If I weren’t a totally monogamous girlie, tonight could have been a real “why choose” moment, because the boys of apartment 6206 can cook. Between Cam’s quiche and Ezra’s homemade focaccia, I may never leave.
We share a bottle of Shiraz while the guys regale me with all kinds of entertaining stories. They’ve got a seriously adorable bromance going on.
“Remember the time you got caught stealing condoms from the drugstore?”
Cam shoots a glare at Ezra but can’t keep a straight face. “It was the first and last time I played Truth or Dare.” He gives me the side-eye, though, because we both know that wasn’t actually the last time.But for the sake of this conversation, I don’t correct him.
“It was sort of this unspoken initiation between seniors andfreshmen in this mentorship program at our high school,” Ezra adds, “and I dared him to steal a box of condoms.”
“What happened?” I ask.
“I got caught,” Cam admits. “The owner wanted to press charges, but Ezra convinced them to call my parents instead.”
“Which might have been worse,” Ezra laughs, dragging a hand down his face.
“Why’s that?” I love the dynamic between these two.
“Because my parents grounded me for a month and made me watch this sex education video—circa 1970. For nearly a year after that, I believed you could get a girl pregnant just by kissing.”
I can’t help the snort that escapes me. “Aww, babe, I hope you’ve learned a little more since then.”
He leans in and whispers, “Oh, baby, I’ve learned more than a little.”
“And on that note!” Ezra rises and gathers our dishes.
I insist on cleaning them since he cooked, and Cam helps me while Ezra excuses himself to the building’s basement to finish his laundry.
In the bathroom, he hands me a clean towel and shirt, then leaves me to freshen up before bed. When I’m finished, we switch places, and when he comes out, he’s wearing nothing but a pair of black boxer briefs. I turn so I’m facing him as he slips under the sheets and gets settled. I can’t see him in the dark, but I hear his labored breathing; feel it against the bridge of my nose.
His fingers graze against my wrist, spurring me to sputter, “I don’t think we should have sex.”
“Okay…” He draws out the word, but there’s no accusation behind it.
I loop my fingers in his. “It’s just,” I huff. “We jumped into things so quickly. And I want to make sure this…this ”—Relationship?—“thing between us is about more than sex.”
He presses a chaste kiss to the back of my hand and holds itthere. “Oh, Joey,” he murmurs, smiling against my skin, “it’s more than just sex.”
I sigh, shifting so close our noses brush.
The air between us is thick and heavy. My heart thunders in my chest, and my stomach is all twisted up.
Cam, probably sensing the way the moment is consuming me, lightens things. “What about over-the-shirt stuff?” he asks, his tone full of mirth. “Maybe some heavy petting?”
“Oh my god,” I laugh into him. “Do not say heavy petting.”
“No?” He tickles my waist. “That doesn’t do it for you?” He eases back a fraction. “A little dry-humping never hurt anyone.”
I snort out a laugh, and it takes me a solid minute to calm myself.
When I do, he pecks at my nose. “Fine.” He drapes an arm over my midsection and pulls me in tight. “What about kissing?”
“As long as there’s no hip thrusting involved,” I breathe.
“Got it. My hips shall not thrust.” He presses his mouth to mine quickly, but drags out the release, like he’s inflating my lips.
I hold back a moan, eager to sink my lips into his. But this man is so damn thoughtful. He’s hesitating, waiting for permission. So I part my lips, my way of sayingyes, kiss me more, and swipe my tongue along his, slow and delicate, soaking him in. We communicate that way, an unspoken understanding, a silent language of our connection.
Mini promises being passed between us—of a future filled with passion and desire:
