One Night Ever After E-Book

Tere Michaels

• Herausgeber: Dreamspinner Press
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 385

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2013

Beschreibung

Just a Drive by Tere Michaels After weeks of flirting, "One Night" Wyatt Walsh spends a fabulous night with his shy coworker, Benji Trammell. As Wyatt tries to sneak out the next morning, he receives a call from his frantic, very pregnant best friend Raven—she needs him immediately. With no other way to get from New York City to the Pennsylvania town where Raven and her husband live, Wyatt accepts Benji's offer to drive him there. Wary and unsure of each other, they start the trip at odds, but as time goes on, the barriers that usually keep people at a distance fail. And what started out as "just a drive" becomes a step toward romance. Just a Stranger by Elle Brownlee The excitement of meeting a stranger in a club can't be beat. Loud bass sets the rhythm to Michael Wiercinski's primal urges as he flirts with Andrew, a cute guy offering the promise of a hot night with no strings, no complications. Still, when their night is done, Michael admits there was something about Andrew that left him wanting more. Months go by with no sign of Andrew until Michael moves back home to help after his father's heart attack. Once there, Michael is completely amazed to find Andrew Lucas living in his hometown. Despite surprising "complications" in Andrew's life, Michael vows to take advantage of this second chance to make Andrew more than just a stranger. Just a Weekend by Elizah J. Davis James is a homebody in a predictable, if not altogether comfortable, rut. He'd rather stay in with a book than brave the Seattle bar scene. One night, after allowing his friend Kara to coax him out for drinks, he meets Devin—charming, gorgeous, and way out of his league. With a little bit of help from Kara, James leaves with Devin to indulge in a night together, which is as much time as he's bound to get with a guy as hot as Devin. He doesn't expect the easy rapport that quickly develops between them, and when the weather conspires to keep them together, James wonders if this could be more than just a weekend fling.

Leseprobe

Copyright

Published by

Dreamspinner Press

5032 Capital Circle SW

Ste 2, PMB# 279

Tallahassee, FL 32305-7886  USA

http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

Just a Drive Copyright © 2013 by Tere Michaels

Just a Stranger Copyright © 2013 by Elle Brownlee

Just a Weekend Copyright © 2013 by Elizah J. Davis

Cover Art by Aaron Anderson

[email protected]

Cover content is being used for illustrative purposes only

and any person depicted on the cover is a model.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact Dreamspinner Press at: 5032 Capital Circle SW  Ste 2, PMB# 279  Tallahassee, FL 32305-7886  USA

http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/

ISBN: 978-1-62798-286-3

Printed in the United States of America

First Edition

October 2013

eBook edition available

eBook ISBN: 978-1-62798-287-0

Table of Contents

Just a Drive by Tere Michaels

Just a Stranger by Elle Brownlee

Just a Drive

Dedication

To E & E: This is a book born out of great friendship, laughter, and determination. I could not ask for better unicorns in my life.

Chapter 1

WYATT WALSHuncapped the bottle of water, imagining he was actually decapitating the diva-in-training currently stomping around the set. Better for his career and reputation to tighten his fingers around plastic and not her neck.

“Chantel, dearest? I understand how uncomfortable this is for you—I do. But….” Wyatt made a helpless gesture as she stomp-stomp-stomped past him on another circuit. “What can I do? This is what the label asked me for.”

That was a lie, of course. He’d pitched the Alice in Wonderland theme for Chantel Baller (Seriously? Did they not notice that was a porn name?) for her debut album and if nothing else, Soundsource Records listened to their creative director.

Sometimes.

“I hate it! It’s ridiculous! I look like a freaking freak!” she whined, stopping to stand in front of him with her arms crossed over her chest. “I want to look cool!”

See, they never listened to him when he told them not to pluck seventeen-year-olds out of Kentucky.

Was it too much to ask for the “next best thing” to not be a spoiled brat?

A knock saved Wyatt from explaining to Chantel that neither her waifish looks nor her thready, auto-tuned voice were going to go anywhere, so why not dress it up as quirky—and he turned to thank his savior.

The day went from crap to fabulous in four seconds flat.

His current favorite adorable young man appeared as if lifted from a dirty dream in Wyatt’s regular repertoire. Benji Trammell stood in the doorway and fidgeted, clearly uncomfortable as the entire loft of folks involved with the shoot turned to stare.

“Uh… sorry. I needed to talk to Kala?” His gorgeous baby browns darted around the room, desperately seeking the producer in the crowd of overdressed, overworked, underwhelmed peons.

“She’s somewhere,” Wyatt chirped, his mood and demeanor changing as he left Chantel in the dust. “Are you sure you didn’t come all the way down here for me?”

He’d been staring at the kid—an engineer of some sort, the particulars didn’t matter—for six weeks now, as they were thrown together while Soundsource blew their party budget for various nonsense reasons. Most of said reasons stemmed from upcoming divorce proceedings between the president of the label and her “singer” husband.

It was going to be the bitchfest of the year.

As Creative Director, Wyatt had enjoyed free-flowing top-shelf booze, amazing buffets, and hot and cold running catering waiters. But the treat of the night had been the brief but delectable appearance of Mr. Trammel and his ass-worshipping jeans.

Praise high fashion.

