Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 64238 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 321(@200wpm)___ 257(@250wpm)___ 214(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 64238 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 321(@200wpm)___ 257(@250wpm)___ 214(@300wpm)
Ivan rolled his eyes. “It’s a rose. That’s the stem…see?”
No, I didn’t see it at all. I cast a questioning glance at Riley, who countered with a “Be nice” half smile. It was a peculiar power to be able to communicate with someone without words. A quick look, a clandestine touch, a hand gesture…it was a private language, safe to use in public, and I liked it more than I would have thought.
Of course, I preferred having him to myself.
We spent every night at either his place or mine, and every day off or free hour or two before work belonged to him now. Our outings generally consisted of a trip to the gym, the skating rink, or the coffee shop—rarely the diner. I needed to concentrate and besides…Nolan was there. I didn’t want to invite questions I couldn’t answer.
After years of lying to my partners and friends, I’d made a vow never to go down that road again. I’d never lied to Nolan, and I didn’t want to start now. Unfortunately, I couldn’t tell the whole truth, so I gave him half-truths and found it was easier than it should have been to shrug off our unlikely friendship.
I see Riley at the gym sometimes, so what? Or I haven’t been on the ice in years, so what? Okay, maybe I wasn’t great at excuses. In fact, I’d bet Nolan was working up the nerve to gently remind me that Riley wasn’t gay on the off chance that I was attracted to his husband’s former teammate.
Well, Riley was gay enough for me, and it was too late for warnings anyway. I couldn’t remember ever feeling quite this silly over a man. That was saying something since I’d followed Nolan to Elmwood, USA on a whim. But I’d always felt that Nolan and I needed something from each other, and perhaps fate had intervened at just the right time. There’d been passion, for sure, but…not like this.
I mean…now was a perfect example. We were in a crowded coffee shop in one of the smallest towns in Vermont, and I couldn’t keep my hands to myself. No kidding. It was impossible. I stepped aside to let another customer by and strategically brushed my fingers against Riley’s. His breath hitched, inaudible to anyone there but me. I knew he felt it too. I wondered if he simmered on a low boil in public the way I did.
I tried to be cool and act vaguely indifferent; however, it wasn’t so easy to do. Every little thing about Riley did something for me—from the curve of his neck, his long eyelashes, and his pink cheeks in the cold air to the low thrum of his voice. I wanted to hook my finger in his belt loop, pull him close, and breathe in the scent of my shampoo in his hair.
Of course, I wouldn’t do it, but the thought alone was dangerous. We’d showered together this morning, making out under the spray as we’d soaped each other. I’d washed his hair, massaging his scalp while he stroked my cock. Deep kisses and heavy petting had given way to something more urgent. Next thing I knew, we were dripping wet in front of the mirrored wall in the bathroom, one palm braced on the floating marble countertop to his left, the other jacking his cock as I fucked him from behind.
We’d held eye contact, gazing at our reflection in wonder. He was so beautiful. His muscles flexed and contracted as his hand flew, water dripping from his hair, down his chest. I’d sucked moisture from his shoulder and nudged him to turn sideways for a slightly more pornographic view. He’d whimpered something rude, like, “Oh, my fucking God,” and I couldn’t blame him. The sight of my cock sliding in and out of his perfect ass had been a game changer. I’d gripped his hips and let go, fucking him hard and fast to a wicked and wild orgasm.
That was less than an hour ago. And it had only been one week since the first time we’d fucked. Crisse, how had we gotten so good at it so quickly? Well, we did practice every day—in bed, on the sofa, in my kitchen, on my—
Okay, stop.
No wonder I still felt hot under the collar. I had to get myself under control.
Popping a boner in front of Ivan would be difficult to explain. Our exceptionally observant barista would either immediately guess we were more than friends or he’d mistakenly think I really liked roses that looked like giraffes in my latte.
“Thank you for the rose,” I said, lifting my to-go cup in a toast. “It’s very…nice.”
Ivan snorted. “You’re the worst.”
Riley chuckled, thanking him for his drink without commenting on the blob of foam at the top. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen it so busy in here.”