“Not fully, no,” David said. Then, sounding both reluctant and . . . proud? . . . he added, “But I look forward to you proving me wrong.”
He hung up on that final word, and Bennett stared at his phone for a moment before movement at the corner of his eye had him glancing toward Sandro.
He stood from the bed, beautifully naked, half hard, and with a combination of amusement and longing in his dark eyes that made Bennett swoon.
“You’re evil.”
Sandro pumped his eyebrows. “Evilly seductive?”
“You think you’re funny,” Bennett murmured, advancing on him.
“Oh, I know I’m funny.”
“Know what I think?”
Sandro raised a questioning eyebrow. Then he let out a little “oof” when Bennett shoved him backward onto the bed.
Bennett climbed over him. “I think you hate being ignored.”
“What I hate,” Sandro said, his questing fingers digging underneath Bennett’s shirt, “is sitting in a room with my teammates while you’re hovering nearby with your fancy camera, looking all sexy and competent and shit. I’ve wanted to devour you all night.”
It took a second for that to sink in since Bennett was busy trailing kisses along Sandro’s collarbone, but when it did, he braced himself on his palms and looked down at Sandro. “You . . . noticed me working tonight?”
Sandro’s brows pulled low, and he tilted his head inquisitively. “Was I not supposed to?”
No. He wasn’t. Bennett prided himself on being discreet. Inconspicuous. A fly on the wall that nobody paid attention to.
But this was Sandro. He’d always known when Bennett was nearby, his gaze tracking to him as soon as he entered a room. Just like Bennett had always had a sixth sense for Sandro’s whereabouts.
“Are you going to keep staring at me?” Sandro asked. “Or are you going to get naked?”
“I can do both, can’t I?”
Rising, Bennett began to undress, keeping his eyes glued to Sandro the entire time.
Propping one arm behind his head, Sandro grasped his erection with the other hand and began to stroke lazily, mischief in his smile. “It’s a lot funner down here.”
True.
Bennett pounced on him.
chapter fourteen
Two weeks later, Bennett was working on his laptop at the kitchen island in Sandro’s open and airy townhome, where he’d been playing house since he’d returned with the team from their eleven-day road trip a few days earlier. The Trailblazers had won four out of five games, losing only to Winnipeg, who, like the Trailblazers, were also first in their division. Granted, they currently had fewer points than the Trailblazers, but they nonetheless made formidable opponents. And since the game against Winnipeg had been near the tail end of their road trip, fatigue had made the Trailblazers sloppy.
“How many dresses do you think I should pack for my trip?”
His mom’s voice had him blinking away from his laptop, where he’d been typing out questions for the interviews he wanted to conduct with the players—non-leading interviews, this time—and he glanced at his phone, on speaker near his elbow.
“Uh . . .” He tried to recall how many summer dresses his mom owned and paired that with her upcoming trip to Mexico. “All of them?”
A pause, then, “You’re probably right.” There was the sound of hangers clacking against each other.
“Make sure you pack sunscreen,” Bennett said absently as he typed. “Like all the sunscreen.”
“I can buy some at the resort if I run out.”
“They’ll rob you for a single bottle, Mom. Unless you want to pay forty bucks, pack it in your suitcase.”