It hadn’t progressed past flirty small talk and making bedroom eyes at each other, but Wyatt was determined tonight would be it.

He was getting a piece of that.

Wyatt found a PA out of the corner of his eye and hissed a “find Kala” before coming to invade average height, dark, and handsome’s personal space. “Can I get you anything while you wait?”

Me. A cocktail and me. Me.

“No. But thanks. I’m just…. It’s a thing with the album and I was upstairs at a meeting so….” He gestured toward Chantel, who had begun ranting at the guy who brought their lunches, whom Wyatt suspected didn’t speak enough English to care.

Benji was the thing that fantasies were made of, at least for One-Night Wyatt. Young enough to be doe-eyed and confused, old enough to be legal. Slender build under an ironic hipster T-shirt and five-hundred-dollar distressed jeans. A thick head of espresso hair, chocolate eyes and, yeah—Wyatt yearned to lick coffee ice cream off his delicious-looking jaw. The shy thing he was working just made it even more appealing—the closer Wyatt got, the more Benji blushed, and it was adorable.

Erotically adorable, if that was a thing.

Benji smiled and Wyatt’s pants got tight.

“How’s, you know, the shoot going?”

“Oh, fabulous. Chantel loves my ideas,” Wyatt said brightly, shaking his head at the same time.

An even bigger grin made Wyatt’s mouth water a little.

“She’s a dream to work with,” Benji whispered, mimicking Wyatt’s head shake, a fake pout on his lips.

“No wonder Kala’s in the bathroom drinking vodka and texting her therapist.” It was just a guess.

They shared a moment of smiles and Wyatt couldn’t help himself—he leaned against the doorjamb and batted his eyelashes at Benji. “So are you going to the party at Bryant Park Grill tonight? Maybe we could get a drink together—I feel like we could both share our Chantel misadventures and purge our souls. You know. To save our sanity.”

Benji stared down at his basketball sneakers; the height difference meant Wyatt got a nice view of the back of his neck and that caused the lean to deepen. Like a moth to a porch light. Or a seasoned perv to a gorgeous young man.

“That sounds… nice.” Benji looked back up. “You know—to keep us sane.”

And naked.

“Fantastic.” Wyatt whipped his phone out, scrolling to contacts with practiced ease. “Give me your number and I’ll let you know when this delightful and very special afternoon with Alice in Bitchland is finished.”

Benji recited the digits slowly and Wyatt repeated them back. Then he took a step away from the door to point the phone at Benji.

Who blinked in surprise.

“Come on, sunshine—I need a picture to go with those numbers.” He snapped it before Benji could school his face out of “adorably confused.” “Perfect. I’ll call you later?”

His face a vision of “wait, what?”, Benji nodded. A second later, the muted sounds of the set were broken by a shout of “Kala!” and a slew of swear words.

“Kala’s off the toilet,” Wyatt said cheerfully. “You talk to her, I will divert Chantel’s attention with a ball of yarn, and this day might end at some point.”

Benji nodded as Wyatt turned to join the fracas. There was a definite sashay to his step as he approached Kala, who was trying to shove Chantel off her arm but was largely unsuccessful due to all the tulle.

One more look over his shoulder left Wyatt delighted to see that Benji’s expression was one of dumbstruck joy at the retreating view.

Feed the ego. Feed it well.

This was going to be a fabulous night.

HEMANAGEDto convince Chantel that the shoot actually captured the essence of her music—pretending not to notice that this occurred after Kala gave her an “aspirin”—and finished the shoot before he did, indeed, die of job-related stress. After doling out cab fare (and beer money) to the stylists, Wyatt found himself on the corner of Fifth Avenue and 14th Street, phone in hand.

The cool flush of the air-conditioned loft gave way to the muggy August air of Manhattan. At nine thirty, the rush of tourists and home seekers had reduced to a trickle. He toyed with the scroll for a second then dialed Benji’s number—first taking a moment to enjoy the upward tilt of his eyes and the pale olive of his skin. Someone’s parents had played the exotic-combination-of-genes card and it had worked out beautifully.

“Um, hey,” Benji said, clearing his throat a second later. “Hey. How’d it go?”

“Chantel’s still alive, Kala didn’t need an emergency admit to Bellevue, and we got enough stuff for the cover. So all in all, the perfect day.” Wyatt laughed. He started walking toward Sixth Avenue. “How about you?”

“Oh—well, it was good. Not as crazy as yours.” Benji cleared his throat again. “You still, uh—up for that drink?”

“God yes. The prospect has actually made this day bearable.” Wyatt dodged some chatting girls who didn’t seem to understand the concept of sharing the sidewalk. “I’m downtown still. Are you at the studio?”

“Yeah—you want to just meet at the party?

Wyatt let visions of a studio quickie fade, as it was probably prudent to show up at the work event—mingle, have a free drink, and then disappear into the night with his end-of-the-workday treat.

“That’s a great idea,” he said. “I’ll be there in twenty, God willing.”

“Awesome.” Benji’s voice perked up. He hung up almost as soon as the words were out of his mouth.

“Lack of conversation skills duly noted—thank God you have that ass,” Wyatt muttered as a cab swerved to the corner to accept his business.

HISphone rang about three blocks into his cab ride; if it was anything but crickets chirping, he would have sent it to voice mail. Crickets, though, meant Raven, and Raven was the only human being on earth Wyatt would interrupt a booty call for.

