Page 9 of Serving Bunt

Alien-fucking, only one bed left at the inn, “take that dick like a good girl” Wonderland.

Hell, just last night, I had finished an audiobook about a gay minotaur railing his mailman at the local aquatic center. That had made for some weird fucking dreams, emphasis on the fucking.

“Mo insisted on being fashionably late. Wouldn’t get out of the truck until I promised her a trip to the fountain later.”

Clarke giggled. “I can’t blame her. It’s hotter than blue blazes out there.”

I arched a brow. “Careful, Clarke Bar. Your Southern belle is showing.”

“Says the farm boy from ‘Bama,” she fired back without missing a beat.

Laughter shook my chest.

When I’d first been drafted by the Roasters two-and-a-half years ago, I’d figured I’d be the odd guy out. The rookie with a twang that rivaled Dolly Parton’s, who still said yes, ma’am without thinking. I sure as hell hadn’t expected to stumble across another Southern transplant, let alone a debutante who looked like a curvy Princess Peach.

And even though I had given Soren a lot of shit when they’d first gotten together, Clarke was just as much a part of the team as the rest of the guys. Same with Dani, who had gone and married Coach Ward earlier in the season.

Apparently, love was contagious in the Roasters’ locker room.

“Y’all really transformed this place,” I told Clarke, taking in the setup.

Dani appeared at her side, her electric-blue hair falling in messy waves around her face. “Somebody had to. This room normally looks like a sad church basement.”

Clarke nodded. “And smells like a moldy shoe.”

That was our social media dynamic duo for you. Whereas Clarke was soft curves, Dani was sharp edges wrapped up in a petite package. Tattoos curled down her neck and bare arms, disappearing beneath her cropped top. A small hoop pierced her eyebrow, catching the light whenever she tilted her head.

“You’re up after Diaz finishes this set,” Dani said, glancing at her clipboard. “Hair and makeup’s ready when you are.”

I nodded, but my eyes had already found him.

Lord have mercy.

There he was. Peter Diaz.

Smiling, shirtless, and covered in puppies—a queer boy’s wet dream.

His bronze skin gleamed under the softboxes like he’d been oiled for the shot, every ridge and dip of muscle catching the light just right.

Forget herding puppies. Who did a guy have to fuck to get a job lubing up professional athletes before photoshoots?

Well, maybe just one specific athlete.

My eyes skimmed across his chest and down his well-defined abs. His uniform pants were slung low enough to show off the dark trail of hair leading away from his bellybutton and toward his waistband, like an arrow pointing straight toward trouble.

In fact, everything about Peter Diaz screamed trouble. The kind that made good Southern boys like me forget their manners and start thinking with their dicks instead of their heads.

Speaking of dicks . . .

The shape of his was unmistakable even through the soft cotton of his pants. It curved slightly to the left, pressing against his thigh in a way that made the material tent just enough to be borderline obscene. Every time he shifted his weight, it moved like it had a mind of its own.

And then there were the puppies.

The only thing hotter than baseball pants stretched across a tight ass—male or female, I wasn’t picky—was baseball pants stretched across a tight ass surrounded by puppies.

He had one arm wrapped around a cream-colored lab while the other cradled a hound mix close to his chin. He belted out a laugh when the lab mix tried to climb his shoulder, and the sound made my mouth go dry.

Hot damn.