“I had to delete your number so I wouldn’t give in and call you,” I admit.

  He stares at me, then looks out the window at the city, as if watching lights and cars helps him understand people. “We both have our coping mechanisms. I keep things to myself. Protection, I suppose,” he says.

  I take some comfort from him admitting his MO. “Olivia knows the true story. So does my brother—I told him recently about you. But why are you sharing this now?”

  He turns back to me. His eyes are vulnerable as if he’s gearing up to say something hard—maybe the reason he told the story in the first place. “Some of my friends are going to be in Vegas. Jason, and Luke too. Luke is the second-string quarterback with the New York Leopards. They want to hang out with us,” he says.

  Is he asking if we can pull off the pretend boyfriend ruse in front of his friends?

  Except, my gut says that’s not the question. Even though it terrifies me, I go out on a limb. “Do you want them to know the score? The real score?”

  TJ pulls his shoulders back, nodding with conviction. “I don’t want it to feel like we’re faking it for them. I want them to know who you are to me.”

  Holy shit.

  I was dead wrong. And I’m so fucking happy, my heart thunders. This is what happens with us—we try to be sensible and slow, but we go too fast. And I don’t care because fast feels so damn good when he says things like that.

  “So, let’s have another real secret date. This time with your friends. We can all get dinner somewhere,” I say to him.

  His lips curve up. “Yeah?”

  “Yes. I can’t wait to meet them,” I say.

  I’ve never seen such a sexy smile on TJ outside of the bedroom, such a satisfied grin. I want to keep it there. As we turn onto the Strip, the hotels electrifying the night, he deals me another scorching kiss in the back of a car. If only I could find a way to speed up time and get to our suite straightaway.

  When the car pulls into the portico of the opulent black-and-white hotel, I’m this close to getting my wish. The doorman grandly sweeps open the door, the line at the VIP check-in is blissfully short, and the clerk is the picture of efficiency.

  It’s a bang-up night so far. We make our way to the elevators, and this hotel is already putting me in the mood. “I’m picturing a king-size bed, a TJ Hardman-approved sex playlist, and a glass of champagne,” I say, then whisper seductively, “It’s low in carbs.”

  “Then you should drink it off my dick. I’m equally low-carb,” he says, adding a dirty smile.

  “One cocktail, coming right up,” I say with a throaty purr when my phone buzzes and his beeps.

  That can only mean . . .

  “Slade is probably sending us his rules of the road,” I say.

  We stop, whip out our mobiles. A group text reads: Hope you enjoyed flying in comfort! I’ll be sending your instructions in the morning. A couple of interviews and then a fantastic AF plan for the final week.

  Talk about a mood shift. If there’s anything to send two guys into a quick funk, it’s the last two words of this note. Final week sits heavily in my gut.

  “That’s . . . foreboding,” I say.

  With a wince, TJ nods. Then, like he’s erasing the note, he flashes me a bright smile. “But we don’t have to deal with his orders tonight.”

  We resume our path through the casino to the elevators, when I hear someone call out to us.

  “Yo.”

  Malcolm Mann is here.

  22

  Allyship and Manners

  Jude

  * * *

  I cringe at Malcolm’s greeting. Yo is the worst word in the English language—worse even than moist and pucker.

  TJ and I stop near a blackjack table, and the beefy man catches up to us.

  “Hey,” TJ says to him.

  “Is this luck or what?” Malcolm booms, the cha-ching of slot machine payouts ringing behind him, classy jazz music playing overhead.

  TJ slaps on a smile. “I guess it is my lucky night. How are you?”

  “I am most excellent. I should have known you two would be here in Vegas,” Malcolm says, pointing to us.

  “Why’s that?” TJ asks, brow knit.

  “Well, you don’t post jack-shit on your social about your private life, TJ, but I’m a bit of a Sam Spade. I figured with Stone’s concert being the it event, I might see you here. Same team and all.”

  “Yeah, we queer men love Stone,” TJ says, and I can hear the eye-roll in his voice.

