A minute later, we’re in his limo again. As soon as Barrett shuts the door, I apologize to Rafe.

  With deeds, not words.

  I climb onto his lap and kiss him. A little deep, a lot passionate. Then I slide off his lap, watching his expression. “Thanks for the ride.”

  A knowing flicker of mischief in his eyes acknowledges my apology. “Anytime.”

  We’re both quiet for a few minutes as the car cruises through the darkened city. I realize I don’t know if he meant mine or his when he said he’d take me home.

  I bite my lip to keep from saying, “Can I go home with you?” Someone who wants a relationship might ask that, but that’s not me. Besides, I made a bet with the guys, and I don’t want to cough up one hundred grand, even for charity.

  I made that bet figuring there was no chance in hell I’d lose. To lose, I’d have to fall, and that won’t happen.

  I turn to Rafe. “Do you need my—?”

  “I have a question for you.”

  We blink in sync, just like we’d started our questions, and that makes me laugh. He laughs too. It’s the first time I’ve seen him even slightly flustered. It’s fucking adorable, the crinkle around his eyes, the sweetness in his smile. And it’s a relief after my attempted getaway.

  Rafe gestures toward me. “You go first.”

  I shake my head. “No way. You.”

  He raises his chin, once more serious and polite. “Do you have a car at the ballpark?”

  I wither a little inside. I had hoped for an invitation to his home. Some ravenous, greedy part of me was craving another round with him. But I shrug that off, acting casual. “Nope. I took a Lyft.”

  “I’ll give you a ride to your home then.” After a pause, he asks, “Or would you prefer I not know your address? Is that the issue?” He says it gently, offering me that boundary as if it wouldn’t bother him in the least.

  Maybe nothing hurts him.

  Maybe he is made of steel—his cock and his heart.

  “No, it’s fine.” I’m overreacting—feeling too much, wanting too much, hoping for too much.

  Hope is a dangerous thing. Feral, really.

  I give him my address as if it barely matters, and the car heads that way. As we whoosh through each green light, the limo’s clock seems to tick louder. The end of the night is crashing into us.

  I’m acutely aware that I want another night with him. But I won’t ask for it.

  Rafe speaks next. “I have a proposal for you.” His voice is smooth and honeyed—in control.

  “Do you now?” I ask, intrigued.

  “Yes, I do.”

  “I’m listening.” Just stay cool. And in charge.

  He locks eyes with me. “I told you I don’t like lies. I told you, too, that I want to be honest. Can you handle it?”

  Somehow I don’t let on that I’m crawling up the walls inside my head. “Sure, I can handle it.”

  “I don’t do relationships. I’ve been hurt before. I won’t let that happen to me again,” he says.

  I growl, wanting to punch Lucas—or anyone who hurt Rafe. “Who is the jackass?” I ask, pretending I don’t know.

  Rafe gives a soft smile that fades quickly. “Doesn’t matter. Nothing matters except this.” He gestures from him to me.

  Suddenly, it’s like we’re in a cocoon of desire and pleasure. Of wants and wishes. Like nothing exists beyond these tinted windows.

  “I want to see you again,” he says. “So, I want to strike an arrangement with you.”

  23

  I WANT TO MAKE YOU AN OFFER

  Gunnar

  Rafe’s limo swings onto my block as he utters the word “arrangement.” I sit up straighter, eager to hear the deal he has in mind. But I also want to grab some control.

  The car stops at the curb, and I gesture to my quiet building. “There’s a sitting room in the lobby. Let’s go inside,” I say.

  “Sure.” Rafe nods and we exit the car together.

  I open the building’s door, head up the steps and punch in the key code, Rafe right behind me.

  The lobby is sleek chrome and white walls, coolly industrial and eerily quiet. A much safer setting than the too-sensual vibe of his limo.

  I claim a spot on the black couch that frames the lobby space, and Rafe sits next to me, but not too close. Business deal distance, I suppose. He’s focused and intense, so that fits.

