The Tight End (Red's Tavern 6)

He was enjoying this. Thank God he was enjoying this as much as I was.

“Forget about history,” he whispered, still sounding like he was trying to remain calm. “Like I said, I just… don’t really know what I’m doing.”

“You’re just being yourself, and you don’t have to be anything else,” I said.

I could feel his breath at the side of my face. I even loved the fact that I was holding back every little desire I had to drag him back to my room right now, toss him on my bed, and keep him there until morning.

I typically went in guns blazing, ready to hook up with guys in no time flat.

But just this—being so close to him, not even kissing his lips yet—felt more intimate than any of my usual hookups ever could.

It was a little scary. I didn’t do things like this. I didn’t indulge in romantic, tender moments with people, even if I wanted to.

But like hell I was going to stop myself now.

“Okay,” he finally said, his voice in a lower register than usual, husky and sexy and delicious.

I pressed one more kiss to the side of his neck before breaking off, reaching in my pocket for my keys and letting us into the house. It didn’t matter how hot it had been to be so close to him—I knew if I didn’t break away, I’d end up there all night, pressing him up against the wall and having my way with him. We walked up the stairs to our apartment and headed inside, taking off our coats.

“Sleep well, Logan,” I said, giving him a nod before heading to my room.

7

Logan

“And that was the prevalent attitude during the Victorian era,” Professor Chauncey was saying, pacing across the front of the small room as she spoke. “Things were changing, rapidly, but so many people wanted to hold on to the past. It was a struggle. A push-and-pull, between what the people in the culture were used to, and the inevitable future.”

Dr. Chauncey’s eyes met mine and I realized I’d been staring into space, chewing on the inside of my cheek for the last ten minutes. She started to wrap up the class, talking about the requirements for the essay we’d be writing next week. I glanced down at my laptop. I’d only written three little bullet points on my notes for today’s class. The hour was nearly over.

Where the hell had my brain been for all of class?

Brody. Brody. Brody.

His eyes. His lips. The plush, hot feel of his mouth against my skin.

It didn’t help that he’d texted me just a few minutes before class.

>>Brody: Thank you, by the way, roomie.

>>Logan: For the history help? No problem.

>>Brody: Yes, for the tutoring. But for the company, too. You’re already the best teacher I’ve ever had. And the best roomie.

>>Logan: Too nice to me.

>>Brody: Just the right amount of nice. I promise.

He’d sent a short video selfie after it, a video of him walking through the grassy quad, smiling at the camera and giving me a little wink. He was wearing a backwards snapback hat, and it did very strange things to my heart and my dick, seeing him in it, tufts of his brown hair sticking out the sides.

Since when was I into beefy dudes in backwards hats? I’d replayed the video over a few times at my desk before class began, a fluttery feeling in my chest as I tried to keep from getting a half-chub in my pants.

There were a million other things I should have been focusing on—the first of which being Professor Chauncey’s lecture. Time was also ticking for my grad school applications. Harvard, Princeton, Yale and Northwestern weren’t going to accept anything but the best. I should have been paying attention in class so that I could incorporate facts about Victorian cultural changes in one of my entrance essays. Every little bit would count.

But instead I’d been daydreaming about Brody’s plush, inviting lips.

His lightly spicy, masculine scent.

The way he looked at me sometimes—like I was something special, not just another nerdy guy.

I wanted him so badly. And it was absolutely fucking terrifying. I didn’t know how to handle somebody like Brody. I was inexperienced in every possible way socially, and now a gorgeous, confident, six-foot-two casanova had taken a passing pet interest in me.

It made no sense.

One of my favorite Abraham Lincoln quotes floated through my head. “I can never be satisfied with anyone who would be blockheaded enough to have me.”

It was far too relatable. Maybe all I had to do to feel some shred of confidence in myself was remember that even one of the greatest leaders of all time was an introverted wreck at times, like me.

As the other students gathered their things and left class, I was slower than usual.