We had accidentally created the sluttiest, coziest spectator sport in the Pacific Northwest, and honestly, I couldn’t think of a better way to spend a Sunday morning.
“Damn,” June exclaimed. “This is better than porn.”
“You’re not wrong,” Nessa murmured, adjusting her pom-pom hat. “It’s giving . . . men written by women.” She nudged my foot with hers. “By the way, that book you ordered came in yesterday.”
“Which book?” Clarke asked excitedly, eyes sparkling like a kid on Christmas morning.
“The February pick for Smutty Buddies,” Nessa said, wiggling her eyebrows. “The grumpy-sunshine story about an ornery lumberjack and the werewolf next door. Bella’s finally letting me indoctrinate her into the wonderful world of romance.”
Clarke gasped loud enough to make Soren look over with alarm mid–mattress lift.
“Does that mean you’re going to join the book club, too?” she squealed. Xan wasn’t here today, but I could practically hear their delighted gasp through the ether.
I held up my palms. “It’s just one book.”
“One book that is going to change your life,” June corrected solemnly. “Romance novels are basically training manuals forthat.”
She nodded her head toward Matty just as he lifted a chest of drawers down from the truck bed, forearms flexing with every move. His shirt stretched across his back, then rose the tiniest bit when he straightened, offering a glimpse of freckles and copper curls beneath the hem.
“Bless this day,” June said before biting into an almond croissant. “Let’s make bingo cards for the next move. You know, stuff likeaggressive high fiveandDiaz trips over his own feet.”
As if conjured by the universe, Diaz stumbled over a crack in the sidewalk at that very moment.
June whooped. “Bingo!”
I took another sip of hot chocolate, letting the warmth hit me from the inside out.
“I feel like we should be paying admission,” I muttered.
Clarke giggled. “Or at least charging for the show.”
Now, there was an idea. Forget the honey business; I should have gone into ticket scalping.
Something told me Rose City fans would pay a pretty penny to watch their starting infield lineup haul furniture across my brother’s driveway. Especially since the guys had long since discarded their jackets, which meant I had a front-row seat to Bennett King in a sweat-drenched, fitted thermal.
June was right.
This was better than any porn I’d ever seen.
The slow bend of his knees as he lifted a box, the outline of his chest rising and falling with controlled breaths, the way his massive hands gripped the edge of a piece of furniture like he could snap it—or me—in half . . .
And that wasbeforehe lifted his shirt to wipe the sweat dripping from his brow.
“Sweet mother of thighs,” June whispered reverently.
I couldn’t have said it better myself.
I pressed my thighs together instinctively, seeking relief.
Bennett’s thermal rose higher, revealing a strip of golden skin, and then the sculpted lines of his abdomen. Defined, taut. The kind of abs that were crafted from years of training and discipline.
Somewhere beside me, Clarke murmured, “Lord have mercy.”
I barely heard her because Bennett didn’t just wipe his face. Oh no, he dragged the fabric slowly, like a man who had no idea what he was doing, like he wasn’t casually rearranging the chemical makeup of my brain the way I wanted him to rearrange my insides.
His hips angled slightly to the side, and every line of muscle tightened and shifted with the movement, drawing my eyes lower, following a faint trail of hair leading south like a treasure map leading to his golden coc—
I choked on my hot chocolate.