  “I’m listening,” I tell him, and he nods.

  “Good. Because I want to make it worth your while. Gunnar, you are fascinating and full of the cockiest charm I’ve ever seen. It drives me crazy that you keep trying to walk away from me, especially since I know that’s not what you really want.”

  He’s not wrong. “If you say so,” I say, flirting.

  He growls. “I know so, Gunnar.”

  The man digs the chase, whatever he may say. Likes a little cat and mouse. He’s intrigued I don’t fall to my knees every time I see him. He may think he wants me to serve up my psyche on a silver platter, but he doesn’t want that all the time.

  Rafe is like a great game of baseball. The sport is best when you don’t know what’s coming and all you can do is react.

  “So then what do I want?” I counter. Let him spell it out.

  His eyes glimmer with heat and passion. “You want to feel wicked, mind-blowing pleasure. And I want to give it to you.”

  Yesssss.

  I like where this is headed.

  I peer around him in case anyone’s coming down the elevator. But the lobby remains silent. Only his words and mine fill the quiet.

  “Keep going,” I say. He is hitting all the right notes.

  “I want to make you writhe, and beg, and pant. I want to see how you look when you’re about to lose your mind. I want you to beg for my mouth, my fingers, my tongue, my cock, and anything else I want to use on you.”

  It takes all my willpower not to slide closer and crash into him. “I want that.” Three words are all I can muster.

  “I want to test your limits, and I want to take risks in public that thrill you more than you ever imagined.”

  Here. Right here. Where someone could come downstairs and see.

  “Why?” My voice wobbles with heat, with lust.

  He gives a sly, dirty bastard smile. “That’s what gets me off,” he explains, so simply, so elegantly. So like a polished, savvy businessman. That’s what this is—a business deal he’s striking.

  I do want him to test all my limits. I want to find them with him.

  “But you need to know something,” he says, his tone deadly serious.

  “Tell me. Whatever it is, I can handle it,” I say, hoping that’s true.

  “I can’t offer you anything else,” Rafe says, resigned but determined. His eyes are sad. “That is all that I have. I can be your lover, but I can’t be anything more.”

  I wince privately—which is silly. I’m not looking for someone to date. I’m busier than I’ve ever been in my life. “Yeah, that totally works for me too. Except for that family reunion I planned to invite you to,” I say with a fatalistic shrug. Sure, I’m putting up a wall, but it matches his.

  He doesn’t laugh but seems pleased with my answer. “Good. Then we agree. No strings. No falling in love. When this ends, it ends.”

  “And when will it end?” I ask.

  “Let’s give it a month,” he says.

  A thirty-day option.

  Well, I did ask.

  Tonight was the most relaxed time I’ve spent in ages. Learning about the man and chatting with him as we dined made for a truly enjoyable evening. I’d like to do it again, and his terms are clear. This affair can only be one thing—a tryst with an expiration date.

  But even though I want him, I won’t say yes tonight. I need to think about his terms. Make sure I’m not about to lose myself in him.

  So, I call up all my bravado and my best blasé shrug. “I’ll think about it when I’m in New York destroying the Comets.”

  Then I go to the door and open it, inviting him to leave and, in doing so, to wait for my answer.

  Coolly, Rafe strides across the lobby, stopping inches in front of me, studying me like a puzzle.

  “Let me convince you,” he says, then he crushes his lips to mine. The kiss is deep, passionate, and dizzying. I hold tight to the open door so I don’t fall over as he takes my return kisses and swallows them down. He breaks the kiss to stare at me fiercely. “I can’t bear the thought of anyone else touching you. I’ll be waiting for your yes.”

  With that, he slides his hands off me. He turns, takes the steps down to the street, and gets in his car. The stretch limo pulls away, and I realize Rafe managed to get the last word before he left.

  24

  THIS IS YOUR WARNING

  Gunnar

  In the morning, I don’t have an answer to Rafe’s proposal, but I have a message waiting for me in my inbox.

