He groaned, head going forward a touch. So good. He was so damn sore.
“Oh, someone’s got a bad spot.” Damned if Dillon didn’t move in behind him, both hands on his poor neck, rubbing long and slow.
“Oh, sweet Christ.” He braced himself on the wall, the massage too fine to stop.
“Yeah? Good? God, how do you stand this, babe?” Dillon had good hands. Real good hands.
“Ain’t got a choice, I guess.”Don’t stop. Not yet. Please.
“I guess. You’re like frozen rope, though. I should know, too. Everything freezes up my way.” Dillon didn’t stop, kept on rubbing, giving him something to live for.
“Yeah, so I hear. My place is on the other side—all heat and swimming pools and hot tubs.”
“That sounds pretty damned good, huh?” Warm, damp and good, Dillon leaned against his back, rubbing harder.
“I… Uh-huh.” He was hard enough to cut glass, his dick aching with it.
“Hell, the hotel has a hot tub. We could go soak.” He could feel Dillon’s breath, right there on the back of his neck.
“I… We could. I… You… You hungry? We could stop and grab something on the way.” He worked it right, he could stop, grab his dick in the bathroom, just for a second. Wouldn’t take long.
“You know me. I’m always empty like a worm.” Dillonworked harder than just about anyone out there, all night long, full out.
“I hear that.” He let his eyes close again, took a deep, deep breath. “Thanks, Dillon. I was stiff.”
Still was stiff.
“No problem. You go get clean, I’ll get dressed, and we’ll go have food.” Patting his ass, Dillon be-bopped past him, shaking that heinie for all it was worth.
That barely-covered-by-a-towel heinie.
“Okay.” Uh-huh. Okay. Damn. He headed for the showers at a run, thanking God and all the angels that no one was going to see him tug off, thinking about that.
Chapter Three
Food. They were going for food.
Coke had let Dillon touch. That beautiful man had let him rub those poor stiff shoulders, had let him soothe that creaky neck. They were going to sit in the hot tub together. Dillon bounced, checking his jeans and T-shirt and cowboy hat look one more time while he waited for Coke to get done. He was ridiculously nervous, but this wasn’t a date.
Coke wandered out, dressed and easy in his bones. The jeans and button-down made Coke seem more cowboy and less crazy bullfighter, the pointed-toed boots almost strange. He was used to seeing Coke in lace-up shoes.
“Hey! You ready to go?” Okay, way to sound casual and shit. Dork. Dillon knew he sounded freakishly loud.
“Yup. I’m starving, man.Starving.” Coke smiled at him, simply beaming his way.
“Me, too. So I’m thinking not a burger joint, huh? We need a real meal.” That way he could watch Coke eat.
“Steaks? Barbecue? Italian?” When Coke said it, it sounded like “Eye-talian.”
Dillon chuckled. When a guy was from Idaho, he sounded more Canadian. Everything with him was “eh”. “How about Italian? We can get steaks there, if we want, and I can carb load.”
“Ah, you and Balta, all into that nutrition stuff. I could have a lasagna, yessir.”
“Yeah. That deep fried Twinkie I had for lunch? Real nutrition.” Dillon smacked Coke’s arm. “I just like pasta. Come on.”
“Oh, man. That’s nasty.” Coke followed, whistling a little. The sound followed him and, if he didn’t know better, he’d say he could feel Coke’s eyes on his ass.
That was probably wishful thinking. Still, he gave a little slink before climbing into Coke’s truck.