“Baby girl,” he said, feeling his body unhitch and relax.

“I hate being in bed so much,” his best friend whined dramatically.

“Said no one ever.”

“Bed rest is hard.”

“Bed rest is actually the opposite of hard. I told you pregnancy would make you dumb.”

“Well, then we can finally have a conversation you can follow.”

“That nurturing thing hasn’t kicked in yet—you’re still mean.”

Raven sighed with theatrical flair. “Growing humans is hard, okay? And I’m growing double the normal amount.”

“Condoms, Rae. Condoms. We had this talk.” Wyatt riffled around in his pocket for money as the cab dodged vehicles into midtown.

“You could be a little more sympathetic to me, your dearest and only friend. Your godfather privileges will be revoked.”

He would never say this to Raven—his reason for being alive today, his reason for not being a total abusive dickbag—but if she unnamed him godfather of her impending twins, he would not be sad.

Children terrified him. Responsibility for other human beings in general? Cold sweat and horror. But he couldn’t say that to Raven, who’d turned her back on everyone from “back home” except Wyatt. Who’d let herself thaw and grow and evolve to the point where she had a husband and a home and two humans entering the world in fifteen weeks.

See? He paid attention during their weekly chitchats.

“No, please, no,” he said weakly and Raven laughed.

“Douche.”

“You know you need to quit cursing like a syphilitic sailor before your kids are born.”

“I figure I have until they’re eight months old or so before I have to give it up.”

“Harder than cigarettes, right?”

“Shit, yeah.”

Now it was Wyatt’s turn to laugh. The driver was pulling over, Bryant Park illuminated up ahead.

“Okay, I gotta go. I have a date.”

“You mean dinner and a fuck.”

“Actually free appetizers and a fuck, but that’s too many words.” He stuck a twenty through the plastic opening for the cabbie. “Receipt, please.”

“Fine, fine. Call me in the morning and entertain me,” she commanded. “Rob has an early meet-and-greet breakfast in Spencer with some potential recruits.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t speak Midwestern.” Wyatt pocketed his change and the receipt. He managed to stay on the phone, gather his bag, and slide out the door without face-planting—no mean feat.

“Asshole. I’ll talk to you in the morning.” Raven blew kisses into the phone. “Myrtle and Myron send their love as well!”

“No.”

“Okay, I’ll keep looking.”

They exchanged “I love yous,” then Wyatt hung up with a sigh. He was in the middle of the sidewalk as New York City rushed around him in all its energetic beauty, about to have free cocktails and a fuck with a beautiful boy and….

He squared his shoulders and got his feet moving.

WYATTaccepted a bacon-wrapped scallop from a passing waiter, the other hand wrapped around his third vodka tonic of the night. Bryant Park Grill was hosting Soundsource’s annual “New Artists Night,” with a full spread, an open bar, and enough interoffice drama to satisfy Wyatt’s appetite. For the moment.

At least until his handsome young engineer booty call showed up….

A few frantic texts alerted him to Benji having an “emergency meeting” and his impending lateness with a host of apologies. Wyatt planned to parlay this guilt into at least two blowjobs.

“Fifty says Bianca falls out of her dress before the night is over,” Betsy said as she tripped by, already unsteady on free booze and ill-conceived five-inch heels.

“If she does, it’s on purpose. There’s enough double-stick tape on her tits to repair a dike.”

“I’d like to repair her dike.” His petite boss leaned against him, barely coming up to his shoulder. He didn’t pay her dirty rambling any mind as he chewed on his tiny snack. She was totally straight when there weren’t a dozen or so Slippery Nipples coursing through her bloodstream.

Wyatt scanned the room. Everyone was in their own department groups—stylists, PR, marketing, A&R—while the eager wannabes flitted around, trying to impress. At some point there would be performances, and Wyatt would immediately take his leave. The straining vocals of newbie artists all trying to be Mariah Carey made little pieces of his soul die with each warbling note. No, he would head for the door—

With Benji in tow.

“Speaking of a fabulous ass….” Wyatt sighed happily.

“I thought we were talking tits.” Betsy ignored him, wandering away to find the young ingénue Bianca and her amazing rack.

Across the room, Benji had arrived; he fidgeted in the doorway, looking around as he bit his bottom lip. Wyatt suppressed the urge to fan himself. He sucked down the rest of his vodka tonic with a dirty slurp, then deposited it on the tray of another circulating waiter.

Time to get down to business.

Benji straightened up, smiling brightly as Wyatt came to a halt in front of him.

“Hey gorgeous, I was thinking you weren’t going to show up.”

“Sorry. I got tied up with this stupid meeting,” Benji said.

Wyatt’s eyes twinkled. “Mmm… tied up. Now I have a lovely mental picture.”

Benji’s mouth did something—a cross between a smirk and a shy smile—and Wyatt tried to read the look in his eyes (just big and brown and lovely). It was an awkward moment of breath-holding confusion as Wyatt tried to keep his fantasy on point.

Sexy innocent thing meets king of seduction Wyatt. And then, as quickly as possible, a parting of ways after the orgasms were had. It was his recipe for a perfect one night stand.

Then Benji ducked his head and all but kicked the floor bashfully.

