The Best Men (The Best Men 1)

These thoughts brought to you by my ex announcing his wedding on Instagram.

It shouldn’t bother me.

Yet it does.

Our game of bloodthirsty Scrabble takes a million years, but it might be drawing to a close soon when Hannah snags a triple-word score on chutzpah, and Mark counters with whizbang.

They are a fierce family. Fiddling with my tiles, I rearrange them until . . .

Ha!

Not even sure this is a playable word, but fuck it.

And fuck exes.

And fuck their engagements that I don’t care about anymore tonight, or hell, at all. What I really want is to get my hands on Mark again and soon. So I’ve got to do my part to end Scrabble.

Setting the tiles one by one on the board, I spell a word off chutzpah.

And maybe send a message to him as I play . . . hardon.

I sneak a glance at Mark.

His lips twitch.

His expression is no longer unreadable. He’s an open book as those eyes swing to me, then away. He fights like hell to rein in a grin.

I want to wipe off that grin with a hot, searing kiss.

“Dude, that’s not a Scrabble word,” Flip puts in.

I arch a brow at my buddy. “But are you sure?”

Flip grabs his phone and asks Google as Hannah leans in to read his screen.

Perfect timing. I meet Mark’s gaze, and his baby blues are filled with dirty wishes. I got you, Banks. I am going to take care of those filthy desires.

“It’s not a word. Hard is, though, and Asher can leave it at that,” Hannah offers, always the helpful one.

“So is boner,” Flip says, which is not helpful.

“Thanks. I’ll just whip out the extra boner letters in my pocket for that,” I say, spelling hard instead.

Gets the point across.

Flip hauls Hannah in for a peck on the cheek. “We could play dirty Scrabble,” he murmurs.

Yes. Do that. Elsewhere.

Her eyes flutter closed as he kisses her jaw, and that gives me another chance to catch Mark’s attention. I lift a brow. He lifts one in return, and that?just knowing he’s still up for us?makes me, well, harder.

This game must end soon, or I’ll combust. Florida is known for strange occurrences, right? I’ll wind up on that Twitter feed people make fun of. Florida man erupts from sexual frustration, leaving behind only a pair of Andrew Christian underwear and one testicle.

Okay, that’s dark. But this is the same state where a man recently set an alligator on fire while trying to shoo it away from his inflatable chair with a cigarette lighter.

Another eon later, the game mercifully ends. Hannah wins. Mark comes in second, Flip is third, and I’m last.

I could probably have played better, but my concentration is shot. As we put the game away, all I can think about is Mark’s mouth on my hard cock. And his hands on me too. And, fine, his hard dick in my ass.

And Hannah still hasn’t retreated to their room.

I’m here, waiting in this mansion, wanting to escape to the guest house. Basically, I’m a living, breathing sex spreadsheet tonight while the minutes tick by slowly. As they chat, I drink some wine and try not to stare across at Mark the way a hungry cat stares at a fish in a sealed aquarium.

Finally, as midnight approaches, Hannah puts a hand on her growing belly and yawns. “I should get to bed. We’ll put in a long day tomorrow, right boys?”

I’m on my feet as quickly as if someone had pulled the fire alarm. “Good point. Let’s get some Zs.” I stretch my arms over my head for effect.

Flip gives me a curious frown. “Right. Are you guys staying upstairs too?”

“No, we’re in the, uh, guest house,” Mark says, his eyes on his shoes. “Our families will get those rooms upstairs. There’s one for your parents and one for ours.”

“Ah! That was nice of you,” Hannah says. She crosses to her brother and hugs him. “Night, Mark. Thanks for your hard work.”

I’d like him to thank me for my hard work in, say, about an hour.

“Oh, it’s nothing,” he says. “Anything for you.” He sounds a little guilty.

Wait. Did I misread those dirty looks at the end of the game? What if Mark is about to give me some kind of speech about responsibility, or keeping promises, or something like that? What then?

Well, God made tongues for a reason, and mine can be very convincing.

Mark stands too, his overhead stretch more legitimate than mine. It’s punctuated by an actual yawn. His shirt rides up a few crucial inches, and I catch a glimpse of the shadow of his happy trail against his lean abs.

My mouth actually waters. I’m in danger of pouncing on this man. The bottle of lube is still wedged in the pocket of my shorts, where my hand pats it now, just to make sure it’s safe and sound.