“Fuck, we’re good at that,” Dec panted, swiping his fingers through the mess of sweat and cum on his stomach.
We were. But we shouldn’t make this a habit. Someone had to reset boundaries and re-erect the wall between us.
So, of course, I opened my mouth and said, “Maybe we can just do this part.”
He narrowed his eyes warily. “We agreed that was a bad idea after that party when—”
“I remember, but maybe we wouldn’t suck at it.” Wow. Note to self…don’t go into sales.
Dec fixed me with a shrewd look. “So that would make us fuck-buddies who pretend to be boyfriends? That’s not complicated at all.”
“I prefer ‘friends with benefits’, but you’re right. Let’s stick with trying not to kill each other in the studio and see how that goes.”
He chuckled. “Good plan.”
I kissed his cheek impulsively. “One more thing. Thanks for today. It was nice.”
Dec sat up and flashed one of his high-voltage grins. “I gotta warn you, T…if you get any sweeter, I’m gonna think you like me.”
“Well, I don’t,” I lied. “C’mon, I’ll take you home.”
Friends with benefits. What the fuck was I thinking?
The honest answer…I wasn’t thinking at all. My brain was tired of making sense of a wacky situation. It was easier to go with the flow. Secretly, of course.
It happened organically, as though the mere suggestion that we could be something more opened a window of possibility. There was no point in denying that we were crazy attracted to each other. This didn’t have to mean anything. It could be casual. Like a compatibility test for fake boyfriends. Or something like that. Right?
Over the following weeks, we cautiously tried on a new role. We stuck to clandestine make-out sessions at first. Sweet, passionate kisses, roving hands, and a little harmless friction. We’d break for air, looking slightly confused to find ourselves sporting wood in the office before picking up our mugs and heading to the studio.
Every day we got a little more daring. We arrived earlier, took shorter coffee breaks, and spent more time exploring. One minute we might be sipping coffee in the kitchen, and the next, we had our tongues down each other’s throats.
It was never enough. Feverish hand jobs and bathroom BJs became a daily thing. I’d follow him into the one-person restroom in the lobby, drop to my knees to worship his cock while I jerked off. Or vice versa. We’d clean up afterward, make sure the coast was clear, and go our separate ways. No discussions. No expectations.
At least, that was the idea. The truth was, I was always aware of him. Always. I swore the hair on the back of my neck stood up when Dec walked into a room. I used to think that was because I hated him. Now I was afraid the opposite was true. I wanted him. No, I fucking yearned for him.
So, if I were completely honest with myself, I’d admit that the one thing I’d been desperately trying to avoid had happened.
Declan McNamara was under my skin. And I didn’t hate it.
9
Declan
Having low expectations occasionally paid off. I didn’t think Tegan and I would slide into a seamless friendship-with-benefits arrangement or that Justin would quit being a prick. After all, nothing came easy, and tigers didn’t change their stripes overnight. But for reasons beyond my comprehension, I won the friend-sex-no-BS lottery for the whole month of December. It was fucking amazing.
Tegan and I navigated our way out of an arms-length truce and became friends again. The kind who chatted freely and joked around with each other without second-guessing whether we’d crossed any lines. Oh yeah, and we had a lot of sex.
Don’t get excited. We didn’t fall in love or anything goopy like that. It was just sex. The kind involving secret looks and coded text messages. We had a built-in reason to hang out together, but since we agreed to wait on the phony BF stuff until the tour started, we had to be cautious. And when we almost got caught in the bathroom, we changed things up. No more sneaking in dark corners to grind against each other. We met at T’s place instead.
Not my first choice of venue, but it was close to the studio and he insisted. I think it was a control thing. Maybe he thought I’d get the wrong idea if I hosted. I wanted to assure him I’d kick his ass out before dawn and never offer coffee or bagels. But talking about what we were doing might make this seem like something it wasn’t.
So what was it, again? Sex.
Pure and simple, sex. Fuck, screw, bang. There was nothing flowery, sweet, or seductive about what we did. It was all about getting off.
But it was passionate as fuck. There was a hint of desperation in the way we came together. Hungry kisses and fervent groping sessions were standard foreplay. Our tendency to bite and claw at skin in the heat of the moment made me glad it was sweater weather. I had a few gnarly scratch marks down my back, and I accidentally gave Tegan a hickey one day.