Page 27

Chapter 27

Olli

Nat Taylor is far and away the hottest guy I’ve ever blown—from the sultry stare and the pouty lips to the knuckle tattoos and the full sleeves of ink. Having my mouth on his cock felt like a privilege, and getting to jerk off while doing it?

Hands down, best sex of my life.

And I shouldn’t have done it. Partly because of the whole “we work together” business, and partly because of the whole “Olli is demi and falls hard” thing . . .

But as I tumble into bed—the empty one, because sharing a twin is way too cozy, even when you're crushing hard—the lights off and sleep ready to claim me, I can’t regret it. Or at least, my sated-as-hell cock can’t. My entire body feels like someone pressed a warm iron to my insides, smoothing me into a soft, melty mess.

I sleep like the dead. Wake to the first rays of light seeping into the room, bathing my face in warmth and light. I roll away—and come face to face with Nat’s bed instead. He’s still asleep, flopped onto his back with one arm propped behind his head, the blankets bunched around his waist.

Which gives me a fantastic view of some of his best features. The coil of his abs, the bold tattoo along the right side of his ribs, a new view of the ink on the underside of his bunched biceps. The softness of his face, relaxed by sleep, free of the tension and hard angles it normally carries .

I even note the soft curve of his cock beneath the blankets, and I remember what it felt like to have him filling my mouth, remember the desperate little moans working their way from his throat, the way he towered over me—ink and muscles and that desperate, uncomposed face.

Welp, it’s about time for me to get up and shower. Before things get . . . well, you know. Let’s just say there’s gonna be some handiwork in this hose-down.

I slide out of bed and creep across the floor to the bathroom. My cock’s already half hard in anticipation of the scene it’s gonna be stroked to.

I start fondling before I turn the water on, my right palm pressing against the outside of my sweatpants while my left fumbles with the dial. Damn, that feels good. Crazy for me to have to masturbate this soon after having sex, too, ’cause I don’t even need to that often, really.

But I keep seeing his face as he comes undone.

I’m fully hard now, my fingers dipping beneath the waistband of my sweatpants to reach bare skin. My teeth dig into my lip to bite back a hiss as my fingers curl around the base. This is at least gonna be fast and dirty; I barely struggle my sweatpants down my hips with my left hand before I’m stroking.

The water’s not even properly warm, but I need the lube for my jerking hand, so I climb under and let the lukewarm spray hold me grounded. My eyes flutter closed, and I see him again, towering over me, that big beautiful cock glistening with precum right before my lips.

My hand turns frantic, the pace almost punishing as I very quickly approach the end of this little shower session. Faster, faster, faster. I see his head tilting back, see the stretch of his flat stomach over me, watch his face as he comes undone—

I come undone too.

Not as hard as yesterday, like my vision was trying to turn the hotel room into a cheesy space scene full of rainbow nebulas and sparkling stars. But hard enough I gasp and lean my shoulders quickly back against the wall while I struggle back down to earth.

Jesus.

Well, that was intense. But at least now I can concentrate on washing up and getting out and not wanting to jump Nat Taylor’s bones when he wakes up and decides last night was a mistake.

Which I mean, that’s gotta be the case, right? ’Cause sexual orientation aside, I’m me and he’s . . . him .

I switch off the shower, pull a towel around my waist, and head back into the bedroom—right into a green stare so intense it feels like a physical collision.

“Morning.” Nat’s still lying in bed, but he’s definitely awake. Staring at me. And the way his eyes slip slowly down my naked torso makes me glad I took care of things in the shower. “I wasn’t expecting a show this early.”

My cheeks heat, but I smirk anyway, because who am I kidding? Him looking at me like this—it’s hot, it’s flattering, it’s making my stomach do some kind of hokey-pokey jazz that simultaneously makes me want to run and climb into bed with him.

“Well, maybe you should’ve been.” I slip past his bed towards the bag deposited at the foot of mine. I should put some clothes on. “It’s way later than you think it is . . . Check-out’s in thirty.”

“Dammit,” he grumbles, dragging himself out of bed. The way he looked at me, I decide it’s okay to let myself admire his firm, rounded ass in those fitted black boxer briefs, the way they cling to his muscled thighs. He’s got a massive tattoo stretched across the outside of his upper leg, reaching nearly hip to knee: a southwestern scene featuring a straight road, a cactus, and a vivid sunset.

