Time stops. My brain flatlines.
And my heart kicks into overdrive.
Jackson stands there in identical purple spandex, and I forget how to breathe. The fabric does for him what it does for me—namely, leaves nothing to the imagination. His thighs are thick from years of football, the muscles clearly defined through the thin material. His ass, which I’ve definitely never stared at, is perfectly showcased. And then I seeit. His cock.
It’s hanging to the left. It’s circumcised. It’s resting over a pair of surprisingly large balls. And it looks…delicious.
“Well?” he asks. “Am I sexy human eggplant?”
I can’t form words. My mouth opens and closes while I try to stare anywhere except directly at his crotch. It’s impossible, though, because the purple makes it prominent.
“Drew?” He sounds uncertain now. “That bad?”
“No!” The word explodes out of me. “No, you look…you look…”
I force my eyes up to his face before I do something stupid like drool.
Jackson is staring at me with an expression I can’t quite read. His ears are pink, and there’s a flush creeping down his neck.
“Good,” I rasp out.
The changing room crackles with unspoken tension. Jackson’s tongue darts out to wet his lips, and I have to stop myself from stepping forward and crowding his space.
His gaze travels from my face down to my chest, then lower, his pupils dilating as they trace the contours of my spandex-wrapped body. The slight parting of his lips tells me everything his voice doesn’t.
I suddenly feel too on display, as if a spotlight is shining down on me. But fuck if I don’t enjoy the blatant appreciation on Jackson’s face. I know I have a nice body; I’ve caught loads of people checking me out over the years. But no one has everdrunk me in how Jackson is. “We should probably…” I gesture vaguely at the curtains.
“Yeah. Yes. Changing. Good idea.” But neither of us moves.
We stand there, two grown men in obscenely tight purple spandex, having what might be the most sexually charged staring contest in the history of thrift stores.
“These are definitely the ones,” Jackson finally says, not breaking eye contact.
“Absolutely. No question.”
The speaker system crackles, switching to Bonnie Tyler’s “Total Eclipse of the Heart,” and I want to laugh at the absurdity of it all. Here I am, half-naked in public, wearing pants that should get me featured inPlaygirl, staring at the man I’m in love with while he stares right back.
“We should probably change back,” I say again, this time more firmly.
“Probably,” Jackson agrees.
Still, neither of us moves.
His eyes flick down again—quick enough that I almost miss it—before snapping back up to my face. The pink on his ears deepens to red.
“I’ll just—” He gestures at his stall.
“Yeah, me too.”
We retreat into our respective fitting rooms, and I lean against the wall, trying to remember how to breathe normally. My reflection stares back at me, still red-faced, still wearing the world’s most revealing pants, but now with a growing erection.
“Drew?” Jackson’s voice comes through the wall.
“Yeah?”
“We’re going to win this competition.”
Despite everything, I smile. “Damn right we are.”