And Wyatt found his bearings.

“Let’s get you a drink, gorgeous,” Wyatt murmured, linking his arm with Benji’s.

ITWASthe eyes, Wyatt decided; they were gold and green, almond-shaped with a corner tilt, and lashes that went on for miles. There was something hypnotic about their exoticness, setting this otherwise average-looking guy a notch above the rest.

He also had a perfect ass, but Wyatt saw the eyes first. He thought that made him seem slightly less shallow.

They were at the bar, in the far corner behind a large potted plant and featuring a distinct lack of light.

It was perfect.

Wyatt had his body pressed against Benji’s side, using every opportunity to reach across him, to shift his hips, to touch every part of the young man’s body he could without grabbing his ass.

It was getting harder and harder.

That’s what he said.

The top-shelf shots flowed, courtesy of a sardonic bartender who decided it would make the night go faster if she helped Wyatt get Benji absolutely plastered.

There was a fifty in her pocket to seal the deal.

“More tequila?” Wyatt asked sweetly, pressing his lips to the strong curve of Benji’s jaw. He liked the shiver it produced and slid his hand down to the small of Benji’s back to keep him in place.

“No… no. I really shouldn’t….” Benji turned his head just enough to brush their lips together, in not quite a kiss. “Tequila makes me crazy.”

“Tequila makes me want to fuck someone beautiful,” Wyatt whispered.

Those big doe eyes were bleary, but Wyatt saw the spark as his words registered in Benji’s brain. He would have pushed harder but lust coursed through him and he leaned in for a kiss.

“I SERIOUSLYneed to fuck you.” It was the first thing Wyatt managed to say in almost twenty minutes, as his tongue had been otherwise occupied in the mouth of the most adorable young man.

“Uh….”

Benji knocked his head against the wall currently holding them up as the party whirled on behind them. It was quarter to twelve, there wasn’t a sober person on the island of Manhattan, and Wyatt’s flat-front trousers were about to become a casualty of their little make-out session.

“Seriously. My place is downtown….”

“I’m—closer. West 50th,” Benji choked out, licking his sweet swollen lips, much to Wyatt’s delight.

“That’s the sexiest thing you’ve said all night,” Wyatt purred, grinding his hips against the kid’s stomach as he ran his palm along the warm line of Benji’s spine.

So, so close. Wyatt’s smile bloomed. “I’m going to go grab my bags from coat check. Meet me out front, okay? 42nd Street side.”

Benji just nodded as Wyatt peeled himself off the younger man. He didn’t care what people thought of his “habits” but there was no need to flaunt a pickup within the incestuous world of Soundsource Records.

He dropped a kiss on the back of Benji’s neck, enjoying the shiver under the damp hair curling just above his collar. The view was stunning—how much better would it look when he was naked?

The kid squirmed in Wyatt’s embrace at that moment, panting as his hips strained to get more friction. Oh yes, squirming. Wyatt leaned down to take a nice big inhale of the pheromones being thrown off.

“Do you have to say good-bye to anyone?”

Benji shook his head, quick and sure. He swallowed hard as Wyatt nosed behind his ear.

“Okay. I’m going to do a quick circuit, then meet you outside. Five minutes.”

Another nod and then a muffled groan as Wyatt stepped back to give them both air and a less humpable distance.

“Five minutes,” Benji murmured, adjusting the tight-fitting clothes currently plastered to his slender body.

Lord have mercy.

Wyatt watched as Benji practically ran for the front door of the Bryant Park Grill, dodging drunken coworkers and the catering waiters who had said screw it and were currently dancing to the raucous music.

Wyatt sauntered through the crowd, looking for Betsy or Sable, the label’s owner, but they were nowhere to be found.

“I tried,” he murmured, grabbing one last glass of champagne off a tray as he headed for the door.

One-Night Wyatt had fulfilled his professional duties and now he was going to go bang a pretty boy. It was a good night.

ASREQUESTED,Benji was waiting outside in the humid night air, flipping through his phone. He frowned as he began to furiously type something.

“Oh no, I don’t like that look,” Wyatt said as he strode across the sidewalk, dodging the tourists and Friday night revelers stumbling through midtown.

Benji looked up, his face easing into something resembling a smile. Wyatt couldn’t seem to evoke a full grin, but he resolved to try—even if he had to fuck him twice.

“Sorry.”

“Work?” He eased up next to the kid, pulling him against Wyatt’s hip.

“N-no. Family.” Benji waved his hand then pocketed his phone. “It’s nothing.”

“Awesome.” Drama and details of a personal nature were not what this was about. The kid probably had some unstable home life—all the better to get in and out. Literally. “Let’s grab a cab. The quicker we get to your place, the quicker I can get you out of those pants.”

Benji blushed and ducked his head.

Mercy.

The entire cab ride took ten minutes, and Wyatt’s hand spent the time high on Benji’s thigh. Everything smelled like “boys in heat” and Wyatt wanted to bottle it.

A discreet check of his watch said half past twelve—which meant a few hours of fun and he’d be able to make the eleven a.m. spin class.

“This is it,” Benji said suddenly, and Wyatt leaned over to see where they were. A dumpy walk-up? A crappy older building with questionable locks?

None of the above.

He paid the cab driver, trying not to let his jaw drop too much. This was where the kid lived?

