Page 78

Then we’re forever bound to someone we can no longer stand. Or worse, I’ll lose them both.

“Take your clothes off,” I whisper. The door behind us is closed, but I leave Dean’s lap long enough to make sure it’s locked.

When I turn back, he’s pulling off his shorts, exposing every lamp-lit inch of himself. His clothes land in a puddle on the floor, but I’m busy taking in his chest, his abs, which are expanding and contracting with the force of his breath.

“What do you want me to do?” He practically pants the question.

“Over on the bed.” I point to the hulking four-poster thing covered in far too many blankets for a Florida bed-and-breakfast.

“You want to wreck their fancy guest bed?”

“You think Adam and Troy haven’t fucked their new boyfriend in every room of this house? I promise you, they’ll understand.”

He shrugs and climbs on and lays himself out, for once with enough room to stretch his legs out. “This is nice,” he murmurs. “Lots of room.”

“You need a bigger bed.”

He shakes his head. “You’ve mentioned. But it wouldn’t fit in my room.”

It would fit if they moved in with me. My apartment upstairs from theirs has more square footage. Or if we all moved somewhere bigger.

Not that I’m about to start that conversation here. Instead, I pull a condom and a pack of lube from my wallet, stripping off my clothes as I make my way over to him.

He stares at me intently when I push his legs apart. As I coat my fingers in lube, sliding one finger and then two into him.

“Would you—” He bites down on his lip.

“Tell me what you want, Dean.” I’d swear there’s a blush rising to his cheeks.

“Whenever I thought about you fucking me, it was rough. Hard. Like when I wake up at night, only…you know. More.”

He thought about me fucking him? I always figured, but it’s not something we’ve discussed. “Is that what you want?”

The lamp’s glow makes a halo of his blond hair when he ducks his head. “Maybe.”

“Yes or no? Say what you want, Dean.”

“Fine. Yes.” He meets my gaze. “It’s what I want. It’s what I’ve always wanted. The other stuff is nice, but…”

“Not scratching the itch?”

“No, it’s great. It’s just⁠—”

“Dean.”

“It’s a different itch.” The words come out so fast they almost run together.

“All right.” He wants it hard and fast? I can give him that. It’ll give me something else to focus on, so I don’t let any stupid words slip out like “love” or “mine.”

I roll the condom on and line myself up, pushing inside him fast. Insistently. Steadily. His breathy gasps and moans fill the air. The hiss of discomfort that he tries to cover but can’t is practically oxygen.

“Love the way you sound when I’m inside you.” Wasn’t I just telling myself not to use the L word?

“Just think…” he gasps as I pull out, brushing over his spot. “Could’ve been doing it…this whole time.”

My answer to that is to thrust harder. Pull out quicker. Make him wait a little too long before I push inside again.

I set a punishing pace because he’s right, and he’s wrong. Because I don’t think either of us was ready before. Not sure I’m ready now. But I’m tired of pretending.