Blindsided (Fake Boyfriend 4)

I uprooted my whole life for him. Moved to Chicago to be near him. All because I missed what I had with him, which, up until recently, I thought was just a solid friendship.

Friends don’t give up what I did just so they can see their college buddy again. That’s illogical. That doesn’t stop me from trying to make sense of it. And to make sense of it, I need to do something I’ve been putting off.

For fear of rejection, fear of discovering some unknown truth that’s always been a part of me, I don’t know. But I do know Miller doesn’t scare me. Doing this with Miller doesn’t scare me.

“Take your shirt off,” I rasp.

“Talon—”

“Take. Your. Shirt. Off.”

Miller’s lips quirk, but he does as I say. His voice is muffled by his shirt going over his head as he says, “You know, using that voice for anything but football may backfire.”

“What voice?”

“Marcus Talon, the quarterback. Next season, when you call out plays, I’ll be blocking linebackers with a hard-on.”

The thought of Miller getting hard because of me makes my own dick perk up. Not that it wasn’t half there already.

“I’ve seen your dick. It’s impressive but not that impressive.” I have to joke because I need a dose of reality, and keeping things light between us is the basis of our friendship.

I’m sure if he tried, his dick could tackle someone. Everything about Miller is big, and one thing I have noticed all the times we’ve been naked together is that he’s definitely in proportion to the rest of his giant body.

I’ve always admired him and his physique on a professional level, but now I’m mesmerized by his body in a new way. Like how he moves his arm under his head, his biceps bunching. Miller’s dark hair, usually short during the season, has started growing out, and the slight curls fall over his forehead and almost into his dark eyes.

Why the fuck am I thinking about his eyes? And his muscles? And—

“What are you thinkin’ about?” Miller’s voice, deep and rumbly, pulls me out of my confusion. Because it’s Miller. Things have never been confusing with him before, but ever since moving to Chicago …

“How many times have we seen each other naked?” I ask.

“Countless,” Miller answers easily.

“Then why am I only noticing shit now?”

“Shit? Are you calling my abs shit? Because my abs could crush your abs in a fight.”

A laugh escapes. “No. I mean why is this the first time I’ve taken notice of how sexy muscles can be?”

Miller’s eyes become hooded. “I’m trying to decide whether to mouth off and tell you you’re slow on the uptake or ask you what you want me to do with said muscles.”

I smirk. “I love how you found a way to say both of those things without actually saying either.”

“There was also a joke about some of the women we’ve been with being more muscular than me, but I held that one in.”

“Respect.”

“So … you were saying something about my muscles.”

A breath gets stuck in my throat. “Yeah. I was.” Because, apparently, we’re doing this, and, apparently, Miller’s completely okay with it.

I swallow hard and the question How are you so comfortable right now? can’t pass my lips no matter how much I want to ask it.

“If you don’t want to do this …” Miller starts.

“I do,” I blurt. “I just … I don’t know how … what … I—”

Miller leans back, his long arm holding his phone farther away. I can see all of his torso and an impressive bulge in his jeans. Those muscles I’ve been admiring are on full display, and I bite my lip to hold in any noise. I’m worried if I do it’ll all stop.

I can’t help wondering what his skin tastes like. Is it different to a woman’s? Manlier? Sweatier?

“Are you okay with watching me?” Miller asks. “You don’t have to do anything if you don’t want to.”

I nod, but it’s subtle. “Yes.”

I’m thankful he’s taking the lead here, because as bossy as I can be on the field and in other areas of my life, this is one thing I’m completely lost on.

Miller’s hand starts at his collarbone and slowly moves over his chest and down his pec. It hesitates for a second as his fingers trail over his nipple, as if he’s contemplating squeezing it, but he keeps moving on.

“Pinch your nipple,” I instruct. “I know you want it.”

“Yeah? How do you know?” he asks breathlessly.

“You forget I already know what you like. When someone’s sucking on your nipple, you get this feral look in your eye, and you sound tortured like it’s too hard to hold back.”

A flash of surprise crosses his face, and he’s probably as shocked as I am that I’d taken that much notice.

Instead of going for his nipple though, his hand moves to his cock and palms it over the denim. His hips roll and lift off the bed, and he grips his cock through the denim.