I can let myself have it a little longer.
I head to the shower, thinking to myself that it's Sunday, and I don't have any work that can't wait until tomorrow. So, I'm going to spend the day with Ryan and Tyler.
I finish my shower and take my time brushing my teeth, dragging the minty foam across every surface twice because I'm in no particular rush this morning. When I pad back into the bedroom section of my master suite, towel draped over my shoulders, I stop short.
The bed is empty.
Ryan's gone. Fucker's gone. The sheets are rumpled, the pillow still bearing the indentation where Ryan's head had been, but the warmth has already seeped out of the cotton, leaving nothing behind but the ghost of what was there.
I stand there longer than I should, staring at the vacant space, and I hate that it bothers me. I hate the hollow sensation that opens up in my chest, the way my eyes keep drifting to the spot where his thigh had been draped over me an hour ago. It's pathetic, really. I shouldn't need him there. I shouldn't want him there.
But I do.
I shake it off and drop the towel, grabbing a pair of silky gray casual pants from the drawer and stepping into them commando. I'll put on proper clothes later, but for now, this works. The fabric slides against my skin, cool and smooth, as I make my way down the hall toward the main living area.
I round the corner and freeze.
Ryan is standing in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows, silhouetted against the morning light spilling over downtown Phoenix. He's holding his coffee cup with both hands, bringing it to his mouth like a kid with hot chocolate on a snow day. Except this is no kid. The muscles in his arms ripple with the movement, broad shoulders tapering down to a sinful waist, and those legs. God, those legs.
But it's what he's wearing—or rather, what he's not wearing—that roots me to the spot.
A skull cap. That's it for coverage up top. And below, a pair of grayish-green shorts that can only be described as barely there. The material is stretched so tight across his ass it has the bottom hem cutting high enough that his cheeks are quite literally spilling out. Two perfect handfuls of muscle and flesh are defying gravity and decency. The fabric clings to his thighs, his hips, every ridge and valley of his lower body on obscene display.
I feel the blood rush south before I can stop it, my cock twitching against the silk of my pants.
Alexa, define unnnnngh.
I shift my weight, trying to get my body under control, and clear my throat. “Cute outfit, Ry.”
I mean, seriously. Who wears a skull cap indoors? It's November, sure, and Phoenix has finally cooled off enough to justify winter accessories, but the condo has heat. Central heating. A functioning HVAC system. There's no logical reason for that skull cap except that Ryan knows exactly what it will do to me.
He turns around, and the smile he hits me with is beyond bright. It's nearly devastating.
So, so pretty.
“Yea?” he asks, voice rough with sleep and coffee. “You like?”
I nod, because what else can I do? I'm only human. “You might want to move away from that window.”
He gives me that puzzled look, head tilted, dark blond eyebrows raised.
“Before this sector of downtown sees their favorite quarterback getting fucked up against it.”
His smile turns wicked. He pumps his brows, slow and deliberate, and then—because Ryan has never met an innuendo he wouldn't escalate—he drops one hand from his cup and adjusts himself. Even from here, I can see he's half-hard, the outline unmistakable against that absurdly tight fabric.
He walks over, stopping close enough that I can smell the coffee on his breath, the sleep still clinging to his skin. “Mornin', Perfect,” he murmurs, then leans in until his lips brush my ear. “You can fuck me wherever you want, whenever you want, however you want.”
His hand drops, finding my half-hard cock through the silk, and I suck in a sharp breath. His palm is warm, his grip firm, and I'm already leaking—have been since I saw him in those shorts—leaving a damp spot that's surely ruining the expensive fabric. He gives me one slow stroke, just enough to make my knees weak, then releases me and presses a kiss to my cheek.
“Go. Sit at the counter,” he says, casual as if he hadn't just turned my blood to lava. “I'll make your coffee before I get setup for a live.”
He pats my ass—pats it, like he owns it—and saunters intomykitchen like he's been doing it for years. Like it was always his to begin with.
I stand there for a moment, breathing through the arousal, the want, the dangerous warmth spreading through my chest. Then I force my feet to move.
He’s already got the kitchen island prepped for showtime. Ryan's iPad sits on his keyboard stand, angled toward the stove,and the counter near it is scattered with ingredients: eggs, flour, sugar, a carton of strawberries, and my eyes snag on a can of whipped cream.
I settle onto a stool and watch Ryan work the espresso machine I had installed when I bought this place. It's a ridiculous piece of equipment, all chrome and levers and Italian engineering, and he’s figured out how to use every feature on it.
