Page 96 of Icing on the Cake

I glance around to make sure we’re alone before hooking a thumb in the edge of my towel. With a deep breath, I tug it down to expose the top of my groin.

Elliot inhales sharply as he takes in the wild, untamed sprawl of blond curls. “Wow. You weren’t kidding.”

Hastily, I hike the towel back up. My whole body buzzes with adrenaline and something else. I think it’s lust. “Told ya. So, uh, pizza?”

Elliot blinks, suddenly remembering why I sought him out in the first place. “Right. Pizza. Let’s do it.”

When Elliotand I agreed to share the bed with him under the covers and me on top, I figured it would be no big deal.

A piece of cake.

Easy peasy lemon squeezy.

I was wrong.

It’s the most torturous experience I’ve ever endured. And that’s saying something, considering I went on a road trip with my dad to the Grand Canyon last year, and he farted in the car.

Did I mention it was during the hottest summer on record, and the drive wastenhours long?

Elliot tosses and turns more than a dryer on steroids. I swear, the dude could power a small city with all that restless energy. And don’t even get me started on the snoring. It’s like having a foghorn blasting in my ear all night. I’m talking window-rattling, earth-quaking, wake-the-dead kind of snoring.

I’ve tried everything to drown it out—earplugs, Oliver’s white noise machine, even those fancy noise-canceling headphones. But nothing works. It’s as if Elliot’s snores have a direct pipeline to my brain, bypassing all defenses.

But that’s not even the worst part. No, the real torture is having to sleep right next to him, separated only by a thin layer of blanket. I’m used to sleeping in the nude and letting my boys breathe freely and easily. But with Elliot as my bedmate, I now have to wear boxers out of respect. And let me tell you, it’s pure agony.

Having to keep my junk all cooped up in a cotton prison is a special kind of hell that I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy. I wake up every morning drenched in sweat and my boxers clinging to my thighs. It’s gross and uncomfortable, and I hate it.

The ultimate cherry on top of this crap sundae is the raging daily case of morning wood. I’m not talking about a semi or a slight chub, either. Oh no, this is a full-on, rock-hard, could-cut-glass kind of boner. The type that tents my boxers and makes me want to die of embarrassment.

Before Elliot moved in, I had a foolproof system. I’d wake up at the butt crack of dawn, take care of business with a sock, and then go about my day with a clear head and an empty ball sack.

But now, with Elliot snoozing away beside me, I have to shove my dick between my legs and squeeze to relieve the pressure in my groin. I’m at the point where I want to curl up in the fetal position and weep.

I can’t do that, though, because Elliot would know somethingwas up. And I can’t have him knowing how much he’s affecting me. Or how much I want him.

I thinkI’ve died and gone to Heaven.

The place is packed wall-to-wall with college students in every costume imaginable. A sexy nurse chats up a guy in a gorilla suit. A festive group of Marvel superheroes do shots in the corner. And is that…? Yep, a dude strolling in dressed as a giant banana.Only in college.

As for me, I’m a murdered football player. I’ve gone all out, too—a slashed jersey, a gruesome gash across my throat, and even some artfully placed bruises and dirt smudges that really sell the costume.

I love being a hockey player. It’s my life, my passion. But sometimes, it’s nice to shed that identity for a night and be someone else. Someone darker, edgier. Someone who didn’t spend their entire childhood on the ice.

Oliver comes up beside me, and I do a double take. He’s the Incredible Hulk, but where I thoughtIwent all out, he went all out and then some. His entire body has been painted green, and his hair is slicked back with gel.

“Dude, you really committed to the bit, huh? How long did that take you?”

Oliver flexes a gigantic green bicep. “Longer than I care to admit. Kyle had to help me with the”—he drops his voice to a whisper—“hard-to-reach places.”

“You mean…”

I point to his crotch, unsure if I want to know the answer.

He nods. “Between the cheeks, too.”

My eyes nearly pop out of their sockets. “No way.”

“Way. But don’t tell him I told you. He’ll kill you in your sleep.”

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