  “Hey, us straights do too,” Malcolm says, patting his barrel-like chest. “The love is universal.” Then he turns to me and holds his arms out wide. “Bring it in.”

  Oh. We embrace, us queers and straights? I give him the quickest of hugs, then he steps back and shakes a finger at TJ. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were avoiding me.”

  TJ offers an apologetic smile. “I got a little lost in the writing cave this last week. You know how it goes now.”

  “Don’t I ever, buddy,” Malcolm says as if he and TJ were cut from the same cloth when TJ is fine silk, and Malcolm is scratchy polyester. “When the writing is flowing, it’s like a frigging faucet, right?”

  “A geyser. Can’t turn it off for anything,” TJ says, and it’s sexy the way he’s handling this douche with aplomb.

  “I hear ya.” Malcolm waves toward the nearby card tables. “But maybe we can have that drink right now. Play some poker. Talk shop. I’ve been dying to pick your brain about the whole biz.”

  TJ glances at his carry-on luggage, then mine. “I wish,” he says, sounding legit disappointed. “We just got here.”

  “Oh right. Shit. Of course. Long flight. You probably want to get to your room, and yada yada yada,” he says, then he squares his shoulders. “See? I’m working on my allyship.”

  I’m pretty sure that’s not how allyship works, but I shut my mouth. Even though I want to say Why yes, Malcolm, I have plans to strip TJ naked. Put my tongue all over his body. Maybe even up his ass. How do you feel about allyship now?

  “Cool. Let me know if you need any pointers,” TJ says, thoroughly deadpan, and I rein in a laugh. “But we can have that drink on Saturday.”

  “Sweet. Let’s grab a beer before the show.”

  “Sure. DM me,” TJ says, then gazes longingly toward the sleek elevator banks just out of reach.

  Malcolm shakes his head. “Nope. Not falling for that, DM me. Pick a time now.”

  Wow. He has a way to go on both allyship and basic manners.

  “Okay, how about . . .” TJ pauses, and I can tell he’s trying to work out an hour that won’t overcommit him.

  “The show’s at eight,” I say in my most polite voice, eager to ferry TJ away from this guy. “How about a seven fifteen cocktail? We have plans in the afternoon.”

  “Sure. Seven fifteen is good,” Malcolm says. “Speakeasy at The Extravagant work for ya?”

  “It’s on my calendar,” TJ says. Then we say our goodbyes, and Malcolm heads through the casino.

  Once he’s far enough away, I turn to my companion. “I’m so sorry I ever suggested you say yes to drinks with him. If I blow you, will you forgive me?”

  “Contrition costs three blow jobs,” TJ says.

  “I’m ready to pay.”

  As we head to the elevator, he sighs heavily. “I know I could say no to him, but I don’t trust that guy, and I’d rather know the enemy. Plus, he was a world-class jackass to Hazel online, and he knows we’re tight, so I’m going for intel.”

  My heart thumps a little harder when I hear his reasoning. “You’re a good friend,” I say, then I glance down at my shirt. It reeks of Axe Body Spray. “Though, I do feel like I need a shower after that interaction.”

  “You and me both.”

  That’s an excellent idea.

  23

  Ping-Pong Table Sword Fighting

  Jude

  * * *

  This suite is the shit. Plush living room, a fully stocked bar, and a bathroom the size of my New York apartment. Plus, the shower is tops.

  TJ and I get clean together, washing off the flight. Once we’re dry, he tugs on basketball shorts, and I pull on black boxer briefs with banana illustrations on them. We head to the living room, where he tells me he’s making a reservation at a sushi place for Saturday night.

  He holds up his phone. A mouth-watering piece of mackerel sashays across the screen. “This place in The Extravagant has private rooms, so I’m going to book one. Jason will be here. Luke, too, from the Leopards. And Christian Laird is also here for the concert. You cool with him joining us?”

  So much cooler than I was a week ago. “Sounds like a who’s who of queer sports stars and actors.”

