Sex. He wants sex.
Fuck, who am I kidding? So do I.
Why shouldn’t it be him? You’ve wanted him for years. It’s not like you’re holding out for marriage.
What about our friendship? This could ruin it. He could remember he’s not remotely gay and fly away for good.
And that would be different from the last few months, how? At least this time, you’d have a happy memory to remember him by. You’d know what it felt like to be with him. To be with someone you wanted.
A part of me still thinks this is a cry for help, and that if I were a better friend I would back him down off this ledge and help him work through whatever it is that’s causing him to act so out of character. But I’m having a hard time being that better friend right now.
Maybe it’s all the blood rushing to my dick that’s making me think this is a good idea. But the truth is, if he wants me, there’s no way I’ll be able to resist him, and right now only the scared, virginal control freak inside me wants to try.
Fuck that guy.
“Alone and willing?” I pant as he kisses his way up my neck. “I think we can make that happen if we ever get out of this room.”
The fingers wrapped around my wrist tighten at my response and he lifts his head. He’s looking in my eyes like I have answers there, but I know I don’t. I’m not sure of anything right now. This could be the craziest decision I’ve ever made, but if he really wants me, I’ll have to risk it.
A knock on the bookshelf startles us both and I drop my hand from his dick, turning my head to see a wide-eyed Austen waiting to be noticed. “So,” she starts hesitantly. “The monitor on the wall wants to talk to you.”
I frown in confusion until Brendan takes my chin and guides my head around to face the television screen on the far wall, which is supposed to show us clues if we need them.
There are cameras everywhere.
We can see and hear you.
Cut it out.
Fifteen minutes left.
I’m not embarrassed. I’m never coming here again and I’ll run the other way if I see anyone who works here on the street…but I’m not embarrassed.
“Thanks, Austen,” I mumble, face boiling.
Royal leans around the corner, his head over Austen’s shoulder and traces of her burgundy lipstick staining his lips. “Big brother wanted to talk to us too,” he says with a mischievous grin, chuckling when she whacks him in the stomach.
“What? It’s true. Let’s quit wasting time and go save our nation.”
It’s nearly impossible for us to concentrate after that. There isn’t a lot of puzzle solving, but there is a lot of laughing, touching and innuendo all around. When we get to the three-minute mark, we finally cave and ask for help.
I never did find out what Franklin’s weapon was, but when the door finally opens we all cheer like we won the war.
If it were up to me, I’d run out that door and go straight home, dragging Brendan behind me, but Austen included lunch at the sandwich shop as part of the do-over date of awesome.
I’m a good friend. A very good friend who might die as the first successful gay virgin Cupid with blue balls if she doesn’t let us leave soon.
I can tell when she looks at me she understands my dilemma. Which is why I also think this is her way of making sure I’m thinking straight, and that this is really what I want. Especially when she starts giving Brendan her gentle version of the third degree halfway through lunch.
“So what’s this incident I keep hearing about? The reason you got suspended and drunk and almost ditched us at the pub?”
Yep. That’s her gentle version.
Brendan puts down his half-eaten sandwich and reaches for a napkin, looking distinctly uncomfortable.
My instant thought is, I really want to get laid, so I hope this doesn’t have anything to do with sex at inappropriate elevations.
“It was nothing,” he demurs, making Austen raise her eyebrows.
Shit. She’s got that look again.
“Really? It didn’t seem like nothing Friday night.”
Brendan shifts in his seat and I put my hand on his thigh beneath the table, offering support. The desire that was lurking under the surface ignites in his eyes and I know work is the last thing he wants to talk about.
Join the club.
“Captain Kinkaid was a real American hero,” Royal says. “And he was drunk because people kept wanting to toast him for it. I should know. I got an email last night with a link to the video.”
“Son of a bitch,” Brendan mutters. “Who sent it?”
The big man shrugs as he takes out his phone. “I know people.”
They stare at each other across the table, having a silent conversation that I’m absolutely convinced goes something like this: