I drop my spoon and pull halfheartedly at his arms. “Put me down?—!”
“You’re making this harder on yourself.” His deep voice rumbles through me, and his hot breath curls around my ear. “Say it. Say, ‘You’re the boss of me, Robbie.’”
“Fuck you. Death first.”
His arms tighten like steel bands, and he leans back, lifting me higher, pulling me against him so tightly I can barely breathe.
So tightly I forget I’m supposed to be fighting.
God, I hate this.
I mean, Iloveit—love Robbie’s arms wrapped tight around me, love how big he is, love the way his laughtervibrates right into my chest, love the scent of his cologne, love that me being gay has never stopped him from being physically affectionate.
I love it so much, some of my favorite fantasies begin just like this.
But I hate it, too, because Robbie’s categorically, gold-star straight. I’ve asked him. So straight that even if he weren’t engaged to Lissa—hell, even if Lissa were raptured off the face of the planet tomorrow—I still wouldn’t have a chance. And if Rob knew the effect his teasing was having on my dick, he’d feel awful that he couldn’t reciprocate.
No, seriously.
One time, I asked to borrow his ChapStick, forgetting he never uses the stuff, and he was so bummed he couldn’t help me out, he started carrying a stick just in case. When I opened Watchfire, Rob learned to chop veggies and bake bread like a pro because he didn’t want to let me down if I needed him to pinch-hit.
Robbie didn’t have many examples of unconditional love growing up, so I don’t think he truly, deep down, knows how it works.
Trust me, if the man knew I wanted him—if he knew I dreamed about getting on my knees for him so often it felt more like a memory than a fantasy, if he had the smallest inkling how many romantic relationships I’d called time of death on because nobody could compete with him—he’d feel awful that he wasn’t giving me what I needed.
Some part of him would feel like he was failing me, even though it was entirely beyond his control.
And I’d be the shittiest friend ever if I let that happen, which is why itwill not happen. He can never know.
“Fine. You’re the boss or whatever,” I grit out. “Now, let me go, asshole, before I ban you from my kitchen.”
Laughing, Robbie drops me to my feet.
I shoot him a glare, and he returns an easy smile that hits me at center mass.
It’s the same smile he’s been giving me since we were thirteen. I feel like if the world were fair, I should’ve built up a tolerance to it by now. Instead, it hits me harder with every passing year.
I whirl away, tossing my discarded spoon in the sink and making a big production of selecting a new one, while telling my dick to calm the fuck down.
“Amesie,” Robbie says hesitantly a moment later. “Are you really upset? If wedding talk pisses you off, I can?—”
“Hmm? Oh, god no. I’m not upset. Definitely not about the wedding,” I lie. “Although I will remind you, you deserve to want things and fight for them. Lissa should want thatforyou.”
“Ah.” Robbie’s expression relaxes. “You’re being protective.”
I roll my eyes becauseduh. Doesn’t matter that he’s half a foot taller than me and outweighs me by several dozen pounds. Doesn’t matter that he belongs to Lissa now, and the person I’m “protecting” him from is his soon-to-be wife.
“So, Lissa’s thinking August fourteenth,” Robbie says.
I shake off my other thoughts and blink at him. “For what?”
“Dude. Did I squeeze you so tight I broke your brain? My wedding.”
It takes a second for me to process this, but once I do, I panic. “August? As in… five months from now August?”
“Yeah. Lissa’s dad pulled strings at the country club?—”
“But you always said you wanted a fall wedding, Robert. That was youroneopinion.” I slam my pan again. “Now you’ve rolled over on that too? Lissa gets whatever the fuck Lissa wants?”