  He laughs. “Pretty much.”

  “Sounds like my kind of dinner party. And Christian is perfectly fine. Anyone but the Man’s Man is welcome,” I say as I pad over to the floor-to-ceiling windows, checking out the bright lights of the city spread out below us, an invitation to revel in the night.

  I plan to, Vegas.

  “Done. I made the reservation and texted the guys,” TJ announces. I turn from the window as he sets his mobile on the bar, then grabs a bottle of champagne and pours.

  I meet him in the middle of the living room, in front of the couch, where he hands me a flute. “To your absolution,” he says.

  I give him a crooked grin. “And it’ll be more than . . . lip service.”

  “It better be a full-service lip service,” he says.

  As he swallows some champagne, I stare, watching his Adam’s apple move. I never imagined taking a drink could be so sexy or that it was possible to be this attracted to someone. It’s a little terrifying to want so intensely. The closer I get to him physically, the closer I feel emotionally. I worry about us going too fast and imploding before the job is done.

  Before the final week.

  But I can’t seem to find the will to slow down. I drink some of the bubbly then set it down on the coffee table as we sink onto the couch together. TJ stretches an arm around me, tracing lazy, luscious lines on my shoulder. “You know that ping-pong scene I worked on today?”

  Wherever his question is leading, it sounds like someplace I want to be. “I know of it,” I tease.

  “It wasn’t just a friend scene,” he says.

  I sense he’s offering me a bit of himself that he’s guarded until now, and my ears perk up. “What was it?”

  “Their first sexy scene.” He reaches for my hips, pulls me onto his lap.

  Opening up about his story gives me a double boner—I’ve got a brain one and a dick one. The latter’s getting bigger as I straddle him. “And what did your guys do?”

  His hand coasts up my back. “Your favorite thing,” he whispers.

  I grind my dick against his hard-on.

  His dirty smile says you know it.

  I have so many questions about what he wrote, but top among them is his tunnel vision. “Wait—is that what you were doing on the flight?”

  “It was.” He sounds devilishly pleased.

  “You mean while I was reading my script, then listening to a memoir, then snoozing for a bit, you were writing hot dick-on-dick action right next to me on the flight?”

  “Spoiler alert—they both got off at the end,” he stage-whispers, the cheeky bastard.

  I howl in delight. “I’m so fucking jealous of your characters.”

  TJ laughs as he runs his hands up and down my arms. “I’d never leave you hanging either, baby.”

  “I know that. But here’s what I don’t know,” I ask, lazily rocking my pelvis against his. “How did you write it and not haul me into the bathroom to join the mile-high club?”

  “A tremendous amount of discipline,” he says, amused. Then he raises a finger to make a point. “Also, the ping-pong table came in real handy in the scene.”

  When I connect the dots, I’m pretty sure I’ve hit the TJ jackpot. “Wait. They got it on at the ping-pong table? After they played ping-pong with their friends?”

  He nods, all sly and proud. “When their friends left, the heroes found other uses for the ping-pong table.”

  I mime, putting a medal around his neck. “I’m officially giving you an award for the Best Alternative Use of Sporting Equipment.”

  He gives a tiny bow of his head. “I humbly accept.”

  As we chat more about the mechanics of ping-pong table sword fighting, something clicks for me. Those uncomfortable feelings from earlier today? They’re not so uncomfortable anymore. Sure, a part of me wants to be his muse. But a bigger piece of me just wants to be let into his world. TJ and I bonded in the first place over the artistic impulse. Creativity connects us. Art is our vitamin.

  I want to share our passions. To talk about his stories and my scripts and our worlds.

  But right now, libido is in the driver’s seat. “Did it turn you on when you were writing? Did it get you hot?”

  He tugs on my hair, jerking my head back so he can lay a possessive kiss on my throat. “Is it hot when we rub off?”

  Fair point. “Everything we do is.”

