Don’t do this.
Don’t spiral.
I glance down at my thigh. It’s still burning where his fingers were. And I hate it.At least he showed up, Stark,I tell myself.He didn’t leave you waiting. He showed up—and he opened your car door, not someone else’s.
Emotion tries to claw its way up my throat, but I shove it down. Still, my rules can stay firmly in place without the need to be a dick. I huff quietly. Besides, jocks flirt like that all the time with each other. I swear, their banter and horseplay is gayer than a pride parade on Cher’s birthday. That’s all it is.
Before I can spiral any further on the topic, Ryan lifts my arm and turns my wrist. “What’s this?” he asks, admiring my cufflink. The set I had custom made.
“It’s a cufflink, Ryan.”
“I know that,” he scoffs. “There’s a number twenty-two engraved on it. Does that number have special meaning?”
Shit. He would have to notice.
“It does. But I’m not telling you what it is.”
Ryan shoots me a slightly wounded look, but I’m saved as the car slows. I look up at a building that is now familiar to me. The home of the agency, the queer youth center, and Chance’s opening exhibit. The limo comes to a stop at the curb. Ryan moves immediately, reaching for the door handle on his side. I’m certain he’s about to circle around and open my door. I grab his arm. “Stay.”
Ryan freezes and looks at me, confused. He swallows, and I track it, my eyes dipping to his throat, watching the movement before I can give my dick the memo not to stir. I open my own door, stepping out onto the street. Then I turn, leaning down, extending my arm into the car. Using two fingers I beckon to him. “Come.”
He stares at me for a second, but he moves, and slides across the seat, taking my hand. His grip is warm. Solid. I pull himout onto the curb. He lands beside me, a grin already spreading across his gorgeous face.
I roll my eyes, dropping his hand. “Come on. Let’s get in there.” I start toward the entrance. “And put those dimples away.”
Behind me, I hear him scramble to catch up. “Wait,” he says, a laugh threading through his voice. “Is that a thing? Do my dimples make you weak?”
Just keep walking, Stark. Do not answer that.
Behind me, I hear the grin in his voice. “Oh, this is gonna be fun.” I close my eyes briefly as I push through the doors.
Fuck.
Sixteen
All I Want
Ryan
I can’t believe I did that back in the car.
Even now, walking into the exhibit with him at my side, my fingers still feel the solid heat of his thigh. The way his muscle flexed, just barely, like his body clocked me before his brain did.
Jesus.
That was ballsy, even for me. But I can’t seem to stop myself. Six months. Six months of side glances in mirrors, watching him in the gym, watching the way he moves—controlled, precise, like everything about him is deliberate. Six months of wanting. Of imagining what it would feel like to get my hands on him.
It was just a light touch, but my entire body ignited like someone struck a match inside my chest. I swallow, forcing my shoulders loose as we step further into the space. I hate that I panicked. He pulled my hand away and I—what? Smiled it off. Made it a joke. Slipped right back into the safe version of me. The flirty jock. The guy who doesn’t mean anything by it.
I know it’s a defense mechanism. Always has been. But how the hell am I supposed to get him to make a move if I keep hiding every time it starts to get real? Because that’s the line we’re toeing, isn’t it? If he wants me—really wants me—I’ll meet him there. I’ll tell him the truth. I’ll trust him with it.
But I don’t know if I can be the one to say it first. Not without knowing. Not when everything could go up in flames if I guess wrong. What if he recoils? What if he laughs? What if he tells someone? I can’t risk that. So, I flirt. I push. I test.
And now…I’ve got new ammunition. My lips twitch as I glance at him out of the corner of my eye. Dimples are moving to front line offense, baby.
I huff a quiet breath and force myself out of my head, finally taking in the space around us. It’s perfect. They transformed the entire office. Neon accents everywhere. Vinyl records mounted like art. Blacklight details that make certain colors glow. There’s an ‘80s playlist humming through the speakers—synth-heavy, nostalgic as hell.
I shake my head, grinning to myself. Of course Chance would go all in like this. ‘80s music is such a big part of his and Anthony’s story. “Obsessed,” I mutter under my breath, amused. I spot our friends. “Hey,” I say, bumping my shoulder lightly into Spence’s and pointing. “Come on.”