Wyatt wasn’t expecting the young engineer to be a resident of Longacre House: twenty-six floors of chic high-rise and a doorman to boot.

“Mr. Trammell,” the elderly man said, opening the door. “Sir.”

“Hi, Edgar.” Benji seemed a little unsteady so Wyatt kept a hand at his back, enjoying the damp warmth and tremors—evidence of how turned on he was.

They walked through the modern lobby, with Benji fumbling through his pockets for the elevator key and Wyatt trying to behave himself the entire time.

“Nice building,” he said casually, trying to reconcile his fantasy of the messy bedroom in a fifth floor walk-up with the reality of a place that easily ran at least three thousand a month for a studio.

“Uh, yeah. Thanks.” Benji’s face was flushed as he turned back to Wyatt; he bit his lip as they waited for the elevator. Wyatt, for his part, tried to remember his rule against sticking his tongue down someone’s throat in front of the doorman.

No wait, that wasn’t a rule he had.

“Roommate?” he asked, trying to break the tension.

“What? No. No. Just me.”

The elevator chimed; Wyatt guided Benji inside after the doors opened—and just kept going, until they were leaning against the back wall.

“What floor?”

“Twenty-two.” Benji was panting as Wyatt reached back and pressed the little circle before returning to align his entire body against Benji’s.

The height difference, the size difference—Wyatt almost moaned at how perfectly this kid felt, fitted between the wall and Wyatt’s body like he was a granted wish. He smelled rich and worked over and that just made Wyatt hungrier to mess him up even more. Everywhere their bodies touched Wyatt felt overwarm; he let himself sink over Benji, hiding him from the glaring light of the elevator.

“Oh my God.” Benji laughed, resting his forehead against Wyatt’s shoulder. “Seriously—you’re killing me here.”

“Sweetheart, I’m not even warmed up yet,” he whispered, ducking his head to drop a kiss on Benji’s temple. “I’ve been wanting to fuck you for weeks.”

Those big beautiful eyes came into view again when Benji tipped his head back. Wyatt took in the sexy features, the dazed expression—that full-lipped mouth that was going to look amazing around his dick—and he smiled.

“You’re the best decision I’ve made in a long time,” he purred.

They were forced to break apart long enough to leave the elevator; Benji stumbling out, Wyatt close behind, crowding him just to watch the way the muscles in his back jumped when he got too close.

THEapartment was indeed a studio—a large living area with floor-to-ceiling windows on one wall and filled with leather couches and enough musical instruments and recording equipment to rival any studio at Soundsource Records. The art on the walls was big, splashy and red, sensual swirls of torsos and limbs in dancer’s poses. It didn’t fit the room or the man but Wyatt pushed aside those thoughts for the moment.

He was here for the night, for the man, and for the fucking. Then he was gone.

“I—can I get you something?” A disheveled Benji was standing in the divide between the living space and the sleeping alcove at the other end of the apartment, taken up almost entirely by a queen-sized bed.

“Water’s good, honey. And you can point out where you keep your supplies.” Wyatt stripped out of his lightweight jacket, looking around for a place to lay it down.

Benji nodded, gesturing into the alcove behind him. He walked past, took Wyatt’s jacket with him without a word, then disappeared back down the hall toward the front door.

Wyatt sat down on the corner of an oversized armchair, sharing the space with a stack of music books and a tangle of cords and wires. He made quick work of his boots, tucking them next to the chair so he could find them quickly when they were done. When Benji didn’t return right away, he moved into the bedroom to make himself comfortable.

It took a second to find the light; a switch on the wall finally made itself known and Wyatt let himself cast a judgmental eye over this room too.

The messy part he got right; there were jeans and T-shirts and gym clothes lying on the floor in the corner, next to a full hamper. Hardcover books stacked on each nightstand, teetering precariously. The bed itself was carelessly made, with pale-blue sheets and a chocolate-brown comforter in a lumpy mess. At least there weren’t any posters on the walls of sports stars or muscle cars. Instead, a gorgeous landscape done in pale greens and blues filled the wall next to the sole window.

“Sorry, I wasn’t expecting to bring anyone home….”

Benji’s voice cut through his observations, and Wyatt turned around with a big smile on his face.

“Don’t worry about it. I… like it. Your place is really nice. Homey.”

Benji handed him the glass of water, a plastic tumbler with a Princeton logo on the side, ice cubes plinking against the side. “Thanks. I, uh… let me get what we need.”

The breathless anticipation had gone out, and Wyatt frowned as soon as his back was turned. He watched Benji walk around the room, kicking clothes out of the way and moving some of the books to the floor. All of a sudden he seemed nervous instead of excited, and Wyatt wasn’t really interested in that being the case.

So Wyatt put the water glass on the floor near the bed, then stood up, stripping out of his vest and belt with quick ease. He kept his eyes on Benji’s back, watching the way he bent over and moved, retrieving things from the bottom drawer of his nightstand.

“You’re gorgeous, you know that?” Wyatt said softly, unbuttoning his shirt. “The first time I saw you, at Mitch’s birthday party, I nearly walked into a wall.”

Benji’s back stiffened slightly; he straightened up, turning as he did to face Wyatt from the other side of the bed.