  When he lets go of my hair, his gaze roams over me in a brand-new way—open and curious, like he’s contemplating his sex list. When he looks at me like this, I’m riled up and even more eager to please him than I usually am. Ever since he brought it up the other day, I can’t stop thinking about fucking him. I’ve got to talk about it. “That long list of things you want in bed?” I prompt.

  “Yeah?”

  “It’s been a long while since I’ve topped,” I confess.

  “We don’t have to change a thing if you don’t want to, Jude,” he says, then leans up, brushes his lips to mine.

  His kiss is tender, a permit to say I don’t want to top him. It’s lovely that he’s giving it, but I’m not sure I’ll accept. I rock my ass against the ridge of his erection, enjoying this position with clothes on, just as I’ve enjoyed it naked. “I really love when you fuck me. So much. But I want to do this for you. With you,” I add. Truly it’s both. “The thing is, I’m worried I can’t make it good for you,” I admit.

  He pulls back, startled. “Really? It’s hard for me to imagine not liking anything we do.”

  “Right, but it’s a lot of fucking responsibility to top,” I laugh, trying to downplay my feelings.

  “I get that,” he says thoughtfully. “But Jude?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Just because I have a list doesn’t mean we have to do it. Sex is in the head, and my head’s always in it with you. Any and every way I get to touch you is so damn good for me.”

  “I do want to. I’ve been a little obsessed since you mentioned it. I really get off on your pleasure.”

  “That’s what got me thinking about switching,” he says softly. “When we were in your dressing room at Pillow Talk, I was this close to asking you to drill me into the bed that night.” He seems so vulnerable as he looks down then back up to check my reaction.

  My heart goes up in flames.

  Oh hell.

  This is how I fall for him. Every time he opens up like this, my heart leaps into his hand. “What stopped you then?”

  He rolls his eyes. “My own stupid shit. I wanted to find the perfect moment.” He sketches air quotes. “And that’s why I told you in bed the other day. I have to stop waiting for perfect moments to say what’s on my mind. Especially because . . .” He slows to take a breath. “I’ve had a long time to think about bottoming.”

  “Since LA you mean?”

  He shakes his head, smiling slyly. “More like . . . my whole life. I’ve never bottomed before,” he adds, and he sounds nervous and excited.

  I need a moment to take in the enormity of that statement. He wants me to be his first. That’s . . . intense. “Why now? Were you just never into it before?”

  He blows out a breath then continues his confession. “Well, I didn’t have sex till college, so there’s that. And, this may shock you, but I’m also kind of a control freak,” he says, deadpan.

  “You are such a control freak,” I say, laughing.

  “Guilty as charged,” he says, then his smile evaporates. His eyes go serious. “And to answer your other question—why now? Because . . . it’s you. I really want to feel everything with you.”

  My heart rockets to the moon, and I have only one answer. “Then I’m going to top the fuck out of you,” I say, and I seal it with a declarative kiss.

  Topping him is a tall order, though, and I’m not ready for it tonight, so when I break the kiss, I say, “But would you be okay if we waited a little longer?”

  He pulls back. Then he clears his throat. “Of course.”

  Before he can retreat, I grab his face. “TJ, it’s not bad. It’s just . . . remember what we said in Pomander Walk? You and I go too fast. We don’t really have another speed. And this—this is big. I want to make it amazing for you. I want to take our time. I want it—don’t laugh–to be something special.”

  He’s stripped bare as he answers: “Same here.”

  “And I might also need to read up. Find a few articles on how to blow your man’s mind when you rail him for the first time,” I say.

  He smiles, easy and free. “I see you already don’t plan to go easy on me.”

  “Fuck no. I’m going to wreck you in Paris. Or London. Either place,” I say in a filthy promise.

  “Thanks for the warning.”

  “But I have to say, I’m a little floored. You’ve written first times so well, I thought it was from experience.”

  He laughs sweetly, then threads a hand through my hair. “Thank you. But it’s never about the ABCs. I’ve never been with a woman either, and I write those scenes in my straight romances.”

  “True, true. And you do write passionate straight sex,” I say.