Maybe I need a trophy for resistance.

  Except . . . I still want to tell him.

  Is he out on a date? The idea horrifies me.

  Is he home alone? The thought thrills me.

  As I cover the first two blocks on Post Street, I fiddle with my phone, picturing Jason at his house. On his couch. Thinking about me too.

  My chest absolutely aches.

  “Fuck,” I mutter. I’m failing miserably at making it through the day.

  I glance around at my surroundings, trying to get my bearings, to root myself in the present. I pass Hotel Kabuki. I reach Bush Street. I stop at the light. I hit the crosswalk sign.

  But do I want to cross or turn around?

  My heart beats faster. I can go home, shut the door, and lock myself in for the evening.

  Instead, I walk on, click open my text messages, and write to Jason.

  * * *

  Beck: I didn’t get a car today.

  * * *

  It’s a conversation starter, that’s all, and the second I send it, I’m scared he won’t write back. But he responds in less than a minute.

  * * *

  Jason: Good to hear from you too, Mister Random Message. If you didn’t get a car, what did you do today after the photo shoot?

  * * *

  Tried to resist telling you everything.

  * * *

  Beck: Helped my landlady with her bird feeders.

  * * *

  Jason: Who’s the nice guy now?

  * * *

  Beck: I told you how I feel about nice.

  * * *

  Jason: Yes, in your usual roundabout way.

  * * *

  Beck: I can be direct.

  * * *

  Jason: Can you?

  * * *

  Beck: Do you want me to be?

  * * *

  Jason: Sure. Try me.

  * * *

  Fear climbs the stairs in my chest. The fear that he’ll reject me. I type out the question I most want to ask and hit send.

  * * *

  Beck: What are you doing now?

  * * *

  His response is instant. And it makes my bones hum.

  * * *

  Jason: Hanging out at my house with Taco. Doing a word game.

  * * *

  Beck: You do word games?

  * * *

  Jason: This surprises you?

  * * *

  Beck: I thought you’d be watching a show.

  * * *

  Jason: You spying on me?

  * * *

  Beck: NO!

  * * *

  Jason: Damn. I was looking out my window, thinking the broody guy walking by was you.

  * * *

  My breath catches. I stop in my tracks at a street corner, chest heaving with possibility. Thinking or hoping? is what I want to write. Instead, I reply with . . .

  * * *

  Beck: It’s not me.

  * * *

  Jason: Too bad . . .

  * * *

  Desire shoves my nerves to the back of the line. I walk, and I walk, and I walk. Ten minutes later, I turn onto his block, powered by adrenaline.

  I finally reply.

  * * *

  Beck: Actually, it is me now.

  * * *

  Then I walk up his steps and knock on his door.

  16

  Kings of the Couch

  Beck

  * * *

  Jason’s not dressed in blue tonight. A gray T-shirt hugs his chest, and basketball shorts sit on his trim waist. The ends of his hair are wet.

  My heart squeezes hard as I drink him in. He stands in his doorway, barefoot, freshly showered.

  I hunt for signs that I’m not a fool for showing up.

  There’s curiosity in his blue eyes, but uncertainty too. He doesn’t glance down the front stairs, though, or furtively check the block left and right. He’s not freaked out I’m here. That has to be a good sign.

  “Hey,” I say.

  “Hey,” he replies. “So, you meant it when you said you’d surprise me at my house some night.”

  My throat goes dry. I hope he’s not pissed. “I can go,” I say.

  He jerks his gaze into the house, an invitation. There’s a hint of a smile on his lips.

  Good. I’m not a stalker.

  Well, not completely.

  He steps inside, and when I follow him, the buzz in my body kicks up a few more notches.

  I’ve gained entry, and I’m a little high from this small accomplishment.

  Jason shuts the door with a snick. The noise thrills me more than a sound should. It’s the sound of the world outside winking off and my world narrowing to only us in his home.

  “Nice hat,” he says, nodding at my purple cap.

  I take it off and set it on a table in the entryway. “Carter gave it to me. He didn’t want me to be recognized.”

  “Does he know you’re at my house?”

  I cut that notion off with a quick No. Then I add, “We had dinner.” I can’t quite believe I’m here again, so I glance around, noting his couch, the TV, and the shelves. Everything is just like last time. I’ve wanted to return to his home since the first time I set foot in here. But Jason deserves an explanation for my late-night visit, and I’ve been all over the place with answers.

  I lock eyes with him and try to give a coherent answer this time. “I had dinner with him just now, and afterward, I told him I was walking home. He said to wear this so I wouldn’t be recognized.”

  “Ah, so Seductive hats are disguises. Got it.”

  “But I didn’t go home,” I add, stating the obvious, taking another step closer to my confession.

  “I can tell.” He points to the kitchen, then claps my shoulder. “Want a drink?”

  My skin sizzles when he lets go.

  “So much,” I say, then follow him into the kitchen, where he yanks open the fridge.

  “Beer,” I say preemptively. “Or wine. Or vodka. Or gin. I don’t care.”