  I’m standing at the kitchen counter, eating scrambled eggs and checking my phone, and I spot the email the Dragons’ PR guy sent me. In it, Owen lays out details of the one-off sponsorship from Boyfriend Material. The dating app wants me to do a video on how to send a thirst trap.

  I smile as I read:

  As I’m sure this won’t surprise you at all, the picture you posted last week was quite popular. It generated a lot of conversation, and Boyfriend Material wants to partner with you. I sent the info to your agent, and I’ll let the two of you figure out if it’s right for you.

  But if you get a chance, I’d love to chat with you about this and something else, too. Can you meet me for a cup of coffee before the team plane takes off before our New York trip?

  Frowning, I read his note again. Owen is usually happy to get things done over email.

  Does he want to meet about this sponsorship deal or something else he’s not telling me yet? I’m curious as hell so I reply I’ll be there. I scroll through my email until I find one from my agent, Josh Summers, which spells out the finer details of the sponsorship. If I do a how-to video breaking down the style of my thirst traps, I’ve got a five-figure payday coming to me. Josh finishes the note: This seems right up your alley. Let me know what you think. As your agent and as your friend, I’d tell you to accept. But of course, it’s up to you.

  Fuck yeah, I’m accepting.

  Every little bit helps. You never know how long you’re going to be able to play ball. I need to make—and save—as much as I can.

  After breakfast, I lob in a quick call to my little sister, Jamie.

  She answers right away. “Hey, I’m on my way to class right now. But I had to take a call from the superstar,” she says, teasing.

  I roll my eyes, packing for New York while we chat. “I’m not a superstar.”

  “I’m glad you said that. If you’re not famous, I didn’t see that image of you in your underwear,” she says.

  “Don’t look at my Instagram. I’ve told you that, Jamie,” I chide.

  “I didn’t want to. Everyone was sharing it. Trust me, I averted my eyes,” she says.

  “Good. You’ve learned well,” I say. “How are your classes?”

  She rattles off what she’s studying in her pre-med courses, and her happy excitement is everything. I want to help her achieve her dreams, and if a picture of me in my skivvies can do that, I’ll keep snapping.

  When she reaches the building for her bio class, we wrap up our goodbyes.

  “Love you, kid,” I say.

  “Love you too,” she answers.

  I hang up and do my best to focus on business, baseball, and family. If I think too much about Rafe’s offer, I might become more obsessed with him than I already am. It’s a good thing I’m going away.

  After the last two nights—which felt like non-stop Rafe—I need some time apart from him to consider his offer.

  I weigh the pros and cons as I head to meet Owen. On the one hand, there’s my libido—my dick wants an extended ride on the Rafe coaster. But if the man takes up this much space in my mind now, what’s my head going to be like after thirty days as his lover?

  When I reach the coffee shop, I push Rafe and his arrangement out of my mind to concentrate on my meeting with Owen. We grab drinks and a table in the back. We chat a little about the game last night and the one coming up, and then I steer things to the reason we’re here.

  “So, what’s on your mind, O? Your note seemed unusually clandestine.”

  He laughs softly, then clears his throat, shifting his tone. “I want to tell you something as a friend. Someone with your best interests at heart.”

  This sounds serious. “What is it?”

  “I say this, too, as one queer man to another. I want you to be careful,” he says.

  I bristle. “What do you mean?”

  Wild thoughts race in my head, pinging between defensive and alarmed. He was at the stadium the other night. Did he walk past the suite when I was down on my knees?

  Owen swallows as if this is difficult for him to say. He might even be blushing. “I never want to police anyone’s after-hours activities. Whatever you like, you like. Your choices are your choices. I just don’t want to see you in a compromising position,” he says.

  I catch his drift. It’s two plus two, not higher math. “Are you saying you don’t want me to get caught with my pants down?”

  He laughs, sounding relieved. “Yeah, I am kind of saying that.”