“I can’t imagine why you noticed me,” he said, dropping two condoms and a bottle of lube in the center of the comforter.

“Didn’t you hear me, sweetheart? I thought you were gorgeous.” His shirt slid off his arms and he laid it on top of his other clothes, stacked neatly on the bench tucked against the footboard. “And when I got close… whoa, took a look at those eyes of yours. Well—I was a smitten kitten,” Wyatt teased. He rested his hands on his hips, giving Benji a flirty smile.

Benji’s lips quirked. He didn’t say anything, though; after a sweeping blink of those long lashes, Benji pulled his T-shirt over his head, tossing it onto the looming laundry pile behind him.

And Wyatt hadn’t been wrong about that tight body—there was not an ounce of body fat on the kid, just wiry muscles and taut tan skin, a smattering of dark hair on his arms, and a treasure trail disappearing into his slacks.

“Damn.” Wyatt whistled appreciatively.

“Not so bad yourself.” Benji crawled onto the bed and Wyatt bit his bottom lip. “You work out?”

“Stop with the flattery.” He reached for his fly, unhooking it as he leaned down. “Come here and kiss me.”

The crawling was ridiculous. Seriously. By the time he made his way over to the other side of the mattress, Wyatt was kicking his linen pants across the room. Fuck it; he didn’t care at this point.

“Can I kiss you here?” Benji asked, soft and sweet as he nuzzled the front of Wyatt’s Y-fronts, right where a damp spot was forming.

“Oh, sweetheart, you go right ahead….” Wyatt slipped his hands into those glossy brown locks and pulled him closer.

THEheadboard slammed against the wall, and Wyatt’s feverish brain had a moment of concern they were going straight through and down toward 44th Street in a fucking death spiral. Or rather, a spiral of fucking.

“Come on, come on,” Benji whispered, hands gripping the backside of his knees as he sweated and strained under Wyatt’s body.

Not a screamer, a slight disappointment, but then again, Wyatt wasn’t done yet.

He slowed down until it hurt, until his muscles screamed at him and the sweat pouring off both of them threatened to become a puddle. He braced himself on the headboard and rolled his hips, eliciting a whine from Benji that almost made up for his aching balls.

“Fuck, you’re pretty,” Wyatt murmured, arms straining as Benji tried to buck his hips up. But Wyatt had twenty pounds on him and the top position—he wasn’t going anywhere. “And that dick makes me reconsider several of my life choices….”

Benji huffed out a laugh and Wyatt sped up his thrusts.

ROUNDthree found Wyatt staring up at the ceiling in order to keep from popping his cork too soon—because he was absolutely correct when he’d presumed that Benji’s pretty mouth would look perfect around his cock.

Perfect.

Almost good enough to warrant a callback, Wyatt thought hazily as Benji slurped and swallowed his length like a champion. He tightened a hand in Benji’s sweaty hair, a bit of warning as if his jackhammering hips were not indication enough that all the backward counting in the world wasn’t going to stop this.

Wyatt’s hips jerked up and he came stupid hard into the condom as Benji’s mouth worked its magic.

THE shower was hot, the water pressure a national treasure, and everything in the small stall came from high-end men’s stores. Wyatt was impressed. This kid had a big dick, a tight ass, and good taste. Not to mention a job that apparently gave him some bank.

The whole package. Someone with a brain should be dating him.

Maybe Wyatt knew a guy with a brain.

He shut the faucet, then toweled off with a shower sheet that smelled like lavender. The small café au lait bathroom was surprising clean and tidy, indicating a professional made regular visits. How much was Soundsource paying their engineers, and did that mean Wyatt deserved a raise?

Wrapping the towel around his waist, Wyatt stepped out and opened the door, letting the cloud of steam dissipate. He’d lost track of time somewhere between the second round of fucking and a quick nap (before getting woken up by the second blowjob—the kid was a vacuum with no gag reflex). It was still dark, so maybe another catnap wouldn’t hurt.

Wyatt walked into the bedroom and found the bed remade—clean sheets, another comforter, this one in a robin’s-egg blue. It looked so damn inviting, as did Benji, naked and curled up in the center, snoring face first into the pillow.

A strange sensation of “hey, he’s fucking adorable” washed over Wyatt, but he chalked it up to a lack of sleep and possible dehydration. He dropped the towel over the hamper, then slipped into the bed. The air conditioner hummed quietly in the background, harmonizing with Benji’s snores.

It only took him about five minutes and one “what the hell am I doing?’ moment before Wyatt fell back to sleep.

HISeyes flew open, the disorientation of “not his own bed” flaring before he rolled over and encountered the sprawled form of Benji. At some point he must’ve gotten up and showered because he smelled delicious—and the urge to wake him up almost got the better of Wyatt. But the bedside clock said six thirty, which was way past his usual “thanks for the fuck” good-bye, and he needed to get home.

With perfected grace, Wyatt slid out from under the covers, tucking them back over Benji’s back. He gave him a smile and a salute before he went to find his clothes.

In a few quiet minutes he was in the living room, locating his boots and taking his phone out by force of habit.

Six missed calls since one in the morning.

Wyatt sat down hard in the chair. Six? They were all from the same number, and that’s when panic set in.

Raven.

He hit her number and waited anxiously for her to pick up.

