Page 49 of Him

“Yep.” I walk to the door, glancing at him over my shoulder. “So…lunch?”

His brows knit, drawing my attention to the barbell in his left eyebrow. It gives him this whole bad-boy vibe that makes me kinda…horny.

“Wes?”

He snaps out of whatever thoughts had just preoccupied him. “Uh, yeah. Lunch sounds good.”

I leave the room without checking if he’s following me. I know he is. I can feel his perplexed gaze tickling my back.

After the way I spent the afternoon, I’m pretty sure he’s nowhere near as perplexed as I am.

TWENTY

WES

We buy burritos and eat them by the lake. After that, we go for ice cream at one of the many places on Main Street. Jamie wants to talk about coaching, apparently. So we do.

“A lot of these kids still don’t understand ‘first touch,’” he theorizes. “If there was one thing I could have ’em take back home, it would be that. In a high-level game, you only get one chance at the puck. If they waste time repositioning, it’s over.”

“Uh-huh.” But every time he says “first touch” my mind is on an entirely different kind of touching. He’s talking a lot with his hands, and I’m fixated on his biceps, and the fine blond hair on his arms, which I now know is very soft to the touch. I think about removing that T-shirt to kiss his chest, and my dick begins to grow heavy.

Wearing these nylon athletic shorts? Not smart. And horniness isn’t even my only problem.

Last night I’d asked Jamie if he was freaking out. Funny, I’ve now spent an entire day doing just that.

The guy is fucking with my mind. First he acts like nothing happened. Then he ditches me so he can take a “nap.” But no way was he doing that. I mean, I wasn’t born yesterday. When I gotback to our room and saw him standing there all guiltily, it was obvious what he’d been doing. The fucker had jerked off.

I would have been happy to help him out with that, but clearly he’d rather go solo than let me touch him again.

Except…then he’d checked me out. Again, not born yesterday. I saw the way he was looking at me before we headed out.

Jesus. Good thing he’s not a traffic cop, because he’s sending enough mixed signals to cause a ten-car pileup.

I’ve played it cool, but inside I’m a wreck. Because once was not enough, and yet I haven’t a clue what Jamie’s thinking.

No clue.

Shoving the last of my ice cream cone in my mouth, all I want is to drag him back to our lair and do very dirty things to him. But is that even in the cards? I know two things so far. First, Jamie Canning can get hot for me. I saw it last night. And second, he’s not horrified by what we did.

That’s amazing, and I feel like pinching myself that I had even one awesome night with the love of my life. But it doesn’t guarantee me a fucking thing. He owes me nothing. He could tire of this little experiment. He probably already has.

It’s terrifying. Because I want another taste. Hell, I want to gorge myself on him. I’m a glutton for Jamie Canning.

“Wes?”

“What?” Oh, shit. I’ve been staring at him, and I have no idea what we’re talking about.

“I asked if you wanted to swim. It’s still hot.”

“Uh.” I really just want to go home and get very, very naked. “I’m not wearing a suit.”

His eyes narrow. “Who are you?”

Right. When you spend your life giving zero fucks about appropriate attire, people notice. “Okay,” I concede. “Let’s swim.”

Jamie’s phone makes a trilling noise. “Oh. Hang on twominutes? If I don’t answer, they’ll keep calling.” He swipes the screen, but holds the phone away from his body. “Hey guys!”

A chorus of voices pours from his phone, which is on Skype or some shit. “Jamie!” “Jamester!” “Hi baby!”