Sarina Bowen

Five minutes later, I step out of the glass lobby onto the sidewalk, breathing in the warm July air.

And damn it, I’m bewildered to discover I’m rocking a boner, and it’s more than just a case of morning wood. It’s Wes-wood, a result of thinking about us messing around.

It’s another gorgeous day and the tourists are out in droves, bustling down the sidewalk and filling the outdoor patios we pass on our way.

I’m a glutton for Jamie Canning.

I’m too relaxed to move, though. “Five more minutes,” I tell him, wrapping my arm around his shoulders to prevent him from getting up.

His cheek nuzzles my left pec. “You’re a cuddle whore, huh?”

I am. Absolutely. Just never dreamed I’d be cuddling with another guy.

Want you,” I whisper. Lately, those two words define me.

“Have me,” he says.

. “That night we were making the list of benefits of being gay? Borrowing your boyfriend’s clothes.”

Clucking his tongue, he pushes my hands out of the way and straightens the knot. “You look hot in my suit.”

“You look hot in anything.”

“Oh, the irony,” he moans, kicking off his shoes. “My boyfriend dragged me to a fucking mall.”

“You’re right,” I say drolly. “That trip was entirely gratuitous. Who needs towels? We can just air dry.”

He could have tightened up his game since then. He might not even have those particular weaknesses anymore.

I, on the other hand, do. I have the same damn weakness I’ve always had. It’s still there as I stare up at the big screen. As I watch Jamie Canning stop another dizzying slap shot. As I admire the grace and deadly precision with which he moves.

My weakness is him.

I was collecting on the damn bet, which is so fucking ironic, because he’d won. The prize was his, except it wasn’t. It was mine. Because I’d wanted to touch him more than I’d wanted my next breath.