Chapter 2

“RAVEN?Rae? Calm down….” Fear clutched at Wyatt’s chest at the heartbreaking sobs coming through the phone. Every few seconds a bit of wet static filled him with panic—like the connection would cut out and he would never hear her voice again. “What’s wrong?”

The babies, he thought. Problem pregnancy, bed rest, her blood pressure—he’d been hearing this for months, none of it quite connecting to the level of seriousness before this moment. Something had gone wrong—but in that case, Rob would have called….

“Rob,” she choked out, as if on cue. “Car… accident.” His best friend and foster sister nearly gagged on the word, choking and crying even harder.

“Oh shit, oh God, okay, okay.” Wyatt pulled himself out of his frozen state, looking around frantically for his bag. “Is he… Rae? Come on, honey.” He would have to get to her, wherever she was—East Bumfuck, Pennsylvania, where corn-fed “’roid-heads” were recruited by Rob Beeler to play football for his alma mater.

He had no idea how to get to where she lived.

“He’s… he’s… the car… a tractor trailer… surgery….” The words spilled out into a story of Rob on yet another recruiting trip getting smashed by a trucker who needed a nap. He was alive—that much Wyatt understood—but Raven was stuck in bed, unable to move, and her husband was sixty miles away in another hospital.

“I’m going to get out there, okay? Just—okay, you’re at Unicello Medical Center, right?” He’d sent her a care package earlier that month.

She hiccupped a sob. “Yes.”

“I’ll be there as soon as I can, and I will help you take care of Rob. I promise.” Wyatt’s heart took residence in his throat because he’d promise just about anything to Raven—but this was the biggest thing so far.

“Wyatt.” It was just his name, but they spent a moment in heavy silence, just breathing. “Hurry, please,” she said finally and Wyatt nodded.

“I’m out the door in five minutes. I love you and everything will be all right.”

He didn’t want to hang up, but he had to figure out how the fuck to get out in the middle of nowhere with no car, no license, and no friends with either of the two. A car service? All the way out there? It was almost Ohio, for Christ’s sake. He was still futzing with his boots, thinking frantically and verbalizing his litany of roadblocks, when he heard the floorboard creak.

And looked up to see his about-to-be-ditched one-night stand in the doorway of the living room.

Benji’s eyes were wide, his mouth a straight line. He was also naked but that only barely registered.

“I’m….” Wyatt sighed as stood up. “I’m sorry. Sorry I’m a dick who was about to split without waking you. But I’ve got a fucking family emergency right now and I….”

“I heard—where do you need to go?”

Wyatt tried to pull his thoughts together. “Spencer, Pennsylvania. Small town—it’s practically Ohio and just—I need to find a car service who’s willing to drive all the way out there right now—”

“I can drive you,” Benji interrupted. “We have to take the train to New Jersey—my car is with my parents.” His voice was neutral. Even. But his eyes were everywhere but Wyatt’s face. “But—I’ll take you.”

Overwhelmed, he stared dumbly for a moment. “You don’t have to….” Then Wyatt caught himself. Uncomfortable be damned. He had to get to Raven as soon as possible. “Thanks. Just… thanks. So much. I’ll pay for gas and the train and whatever.”

Benji shrugged. “Let me get dressed. Do you need to stop at your apartment?”

He hadn’t even thought of that.

“Yeah. Thanks.”

“Let’s say ten minutes we’ll head out. Stop by yours and then head for my parents.”

So logical and calm. Wyatt felt his heart rate drop slightly.

“Thanks,” he repeated.

“It’s fine.”

And with that, Benji disappeared into the bedroom.

Wyatt would feel like an asshole tomorrow.

ITWASN’Tuntil Benji emerged—in another version of last night’s expensive jeans and faded band T-shirt—with an overnight bag that Wyatt realized this wasn’t a jaunt to Cape May. They were going to be driving for hours and, chances were, staying overnight.

His palms sweated a little.

“You don’t have to…,” he tried again, hearing Raven’s cries in the back of his mind. It must’ve shown on his face because Benji didn’t even pause. He strode around the living room, picking up his phone and charger, a laptop case, his sneakers.

“Train leaves in about an hour. That should give us enough time. I’m going to need addresses at some point for the GPS.”

The stuttering kid from last night was all but gone, and this responsible adult with carefully tousled hair and an air of control left Wyatt feeling off-kilter.

“Sure.” Wyatt started to say more but Benji was already turning away and walking into the kitchen.

THEcab ride to Wyatt’s apartment was utterly silent. No canoodling this time. There wasn’t much traffic as they cruised downtown, and the Village hadn’t yet filled with tourists and Sunday morning brunch seekers. Benji looked out the window.

Wyatt looked at his phone, jiggling his leg nervously.

What would happen if Rob died? Who would take care of Raven and her twins? He’d move them to New York—the apartment was small but they’d manage. His lack of giving a shit about children was well-known but this was Raven—they were going on thirty years of taking care of each other and nothing was going to change that.

She was so excited about these babies. Rob was excited. She kept saying “Rob’s so excited” whenever they talked, like it was the greatest news she’d ever heard. Him not living to see his kids born—well, Wyatt’s stomach twisted painfully. All sorts of shitty parents seemed to live forever (like his, like Raven’s), tormenting their kids into middle age. Or dumping them without a second backward look. What sort of world would take a person away who actually wanted to be a dad?

