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For one breathless second, I only stare at him. Then I splash back.

He shouts, delighted.

And the night becomes simple again.

Chapter twenty-seven

Morning Rise

Clint

Iwake up before the sun has fully committed. The room is gray-blue and quiet, the ceiling fan whispering overhead, the sheets twisted around one leg like I lost a fight in my sleep.

I stare at the ceiling and try not to think about last night, which means I think about nothing else.

Paul at the edge of the pool. Paul looking down like he was considering the same consequences I was pretending weren’t there. Paul’s shirt coming off. Me stealing glances because lying to myself is never a problem in the moment.

That’s the part I keep returning to, even when I try to shove it somewhere else.

I wanted to see if he would do it. I wanted him in the water with me—and not in some vague, friendly, two-guys-sharing-a-pool way.

I know that now. I probably knew it then.

You’re wearing underwear, right?

Jesus. So porny. Who says that?

I roll onto my side. The sheets drag across my skin, and my dick presses hard against my underwear.

“Don’t,” I mutter.

Very effective.

I close my eyes. It’s so quiet that I listen for signs of him in the next room. When I don’t hear any, my fucking brain fills in the gaps.

I see Paul surfacing, water sliding down his face, his laugh breaking open before he could hide it. Then the way he looked at me when I said it’s just our hands.

I was joking. Mostly. The problem with mostly is everything that gets to live outside of it.

I kick at the sheet until it comes loose from my leg. The movement only makes things worse. My body isn’t interested in compromise. It has reviewed the available evidence and reached a decision without me.

I roll onto my back again and grip the comforter until my knuckles ache. The pressure gives me something else to feel besides the memory of Paul in the pool.

I shove the thought away. It comes back.

Name it.

Curiosity. Performance. A joke. A body doing body things. Nothing that counts.

The names won’t stick. I’ve lost that control. Puerto Vallarta won’t allow it.

The cam room was control. HotnReddy could want things Clint didn’t have to explain. Could grin and tease and let men watch because watching wasn’t touching and typing wasn’t real. A camera is a box. A screen is a wall.

But maybe that was never the whole truth.

My stomach twists.

Still hard. Still thinking about Paul.