  He turns to face me, lifting a brow. “You want to get wasted, Caff?”

  “Wait. No, actually. I don’t want a drink.” I should be sober for this. Stone cold.

  He shuts the fridge and turns around. His smile vanishes. “You okay?”

  I count to four. Breathe in, breathe out. “Remember the night I was here last year?”

  His expression shifts to surprise. Or maybe caught way off guard. “Yes. Of course.”

  I can do this. I asked to kiss him that first time. Hell, I kissed him again in the stairwell. I walked over to his home at night. “You’re the first guy I ever messed around with,” I admit.

  Wow, that’s a massive relief.

  “Oh.” His tone is unsure, and here comes a whole new awkward explanation.

  I speed up the info dump. “I’ve known I liked both guys and girls since college, but I had a girlfriend for a long time. When we broke up after college, I went out on a few dates with guys but never clicked with anyone. I never did anything more than kiss a guy,” I say, taking a breath to draw up more courage. But fuck it, I’m this far in. “Until you. And I can’t stop thinking about you. I can’t stop thinking about all the things I want with you. I just want . . .”

  I just want everything.

  But I don’t have to finish the thought. With strong hands, Jason pushes me against the kitchen island. I’m so ready for another rough and hungry kiss.

  He clasps my face firmly and drops his lips to mine.

  Thank god.

  Only this time, he’s not fast. He’s not rough. He kisses me soft, and slow, and tender, and I want to die because it’s so good.

  I had no idea a kiss could make me feel like my bones were melting. This one might be even better than his hard and rough kisses. I go weak in the fucking knees as he explores my mouth with slow, hungry licks. “Mmm, your lips,” he murmurs against me.

  How is this weightless feeling possible? I’m floating above the earth as he sweeps his tongue along the seam of my lips, opens me up, then deepens the kiss.

  Sensations whip through me—lust and need and heat. They jostle each other in a mad frenzy.

  I want to feel everything.

  And a part of me is raring to charge past this kiss, grapple with his clothes, strip him naked, and devour him in seconds.

  I want to get off. I want to get him off.

  But I can’t sprint ahead. He won’t let me. Jason’s got me caged in, his hands holding my face as mine grip his hips. There’s an inch between us. Maybe.

  He doesn’t let go of me, and the longer he goes on bestowing drugging kisses on my lips, the less I want to speed ahead into sex.

  The more I want . . . whatever he’ll give me. Whatever he’ll show me.

  Because he’s definitely showing me right now how to kiss the man you can’t stop thinking about.

  It’s a masterclass, and he’s taking me through it lesson by lesson. He’s breaking me down with devastating kisses. A soft one on the corner of my lips. A firm press to my mouth. A flick of his tongue over mine. Then he travels along my jaw, kissing under it, his lips sliding along my stubble.

  It’s unbelievable.

  I moan—for days, it seems. Maybe I’ve been moaning the whole time. I’m intoxicated by him as he kisses under my chin, along my neck, up to my jawline. He licks the shell of my ear, and my entire body jumps.

  “Ahhh,” I murmur.

  I can feel him smile against me.

  Then I can feel how much he wants me when he pushes his pelvis flush to me at last.

  Yessss.

  There’s no more space between us. There’s only his hard-on rubbing against mine.

  He draws my earlobe into his mouth, bites down, then releases it with a long, low mmmm. I groan in an endless rumble. I don’t think I can stop making all these noises.

  Jason pulls back and meets my gaze. Those blue eyes glimmer. “What are these things you’re thinking, Caff?”

  I see the chance, and I grab it. “Can I get you naked and suck your cock?”

  With dirty deeds in his eyes, Jason reaches back to take my right hand from his hip and then slides my palm to the outline of his cock.

  “God,” I grunt as I feel the shape of him, the steel of him.

  “This what you want?”

  My mouth waters, and I nod savagely. “Yes.”

  He hums, low and husky in his throat. He grips my hand tighter, so I can squeeze his dick harder.

  I can’t wait anymore. I try to drop to my knees, but he stops me with a laugh and a hand on my waist.

  “What?” I ask, worried I messed up already.

  “Let me enjoy you,” he says. “Let me feel like a fucking king when you get down on your knees and suck me off.”

  On that mic drop, Jason leaves the kitchen, walks through the wide doorway to the living room, then weaves around to his couch.

  He doesn’t even look back at me. He just sinks onto the cushions. The blinds are down. No one can see us. But someone might be able to see the outline of my back or the silhouette of his head.

  And I don’t care.

  I follow him, and when I reach him, he lifts his face, gives me a cocky smile, then says, “You want me to tell you how I like a blow job?”

  Fuck yes. “Thank you,” I blurt out.

  He laughs. “For what?”

  “For knowing I was going to ask you to . . . well, to show me,” I say, standing in front of him, drinking him in, unsure where to start, when a flurry of black and white fur skids into the room and then leaps onto the back of the couch.

  “Meow!”