  “And are you saying you know what I did the other night?”

  He holds up his hands in surrender. “No. But I know who the stationery came from. I know you went to Marlow’s suite afterward. And I think whatever you’re doing on your own time is entirely your business.” He blows out a breath. “I just don’t want to see an unscrupulous fan take a photo of you. Catch you doing something risqué. Doesn’t matter if it’s with a man or a woman. I don’t want you shown in a light that would cause any concern. Do you get my meaning?”

  I go a little cold all over. There are risks to the desires Rafe is unlocking in me. That’s what makes him appealing.

  But Owen’s point is a damn good one.

  What if some intrepid photographer with a long-range lens had taken a photo of me sucking Rafe’s dick in the owner’s suite? What if someone at The West House had snuck a cell phone in? How would that affect my sponsorship deals? My reputation? Any future partnerships?

  Even if it didn’t hurt my career, it certainly wouldn’t help.

  “I appreciate you looking out for me,” I say sincerely. “It means a lot.”

  Owen’s smile is ninety-nine percent relieved. “I hope so. I’m all for the edgy, sexy image you put online. But for your sake, I want to make sure nobody can misinterpret that edgy, sexy image.”

  My phone pings with an alert that I need to get moving if I’m going to board the plane with the rest of the team. We gather our trash and I say goodbye on autopilot.

  On the way to the airport, and onto the team plane, I consider what Owen said.

  His points are an icy dose of reality. A tryst with Rafe might be too risky. I mull it over as we buckle in and the aircraft taxis for takeoff.

  By the time we’re winging away from San Francisco, I’m convinced that seeing Rafe again would be a very bad idea. It will help to see Mom and my little brother in New York. To reconnect with my priorities. My focus should be on work and family, not on sex.

  I stare out the window as we fly east. I don’t chat with Zane or the other guys on the team. I don’t watch the shows I downloaded to my phone.

  Somewhere over the Central time-zone line, I open my texts and start a new one addressed to the man who made me a proposal last night.

  25

  A LITTLE OBSESSED

  Rafe

  Normally, business demands my full attention, and I like it that way. Work saw me through the death of my parents in a car crash back in uni. It carried me through those early days of grief. Then, over time, business became everything.

  The sheer attention my work requires has kept me driven and focused for more than a decade. Lucas was my only wobble.

  But on Friday during a marketing meeting, I can’t seem to keep my mind in the conference room or on Matthew’s pitch for the new You Do You campaign.

  I wonder if Gunnar has landed in New York. If he’s out with friends from his baseball team. If he’s thought about my proposed arrangement.

  “And we’ve enlisted our regular marketing agency for this project,” Matthew says, and I realize he’s wrapping up his presentation.

  Right. Regular agency. I glance at the last slide still on the screen. It all sounds standard. It shouldn’t matter that my attention wandered for a minute. I have talented people who run each division, making the daily decisions. But I like the thirty-thousand-foot view I get by sitting in on these meetings.

  “Do you think it will help our appeal with the broader customer base?” I ask. Our designs are for men, and for the longest time our market was queer men. We’ve altered our marketing targets over the last few years as more women have bought sexy underwear for their straight partners. We want to continue moving in that direction. It’s about time men of all orientations adopted something sexier than tighty-whities or boring boxer briefs.

  Matthew nods crisply at the head of the conference table, gesturing to the slide with his projected numbers. “All of our research shows there are great opportunities in targeting couples. And as men open their minds to a new look in underwear, we want to reach those who buy for themselves as well as the people who buy for them.”

  I think about Marlow saying my designs are her boyfriend’s favorites, and I nod. “That’s a wise direction,” I say.

  “This campaign will implement several new tactics to make sure we’re reaching consumers in all the places where they live,” he says.

  It’s a good plan, so I sign off on it. Then, since the day is winding down, I say goodbye to Matthew and Theresa, and return to my office where I take off my suit, hanging it on the hook behind the door.