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He laughs, slaps my back and says, “C’mon, man. Best two outta three.”

Best two out of three becomes best three out of five, and so on. Eventually, I realize this is less to do with racing and more to do with bolstering my subpar endurance. After my fifth loss, I feel like I’m letting Rowan down. He’s right aboutme needing to lose muscle mass, and I’m already feeling lighter than I did when he had us running suicides until I collapsed.

We walk down the bleachers together, chug from our respective water canisters, make a couple cracks about the pickle juice, then take our marks for round six.

When we reach the top, I realize I won.

“Fuck, yes!” I cheer between hard panting, my heart beating a mile a minute.

“Whatever. I tripped,” Rowan mutters.

It’s adorable seeing him lose. The wrinkle between his brows and his lips disappearing into a thin, downward line. Clearly, this is not something he’s accustomed to.

“Don’t pout,” I tell him, throwing his own teasing back at him while I revel in my victory.

“I’m not—” He pauses, likely noticing the demonic grin on my face, and he just laughs instead of arguing.

On the march back down the bleachers, I notice Rowan’s steps are a little uneven, like he’s favoring one leg. “You alright?” I ask him. “Need some of that pickle juice?”

“Just tweaked something. I’ll be fine.”

“Where?”

Back on the grass, Rowan rubs the hamstring of his left leg, lifting the leg of his shorts enough to show taut muscles, a tan line and more fine black hair.

My mind wanders to what his skin might feel like there and farther up. How firm is his ass? How round? How hairy? My cock swells in my shorts, and it’s got a direct line to my mouth now, when I tell Rowan to lie on his back.

He chortles and goes to his bag. “You’re going to have to try harder than that to get me on my back.”

“How hard?”

He scoops up his shirt, but stalls slipping it on to look back at me with those dreamy eyes and parted lips.

“C’mon,” I say. “Lay down. I’ll stretch you out.”

Rowan’s expression is painfully stoic. It’s unnerving, but also incredibly sexy.

Finally, he pulls his shirt on and walks past me a few strides, patting my chest twice with his palm as he goes. “Alright, baby boy. Stretch me out,” he says before dropping his ass to the grass and lying back with his arms folded under his head. The black hair under his arms radiates a tantalizing mix of musk and some sort of piney deodorant. His nipples poke at the thin fabric of his muscle shirt.

This is a mistake,but no matter how many times I chant that phrase in my head, my actions don’t comply. I lower to my knees between his legs and lift his left leg under the calf muscle to rest it against my shoulder. My right side flush with his leg, I press forward and down, pushing Rowan’s knee closer and closer to his chest. It’s incredible how flexible he is, and it’s equally incredible how composed he looks while my bulge thickens against his upper thigh.

“How’s that?” My face inches closer to his as my body nearly folds him in half.

“Good,” he answers quietly through a steeled jaw.

“You’re flexible.” I press firmer, and his knee nearly touches his shoulder.

“You’re heavy.”

“I’ve lost weight. Thought you’d like that.”

“It’s not about what I like. It’s so you’ll be lighter on your feet.”

That answer only begs the question,what do you like?The other day he said blonds. I’m not blond, but my features are on the lighter side, especially when I’m getting a daily dose ofsun exposure. Then again, I’m pretty sure he meant blonde women.

His dark stare trails down between our bodies, and I have a sinking feeling of what he sees. Turns out, pressing my body against the body of the boy I’m obsessed with is a surefire way to pop a massive boner.

“Sorry.” I scramble off him and to my feet, shoving my hand into my shorts to flip my dick up under the waistband of my boxer briefs to prevent a full-on tent.