Hopelessly Bromantic (Hopelessly Bromantic Duet 1)

The next year with Jude will be research.

That’s how I’ll classify this, and that will help me navigate three hundred sixty-five nights sharing less than a thousand square feet with him.

“Now, how about that music lesson?” he asks, bright and lively.

“No such luck, sweetheart,” I say. “I have to be at work at eight-thirty. Raincheck.”

“Of course . . . sweetheart,” he says, imitating me.

Is he teasing me? Or playing the scientist echoing the robot’s lines? No idea. But if I stay out here, I’ll get too lost in my head. I point to the bedroom. “I’m going to hit the sack.”

And probably whack off.

“Me too,” Jude adds.

The trouble is, once I’m in bed and he’s in his room, I hear him shuffling around, opening drawers, one of which squeaks.

I push my hands through my hair, annoyed. These walls are paper-thin. Can’t even fucking jerk it.

Sure, I can be quiet and all, but still. I don’t want to let out a groan accidentally.

Well, the gods of horny men made showers for a reason. Swinging my legs out of bed, I head straight for the bathroom, shut the door and stand under the hot stream. I waste no time. I need to let go of all this tension.

I especially need to do it without thinking of my roommate.

I picture nameless, faceless men as I stroke.

Hard bodies. Broad shoulders. Mouths on cocks.

I close my eyes, grip myself harder, my breath stuttering.

The water skims over me as I hit the right pace, the one that makes my skin crackle, that gets me closer to release. As my fist flies down my length, I picture lips on me.

Yes, that’s it.

Just a standard order blow job.

That’s all I need to reach the edge.

I fight like hell to stay in that zone, seeing a generic face, a handsome man. Except my mind is a traitorous motherfucker. On an upstroke, the dirty images transform, and my fantasies are completely out of my control, like a runaway train.

Lush, full lips. Bright blue eyes that twinkle. Thick blond hair I twist my fingers through. And a willing mouth. Jude would take me deep, grin as he sucked me to the back of his throat.

The show-off. The gorgeous, filthy show-off.

With a grunt that’s louder than I’d like, I come hard, panting too, and hoping he didn’t hear me.

After I finish my shower and put on basketball shorts, I head to my room and flop on the bed.

That helped, and it also didn’t help one damn bit.

When I turn to my side, I hear a sound. The bathroom door is shutting, then the creak of the faucet, the thrum of the shower.

I pinch the bridge of my nose, fighting a losing battle once more. I can’t picture anything but him seeking release.

Needing it as badly as I did.

Or maybe that’s just more of this foolish hope.

Tomorrow, I’ll do better.

In the morning, I’m up at the crack of dawn, and I hit the pavement for a run. After I shower and get ready for work, I eat toast as I listen to Astronaut Food’s upbeat mix of guitar and smooth vocals.

Jude strides down the hall as the song ends, yawning, hair I’m aching to touch sticking up in all directions.

The hair’s not the only thing sticking up.

The bulge of his morning wood is like a target for my vision, and I can’t look away from the shape of him in those soft gray flannel pants.

I try valiantly, pulling my gaze up, up, and away.

And my brain fills with static because he’s shirtless and beautiful. Jude’s smaller than I am, leaner than I am. His golden skin is smooth and makes my mouth water. He’s toned in all the right ways, and I want to pounce on him, hold him down, and kiss every inch of him as he writhes and moans.

The entire image is too much. I’ll combust if I stay here any longer. Somehow, I manage to take out the earbuds, just to be polite. “Good luck with your audition,” I say, forcing my gaze away from him as I stuff my phone into my pocket.

“Good luck with your first day at work,” he says as I reach for the doorknob. “By the way, I was right about the shower curtain, wasn’t I?”

Right about what? Oh. Sure. He’s into color. “Yeah, it’s perky,” I say quickly, opening the door, ready to bolt.

“It sure is. But I also meant the right one could make the shower more enjoyable. Wouldn’t you say? At least, it was quite enjoyable for me. The sound of the shower and all,” he adds.

Busted.

I close my eyes, let the embarrassment run through me, then I steal a glance at Jude. He heads for the kettle, and as he goes, I can see the hint of a satisfied smile.

I leave.

One down. Three hundred and sixty-four to go.