Because that’s not precisely inaccurate.
“What about you?” I ask, suddenly desperate to make conversation, and not focus on the feel of professional athlete against me, of Jason against me. “You have any lucky ladies?”
“Casual dating,” Jason says. “Nothing serious.” He hesitates. “But no. I-I don’t. They didn’t like the news articles.”
“I’m sorry, Larvik.”
He shrugs.
His fingers don’t brush against mine. He doesn’t wrap his sturdy body around me, clutching me like I’m something precious.
But he does lean into me. His arms press against mine, just like his legs.
My cock stiffens traitorously, because unlike him, it’s been a while for me. I had a boyfriend back in Nashville, but he didn’t follow me to Boston, and I didn’t plea for him to join me.
The sex between us had slowed, though it had never been strong to begin with, a major red flag I chose to ignore because of his overall suitability. I worked as a sports journalist, he worked as a real journalist, and we spent our time imbibing current events in our small apartment that was pricey enough for us to ignore the problems in our relationship.
In other words, there are a lot of reasons why my cock is super hard and none of them necessarily have to do with the presence of a certain grumpy hockey player beside me.
If I were alone, I’d touch it. And not think about Jason Larvik. Because I’m not attracted to Jason Larvik.
Spending my time contemplating Larvik’s symmetrical features and pondering how grumpiness is way hotter than people give it credit for, would be ridiculous, and I have no intention of being ridiculous.
Not now, when I’m on an island where the only thing to eat is coconuts. Nope, I’m not going to think about things that will make my stay on this island with Larvik even more awkward and miserable than it needs to be.
I’m not going to let Larvik think every gay man lusts after him—or whatever it is that scared him enough to lash out.
My cock aches, but I lie still, willing myself to breathe normally. Maybe if I act normally, I’ll trick my body into thinking I’m asleep.
I hope so.
The rain continues to fling itself at full force outside, and I’m still conscious of Larvik’s presence next to me. He lies rigid, and I half-expect him to turn around and separate from me. He doesn’t.
Warmth surges through my body, settling on my genitals, and I resist the urge to roll over and rut into the sand, to spill my seed. I try to force images of Jason from my mind, try to forget that his body is composed of long planes of perfectly formed muscle, try to banish memories of him on the ice from my mind.
I refuse to think about Jason.
But warmth expands through me all the same, as if every cell in my body is confused why else he would be lying beside me.
If I survive this without humping the sand or muttering Jason’s name in my sleep, I deserve a medal.
JASON
I’m not thinking about Cal’s dark hair. I’m not thinking about the freckles scattered over his nose and upper cheeks, so light that I didn’t notice them until we spoke closely together. I’m not thinking about Cal’s pert ass, and the way it curves in a manner that should be indecent. I’m not thinking about what it felt like when he gripped onto my waist on the jet ski, when it was all I could do to hide my erection from him.
I force my mind to revisit my last hookup, but blue eyes morph into large brown ones, and a tiny, tight body morphs into a larger, softer one.
I know how he tastes, how his limbs feel wrapped around my own, what it feels like to suck on his lips and swirl my tongue against his so they’re dancing.
I’ve remembered our kiss often over the years, and when I close my eyes, I’m sixteen again.
I force my eyes open, because I’m not contemplating Cal, no way.
No, my mind is absolutely dwelling on him.
I wait for panic to flood my veins, to pull away from Cal.
Instead, Cal’s steady breaths against my ear calm something in my chest, and instead of fleeing, I lean closer against him, so his warmth fills me.
