“You’re nothing like Preston Robertson,” Ezra assured him. “But to teach you properly, we’d need a full day at least, because I don’t play Risk halfway.”
“Ezra, you don’t do anything halfway,” Roman teased. “How about tomorrow then?”
“Tomorrow I’m deep cleaning the hallway closet. You’re going through your winter coats, remember?”
“Why don’t we skip a week? Your pay will be the same. Think of it as a vacation day.”
Ezra still had at least a dozen deep cleans scheduled, and the fall semester was nearly halfway over. In the spring he’d be graduating and looking for permanent employment and presumably another place to live. He wasn’t sure his schedule would allow it. “I don’t know, Roman. Our timeline is really tight.”
“Please?” Roman said with puppy dog eyes. “If you don’t teach me, who will?”
It was a travesty that Roman had never played, much less heard of Risk, which was only the best board game ever invented.
“Okay, but it’s more fun to play with three people. Can you see if Mr. Reid is available? Otherwise, I’ll have to bring in one of my gaming friends, and they will not be kind.”
* * *
Thus beganthe Most Epic Risk Game of All Time, so named by its participants. The game spanned three days and took 27 hours, 34 minutes to complete. Roman was the first to be vanquished at the 22-hour mark when Ezra finally crippled his stronghold in North America. Ezra made the mistake of sharing the Australian strategy with Jay, which made eliminating him more difficult. And he was very risk averse, not something Ezra could have anticipated. Both men handled their defeat well, especially considering Ezra had once flipped a board in frustration after losing to Preston under dubious circumstances.
They celebrated their achievement with drinks on the veranda, sweet tea with Hennessy for Roman and Jay, and a fruit punch for Ezra. The only downside was that Ezra was now behind on his housework.
“You have to come play football with us on Saturday,” Jay was telling him. They were on a first-name basis now, having been in the trenches of a Risk marathon together.
“Jay, don’t tease me. I’m too small and I don’t like balls coming at my face.” Both men erupted with laughter at that, and Ezra could acknowledge that his phrasing was easy to misinterpret. “You know what I mean.Sportsballs.”
“We’ll practice this week,” Roman said. “I’ll show you how to throw and catch a football, and it’s flag football, so you don’t need to be big, you just need to be fast.”
“I’m not fast either,” Ezra protested.
“You’ll be fine, cutie.” Roman ruffled his hair. Ezra immediately smoothed it down but glanced over and caught the teasing gleam in Roman’s eyes. “Besides, I’ll protect you,” he said sweetly.
Ezra flushed at the attention and thought that if he were to have anyone protecting him on a field full of rowdy football players, he’d want it to be Roman Reynolds.
“And would you look at the time?” Jay stared at his wrist, which was absurd because he wasn’t wearing a watch and the time was only 8:00 p.m. “See you both on Saturday. Don’t forget to wear your uniform, Ezra. Number 87 for Jaylen Jet-pack Reid.”
“He’ll be wearingmynumber,” Roman said. “Won’t you Ezra?”
“Don’t make me choose,” Ezra said, still smiling. Football players were very territorial indeed.
* * *
“Ezra,we’re leaving in twenty minutes.”
Ezra glanced up to where Roman stood over him, shirtless and smelling faintly of Krakengard body wash for men. Ezra had come to like the scenta lot, and when he was cleaning Roman’s bathroom, would flip open the cap and sniff it as a treat. But the body wash was a pale comparison to the smell of Roman himself, which was both sweeter and spicier than the commercial product.
And poor Ezra, who’d been coding with his headphones on, hadn’t had time to prepare for Roman’s arrival, and his biological response was overwhelming—too sudden and too strong. Ezra made a noise that sounded like “meep” and fled to his bedroom. There he set his technology aside and started a shower in the bathroom, stripping out of his clothing while hopping from foot to foot on the cold tile floor. His erection was so heavy and so hard. It bobbed between his legs like a bird’s beak, making him look utterly ridiculous. When the water was warm enough, he climbed inside, squeezed a dollop of conditioner onto his palm, and took himself in hand. With his foreskin doing most of the work, he stroked his erection with calculated expediency.
His mind drifted to the other day when Roman was washing his car on the street with his hard, brown nipples poking through his wet t-shirt and the bottom hem pulled up to reveal his extremely well-defined dips, the spray of water on his tightly coiled hair making it glisten in the sunlight, and his biceps slick and shiny with sweat… the memory evolved into a fantasy of Roman in the shower with well-placed soap suds hiding all of the bits that were still a mystery to him. If given the opportunity, Ezra would wash him so well, his hands roaming all over his smooth, butterscotch skin and firm muscles while licking him to see if he tasted as good as he smelled. A deep clean of Roman’s beautiful body; Ezra wouldn’t even charge for that!
It wasn’t long before his sexy thoughts turned opaque, melting and swirling into simple heat and pleasure. Ezra took a long, shuddering breath, allowing the sensation of his orgasm to peak and then slowly ebb. It was just too easy living with Roman; the man gave him so much material.
He washed away the mess and cupped his genitals tightly because he liked to feel secure after such an explosive event. These episodes were becoming more and more frequent. Ezra was a little concerned. Should he consult a doctor?
He came out of his bedroom wearing Roman’s jersey and a pair of athletic shorts because his other ones were “too short for sports.” Roman was waiting for him in the living room with his keys in hand.
“You took a shower?” Roman asked.
“No.”
