Brett (Boys & Toys Season 2 2)

When I collapse on the bed next to him, we’re both out of breath with a sheen of glistening sweat all down our bodies.

Skylar turns his head. Our faces are in front of each other. He puts a kiss on my lips, then lets out half a sigh and half a laugh.

“I can’t believe we just did that,” he murmurs.

“Me neither.” I kiss him again, overcome. My heart still races. I’m lighter than air, and the smile on my lips won’t go away. “Skylar, that was the best fucking sex I’ve ever had in my whole life.”

“I guess it was a long time coming, huh?”

“You can say that a few times. Shit.” I laugh suddenly, then roll onto my back. The all-familiar ceiling meets my eyes again. “If I had a confession to put in that book—you know, if I ever actually lost a game or bet—I think it’d be the same as yours.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” I turn my face to his. “I’ve always had a thing for you, Skylar. I’m so glad we … have this now. Whatever ‘this’ is …”

“Me, too.”

Our lips connect again, tenderly and sweet. I’m convinced no one I ever kiss again will compare to the way Skylar Haas makes me feel.

“There’s cum on your face,” I whisper to him after we kiss.

“Be my plus-one,” he whispers back.

I blink. “Your what?”

“To my sister’s wedding. Be my date.”

I lift my eyebrows in surprise. “Really? You’d have me—?”

“Are you kidding? Of course! Hell, I bet that was my sister’s plan all along, the second she found out about you. You have to be there. You have to be there with me at the wedding.”

I grin, staring into his eyes. “I guess it’s a date, then.”

“It’s a date.” He kisses me again.

And after a quick clean-up of our sticky bodies, in a small bedroom in the middle of the very noisy and crowded gayborhood, two old college buddies and former frat bros caress and embrace each other for hours, completely and embarrassingly incapable of separating from one another’s lips. We’ve got many years of kissing and affection to make up for, and it shows.

There’s no telling what hour of the night the pair of us finally give in to sleep. All I know is, my boy is cuddled into my arms, skin against skin, my nose nuzzled into his sweet neck, and I’ve never felt more complete than I do tonight.

[ THE BIG DAY ]

Before the wedding, Brett is busy making arrangements for the bachelorette party, which he was unofficially assigned to organize by Skylar’s ever-sweetly-demanding sister. Everything is going perfectly, Brett is hopping around town feeling useful and needed, and the sunlight is in his hair.

11

Every step I take is on a cloud today.

Actually, it’s been a few days that my walking is practically bouncy. I could be convinced I’ve got tiny trampolines in my shoes.

“You’re … in a suspiciously good mood,” notes my boss Bethany, eyeing me sleepily from a table where she’s drinking her afternoon coffee (which I brewed her). “You get laid or something?”

“Sorry, Beth, but I don’t kiss and tell,” I mutter sassily, giving her a wink—to which she gags and continues tiredly stirring her cup.

Even Dante notices when we work out the next morning, staring at me quizzically as I finish a third set of chest presses with the enthusiasm of a peppy cheerleader.

“You’re on something,” he decides.

I shrug as I stand up and stretch my arms. “I just feel more productive than usual lately.”

“Yeah, I’ve seen you making a lot of calls,” he notes, smirking at me. “It better not be one of those call-the-cops parties of yours you’re planning.”

“Oh, it just might be. But it won’t be at Piazza Place.” I start rubbing out a sore muscle.

Dante chuckles, not buying it. “Yeah, yeah … sure it won’t be. Last time you sent out an invite, you included me in the group message, and you called the apartment complex the Pizza Place.” He frowns. “We don’t serve no damned pizza, Brett.”

I shrug. “Honest typo!”

“Uh-huh.”

We’re in the dim locker rooms changing after our showers when a very tall someone approaches Dante from behind. “You should know that I don’t appreciate your intrusion into my relationship very fucking much.”

Dante turns and arches an eyebrow. “Huh?”

The very tall someone—a forty-something man in a sweater vest, pin-stripe shirt, and bowtie who looks very far from the office (possibly lost) and with a tragically forgettable face—puffs up his chest (which does little to puff him up at all) and repeats himself. “I said you should know I don’t appreciate your intru—”

“I heard you the first time,” Dante cuts him off. “And who the hell are you?”

The man appears offended for half a second before at once stiffening up. “I’m Jared Appleby.”

“Appleby?” Dante gives me a quick look, then squints back at the man. “Your last name is really Appleby? … Like the restaurant?”