“Wyatt?” Benji’s voice pulled him out of his sad spiral. He blinked and looked around—they were on his corner in front of his building.

“Sorry.” He went for his wallet but Benji was already pushing him out the door.

“I took care of it.”

Wyatt stood on the curb and watched Benji struggle to get his bags out of the cab. He seriously had no idea who the guy was and yet he was about to get into a car with him and drive six hours into the middle of nowhere.

He was crazy.

But then Benji looked up at him, all serious and concerned, and Wyatt felt a weird sensation.

Trust.

WYATTthought about apologizing for the mess, but fuck it—he was frazzled and sick to his stomach. The small apartment building had no doorman and smelled like lemon furniture polish, but that it was cheap and had no drug dealers were excellent trade-offs. They walked to the fourth floor in silence.

“Give me like ten minutes, okay?” Wyatt gestured toward the leather sofa and then hurried into his bedroom.

He had a bag half-packed at all times, thanks to all his work-related travel. That saved time. He grabbed jeans and light shirts, a jacket. Loafers. With each thing dropped into his leather duffle, he felt a stab of fear. Small town, rural, closed community—he knew that world, and he didn’t like the potential for asshole behavior. Been there, survived that.

Raven swore it was a nice place, but then Raven had the luxury of passing for straight and “normal.”

Her hair wasn’t purple anymore, the nose ring was almost fashionable, and no one could tell her number on the Kinsey scale by looking at her or her life.

His best friend passed. Wyatt had never had that luxury, not once in his whole life.

For a second, panic swamped him, and it had nothing to do with Raven and Rob. There was a reason he’d left small-town living behind as soon as he had a diploma in his hand.

A knock startled him and he turned to find Benji peeking inside.

“Sorry but, uh—the train. If we want to catch the next one, we have to get to Penn Station,” he said, apologetic. As if he should be sorry for getting Wyatt where he needed to be.

Wyatt nodded, not quite ready to trust his voice. He zipped everything up, took his laptop case off the desk, and hoisted it over his shoulder.

The next hour was a blur after that—another cab, Penn Station, the ticket counter. Again, he didn’t pay for anything, and dimly he thought he should start keeping a tab. Benji had very little to say, just leading the way through the train station, directing Wyatt from place to place.

If he wasn’t ready to cry with worry and fear, Wyatt would have been really annoyed at the lack of control he was having over the situation.

“Where do your parents live?” Wyatt asked finally, as they sat on the hard plastic bench to wait.

“Hawthorne—it’s just outside the city. Half hour, tops. We can walk to the house from there.”

“They’re okay with you borrowing their car? I don’t want you to get into trouble.” As soon as it was out of his mouth, Wyatt felt himself cringe a little. Lord in heaven, he should have found out exactly how old this kid was.

Benji looked at him strangely, eyes dark and unblinking. There was something in the shift of his mouth as if he were holding in words, which told Wyatt he’d said exactly the wrong thing.

“It’s my car,” he said finally, then gestured toward the platform. “Our train’s coming.”

Wyatt followed him, wishing the train had a bar car.

THEtrain let them out in spectacular New Jersey suburban glory—neat rows of houses with proper lawns and little flags proclaiming their love of America, flowers, and the New York Yankees.

Wyatt tried not to break into hives.

A still silent Benji led him out of the train station and out through the parking lot. As they waited to cross the street, a family on bikes—mom, dad, three kids with helmets—whizzed by. Wyatt’s throat closed up.

Okay, God, you and I have no business with each other anymore but Raven and Rob need help. You should do something about that.

After five minutes of walking, they arrived at a tiny brown cottage tucked into a lot at the end of the street. It was dwarfed by the giant Colonials on the street, all of which looked more recently updated and expertly placed on well-manicured lawns. This one, however, seemed to be caught in a ’60s time warp.

Benji’s shoulders—already tense—had risen to somewhere around his ears at this point. There was a Prius in front of a beat-up free-standing garage, and Wyatt had a Thelma and Louise moment of suggesting they throw their stuff in the back and flee.

“I need to get the keys. You can stay out here.” Benji’s sharp-edged voice startled him.

Wyatt didn’t respond; he stood on the scraggly lawn of weeds with his bags, sweating through his khakis and polo.

Was the kid in the closet? Did he not want to explain the giant queen on his folks’ lawn?

He didn’t even care at this point. So long as he got to Raven, nothing else mattered.

BENJIcame out a second later, trailed by a tiny Japanese woman with a cranky slant to her mouth and a silver fox in a T-shirt that read “Clean Water is Not a Luxury.”

“Just—could you move the car? I need to get going. It’s an emergency,” Benji was saying, walking to the garage.

“You show up for five minutes to get your keys and that’s it?” The woman—Wyatt guessed that was Mom—was on his heels, making grabs at the back of his shirt. “This isn’t a hotel.”

“I know, I know.” Benji fumbled with the lock. The woman pushed into his personal space. “I’ve been busy.”

“Busy?” She scoffed at the word. “You’re not busy. You’re hiding.”

“Tina,” the guy whom Wyatt assumed was Benji’s father said, standing back and shooting Wyatt occasional looks as he folded his arms over his chest. “Let’s not do this right now.”