Page 132 of I'm Your Guy
I’ve dreamed about this moment, but my fantasies didn’t do it justice. As I brace myself against him, the sight of his kiss-bitten lips and flushed face is so erotic that I have to take a deep breath.
And when I press inside, the heat and pressure is so mind-bending that I have to stop midway.
“You’re not hurting me,” he says, by way of encouragement.
“I know,” I rasp. “I just need a second.”
He’s not the one who’s likely to get hurt in this scenario. That person is me.
“Don’t regret me,” I whisper, all my muscles shaking.
He rolls his hips in a way that almost short-circuits my brain. “I could never,” he pants. “Promise.”
* * *
Afterward, we lay in a satisfied heap. I can’t stop touching him.
“We didn’t even light the sex candle,” Carter says sleepily.
“Next time,” I slur, running my fingertips down his spine.
He sighs happily and relaxes against my body. I can feel his heartbeat against mine. And I’m as happy as I’ve ever been.
I’m still worried about Trenton. That game is going to be a trial, and I’m still not totally comfortable exposing my raw, needy heart to the world.
But the things I want are bigger than the things I fear. So I’m finally ready.
I only hope Carter is, too.
FORTY-EIGHT
Tommaso
“You want to do what, now?” the publicist asks me from across his desk.
Having decided to put Carter’s big idea into practice, I’d gotten up early and asked Tate for a morning meeting. Now I just have to convince him I’m sincere about this plan.
“My donation will be a charitable contribution to the New Jersey branch of an LGBT organization. You can help me pick it out today. I’ll give all the money myself, but I’ll make it a DiCosta family gift. And Marco and Vin can pose for the picture with me.”
Tate taps an expensive-looking silver pen against his desk blotter. “That’s a terrific gesture,” he says. “I like it. And I can probably get one of those giant checks printed out at, like, Staples by tomorrow morning. So you ran this by your family members?”
“Nope. That’s where you come in. Just let their publicist know that this is how we’re doing it. These are my conditions. And see what they say.”
He frowns. “You’re worried they won’t go for it? Is that it?”
“I am,” I admit. “But this decision is firm. We do it this way, or our photo op won’t happen. And I’ll make the donation either way.”
“Okay, dude.” He shrugs. “I like this idea a lot. Thanks for making my job easier. Wasn’t sure if you’d come through for me.”
I hold back my sigh.
He grabs his phone, scrolls for the right contact information, and then taps out a text. “Photo op is a go…one condition…contribution of…” He glances up at me. “I’m gonna ask them to contribute ten percent of the total, just to make this a legit family effort, okay?”
“Be my guest.”
He keeps tapping for a minute. Then he sends the text and sets down his phone. “What are you wearing for this photo op?” he asks. “We could do game-day suits. You’d all look great, but maybe the vibe is a little stuffy. Competing jerseys might be a fun alternative. We’d need a shot from the back, too, so we could see the names on the jerseys—DiCosta, DiCosta, DiCosta…”
“Cool. Let’s pick a charity.”
