom.

I follow him there.

We changed the sheets before the food arrived, so he strips off his shorts and flings himself down on the covers, offering that gorgeous body to me.

Soon he’s writhing under me, fucking up into my mouth, giving it to me good. When he comes with an enthusiastic fucking yes, I figure he’ll flop down to the bed and savor the moment.

But nope. He’s on me in a heartbeat, stripping me to nothing and loving on my cock.

He’s just as fierce, just as determined as I was. It’s like he has something to prove.

I kind of wish he didn’t, for his sake.

But for my sake, I’ll take his proof, thank you very much. I give him mine a few minutes later—down his throat.

I don’t leave.

I don’t say a word about leaving either as Luke turns down the light. We both lie there in his bed, naked and sated.

“I’m officially fucked to exhaustion,” he says on a sleepy yawn.

I yawn too. The game, the sex—it’s all catching up to me at last. The adrenaline has burned off and I don’t want to move for a long time. “Me too,” I say, but something still nags at me. I can’t fall asleep without mentioning it. “But Luke?”

“Yeah?” He sounds wary.

I turn to him, propping my head in my hand. “It’s okay if you’re not the life of the party every second.”

He doesn’t look my way, but I hear something like gentle resignation in his tone as he says, “Thanks. I appreciate that.”

His eyes float closed. He rustles around a little, like he’s trying to get comfortable, then he tugs at the covers, and gets under them.

I brace myself for him to kick me out. But he lifts the corner of the covers, wordlessly inviting me to join him.

My dumb heart thumps as I RSVP.

Falling asleep together is more intimate than showering after sex.

Especially since he slings his arm across my stomach. His hand stays on me as he falls asleep.




I’m feeling the aftereffects of that merciless pounding the next day as I hit Central Park for a morning run, but I have no regrets.

Sex, football, working out—this is the good stuff. So good I’m almost tempted to crow to my teammate Cruz, who’s running with me this morning.


I’m working up a sweat as we peel off the miles, shooting the breeze about training camp next week when he smacks my arm and says, “Listen, man. You will never believe what happened after the auction.”

He’s a big talker about his dating exploits—with men and women.

“Try me. I might believe it,” I say, my sneakers slapping the path.

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