Carson leaned into him, their hips pressing together. Atticus sucked in a sharp breath when he felt the hard ridge of Carson’s cock pressed against him. His entire body reacted to the proximity, his muscles tensing, his cock throbbing.
“I don’t usually do this.”
“I think we’ve already established that,” Atticus retorted with a laugh.
“I’m talkin’ about comin’ on to someone I just met.”
“Well, if it’s any consolation, you’re pretty fucking good at it.”
He felt Carson’s smile against his lips. “I wanna take you home.”
“Let’s go th—”
“But if I do, I’m gonna fuck this up. I always do.” Carson pulled back, met his stare. All amusement was gone. “I don’t wanna fuck this up.”
Atticus honestly didn’t know what to say to that.
“Tell me I can see you again if I don’t take you home tonight.”
Atticus swallowed.
“If I can’t, I’ll gladly take you back to my house and fuck you until the sun comes up.”
Atticus shivered. “You realize it’s pretty damn difficult to resist a proposition like that, right?”
“If Ican, I’m gonna get your number, walk outta here, call an Uber, and go home to sleep it off.”
Shit.
Why the fuck did he have to meet the one guy who could proposition him with no sex and make it sound so damn appealing?
Carson stood up straight and pressed his hands down the front of his shirt to smooth it. “Which is it gonna be, Atticus?”
“Why don’t I drive you home, and I’ll decide on the way?”
Carson’s gaze bounced over his face. When he finally nodded, Atticus knew this man was going to be nearly impossible to resist.
Twenty minutes later, Atticus was trying to figure out if this was a test. If so, he knew he was going to fail.
He’d never been good at tests. Not in school or in life. He tended to let people down at every turn. Since Carson was hoping Atticus would make a decision that would result in them seeing each other again, Atticus figured he was going to let him down, too.
“You good over there?” Atticus asked, glancing at Carson, who was leaning against the window.
“Peachy,” he muttered.
Or maybe fate would intervene, and Atticus wouldn’t have to decide. There was a good chance Carson was going to pass out before Atticus pulled up to the guy’s house.
“Take a left.”
Atticus followed Carson’s direction into a neighborhood. It was one of many in Coyote Ridge, lined with older homes designed with brick fronts and wood siding on the sides. Some had driveways made of solid concrete slabs, some were designed with narrow strips meant as a path for tires, and the rest were dirt. There weren’t any of the new, two-story cookie-cutter houses in this area. Not like in the next town over, where they’d sprouted up in recent years based on the age of the trees. Or the lack thereof. Here in Carson’s neighborhood, the tree trunks were enormous, meaning they’d been there for a while.
“Up here. White house on the right.”
Atticus pulled into the single slab driveway of a little white house with black shutters and black iron railing around the front porch. The yard looked as though it had been mowed recently, the shrubs that lined the base of the structure had been trimmed. And the porch light glowed yellow by the front door.
There was a single-car detached garage set back farther than the house. A floodlight came on when Atticus stopped near the sidewalk leading up to the porch.
“Which is it gonna be?” Carson asked, tipping his hat up. “Your phone number? Or are you comin’ in?”