  The cat struts along the furniture, and I crack up. Jason rolls his eyes, then turns his face to the critter. “Dude, you better watch it, or I’m gonna rename you CockBlocker.”

  Taco sashays past Jason’s head, jumps to the cushions, and stalks over to me, reaching out a paw to touch my leg. “Um, your cat has a thing for me,” I say, bending to pet Taco’s head.

  A loud purr emanates from the feline. Jason sighs, aggrieved. “You’re killing me, CockBlocker,” he says to the animal. Then, to me, “Aren’t you like a cat trainer? Can’t you train him to let me have my dick sucked in peace? There’s fresh catnip on the table if you need it.”

  “Pretty sure I’ve got his number without the ’nip,” I say, then scoop up the cat, stroke his head a few times, and murmur sweet nothings as I carry him to the other side of the couch. Cradling the cat in one arm, I arrange a pillow as a bed and set him on it. “There you go, King CockBlocker.”

  The cat curls up in a tight ball and closes his eyes.

  Then I return to the man. “He just wants to be treated like royalty too.”

  Jason’s done with cat talk, though. His blue eyes flicker with heat. “C’mere.”

  Never has one mushed-together word made me so hot. So wanted.

  Jason offers me a hand. I take it, and he tugs me down to his lap. I straddle him, waiting for a cue.

  “First, I need to see what you’ve been hiding, Beck,” he rumbles.

  My brow knits. I’m an open book right now. “What do you mean?” My voice wobbles.

  He grabs at my button-down. “I saw some ink on you earlier.”

  “Oh,” I say with a smile as he undoes the buttons on my shirt, then pushes it off.

  “It got me hot,” he adds. Then he groans as he runs his fingers along the sunburst on my right shoulder, then over the griffin on my pec, then across a lotus flower gracing the top of my biceps. “Mmm,” he murmurs, but he doesn’t ask what they mean, and I’m grateful.

  I don’t want to talk about the symbols on my body. I want to deal with the feelings inside my body.

  “Take off my shirt now,” he instructs.

  That’s another thing I’m grateful for. His instructions. “I’m very good at following orders,” I say as I tug at the hem of his T-shirt.

  He sits up taller, giving me room to pull it off him. “I know you are, nine,” he says, using my number and making me smile in the middle of all this unbelievable heat.

  I pull the shirt over his head, then toss it to the floor, and holy fuck. I catch my breath and stare shamelessly at his chest, his abs, his arms.

  “You’re so . . .” But I’m having such a hard time saying the right words. Beautiful, sexy, hot.

  He threads a hand through my hair. “So are you, Beck,” he says, answering my unspoken praise.

  Jason makes me feel so good about my lack of experience in the bedroom. He makes it easy to say the next thing: “I want to know what turns you on.”

  “Men who know what they want,” he answers confidently. “A man who shows up at my house on a Monday night and lays it on the line. That’s what turns me on.”

  Now there are two of us who feel like kings. I catch a glimpse of the cat out of the corner of my eye. Make that three.

  Still . . .

  “But I want to know what you like. I really don’t want to fuck this up,” I confess as I roam my hands over his firm pecs and shoulders.

  I need to touch him everywhere.

  He grabs my wrist, stopping my crude journey across his body and looking me in the eyes. “Do you trust me?”

  The answer flies from my tongue. “Completely.”

  He leans closer and brings his lips to mine. “I’ve got you,” he says, then he takes my hand and presses it to his cock again, but he’s specific this time. He slides my fingers over the fabric of his shorts, outlining the head. There’s a wet spot.

  “My dick is leaking, Beck,” he says, in a barren confession that makes my balls tighten. “Now, get down on the floor, and slowly, really slowly, like you’re fucking torturing me, take my clothes off.”

  Grinning like I won a game, I slide off his legs and then down to the floor, staring up at the beautiful man in front of me. He lifts his hips, making it easy for me. “Just the shorts,” he rasps out.

  I tug on the waistband and pull them down over his muscular thighs inch by inch, then to his ankles. He kicks them off.

  I laugh when I see what he’s wearing. Blue boxer briefs. “Did you . . .?”

  He lifts a brow playfully. “Did I what, Beck? Say it.”

  I don’t want to be presumptuous, but he’s giving me a big clue. I press a hand to his erection, gripping him through the light blue fabric, squeezing.

  “Ahhh,” he groans, his eyes floating closed for a few seconds.

  That’s all the encouragement I need to finish the question: “Did you wear these for me?”

  He opens his eyes and nods. “When you started texting me, I changed into blue briefs. What can I say? I was hopeful.”

  I drop my face to his dick, mouthing at his cock through the fabric, rubbing my cheek against his erection, kissing him through the last layer of his clothes.

  Fire erupts in me, an instant blaze, as I tease him with my mouth.

  His fingers slide through my hair, tightening around the strands. He urges me on with his noises. Soon, he’s panting, then begging, “Fuck, Beck. Take them off.”

  I reach for the waistband, then slide down the briefs. His dick springs free, slapping against his stomach, hard and proud.