I force myself to look away, concentrate on my clothes, as he heads for the bathroom and the shower. I pull my socks on, telling myself that I’m definitely not wondering about whether he’s doing any self-care . . . and whether it’s to the thought of me, on my knees for him.

I really shouldn’t think about stuff like that .

The bathroom door opens, and Nat pops out, a towel slung around his waist, and it’s all I can do not to stare.

Especially when he greets me. “Hey, Aspen.”

“Haven’t forgotten that, I see,” I grunt, and then I let myself deflate into a sigh. “Look, all joking aside.”

He flops down onto the bed, still wearing only a towel. “You regret last night.”

“Don’t you?”

“I didn’t.” His face hardens into a mask of lines and angles, his normal facade, the one he shows the rest of the world. “Until just now.”

I wince. “Okay, that’s not what I meant. I don’t regret it. At all. Actually, it was probably the best—never mind. That's neither here nor there. Bottom line is . . . crap.”

I drag a hand over my hair, because what am I supposed to say? Look, I know you’re a playboy bi-guy, but I’m demi and picky as hell and crushing so hard and last night was amazing, but my career will always be most important . . .

I’m so fucking terrified of getting hurt , but of course I’m not going to say that .

“We’re sorta on the same team,” I manage finally. “We have to be careful.”

“I can be discreet. Trust me, I am the master of discretion.” Nat shrugs, forcing me to keep talking, to share more slivers of truth, instead of hiding behind the easy lie.

“I don’t care if people know,” I say, and it’s true. “It’s more like . . .”

“You think I’m gonna suddenly change my mind?”

“Kinda, yeah.” I opt not to mention that when it ends badly, I’ll be the one with my little heart trampled. “I mean, either way, you’re out of my league.”

“For fuck’s sake,” Nat murmurs, and his mouth slants in half a smile. “There is no way I would ever think that after what happened last night. ”

I roll my eyes to cover the way my face wants to melt into a smile. I puff out one last sigh.

“I’ll be honest,” I say, and I realize I am going to be honest. “I’m simultaneously an all-in kind of guy and an ‘I’m terrified and have no idea what I want’ kind of guy.”

“What does that mean?”

I cast my gaze up to study the ceiling, and say the thing I desperately don’t want to say. “I don’t do sex without feelings. And just . . . I guess I need you to know that.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. You don’t need to say anything.” I hold my hands up like a physical defense against any quick rebuttal he might be about to unleash. “I guess . . . I fall fast, so it’s probably good for me to take things slow?”

“Okay,” he says, and his mouth softens into a genuine smile. “I understand that. Entirely.”

For some reason, that fills the big hollow cavity of my chest with a weightless sort of warmth.

“Besides.” Nat’s voice goes rough, in a way that makes my stomach plunge towards my toes. “We both know you’re not here to stay.”

How can words be both heavy and blunt and light and sharp all at once? But they are, and he’s right—we both know I’m going to choose my lifelong dream over anything that might happen between us.

“Right,” I say. “Which is why, maybe, we should be friends first?”

“Is that what you want?” he asks, his brows curving into a slightly inverse arch that I might label as concern.

“Yes. I do.” And it’s true. I do want to be his friend, first and foremost.

“Safer,” Nat says, his brows relaxing into their usual soft arch. “We’ll take it slow.”

“Right.” But when has anything about me ever been safe ? Or slow? Darkness and doubt tug at the fringes of my soul.

Maybe that’s why I redirect the conversation. “We’re hitting the road later—three away games.”

He smiles, but it’s a little too tight. “Gonna win ’em all? ”

He bends over to find his pants, and I force myself to get dressed too. To concentrate on the important things ahead.

Maybe if I look ahead, keep moving forward, the darkness won't catch me.

We’re riding high on victory and success. We’ve been on a winning streak for weeks now. All our lines are in tune, our synergy honed to a fine edge. The crowd loves us, supports us. And we’ve even started to garner out-of-town support via social media.

I won't let the knocking darkness bring all that down. “Damn straight, Mouse.”