Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 102549 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 513(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 342(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102549 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 513(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 342(@300wpm)
Our quick hellos are followed by drawn out goodbyes.
What started out as one fun night turned into a regular thing none of us ever planned for.
I can’t walk away from Kit and Prescott. Kit is the stern nurturer I need. He’s the caretaker, the solid presence. Prescott enables my wild ways. He’s someone I can have fun with. They couldn’t be more perfect for me.
But come graduation, I have to move across the country, and geography isn’t our only obstacle. Being in a relationship with two men isn’t good for my public image, my brother’s NFL career, or the media frenzy that surrounds my famously queer family.
We have a plan to meet up once a year, but with every reunion, every brief visit, we fall deeper.
There has to be a breaking point, something that will end it for us, or soon it will be impossible to say goodbye at all.
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
CHAPTER ONE
brady
Anytime my best friend asks to go fishing, my answer is always yes. Because Felix Andrews doesn’t mean on a boat. In the ocean. And he definitely isn’t hoping to catch tuna. Nope. He’s on the hunt for a SEAL of the navy variety.
Felix and I discovered Bottoms Up in Coronado our sophomore year and have been back on many occasions. It’s the closest gay bar to the navy base … port? Whatever it’s called. It’s always packed with seamen, as Felix puts it.
Felix and I share an appreciation of bigger guys, but my obsession doesn’t stop there. I like older guys. Someone who wants to look after me instead of the other way around.
Felix leads me out to the dance floor the second we enter the bar because he knows how to get attention, and in what he’s wearing—midriff top, tight pants—there’s no way he’s not turning a few heads.
He puts on a show like he usually does, basically using my body as if it’s a pole and he’s being paid to dance up on it, but I’m not complaining because it has the desired effect.
Men cut in, dancing with him, dancing with me, dancing as a group … It’s intoxicating being in the middle of a sweaty manwich.
On occasion, I’ve been taken home by more than one guy. I’m not sure if group sex can be called a kink, but if it is, it’s the biggest kink I have. What’s better than one dick but two?
Or, as my gaze catches on two guys at the bar, their long muscular bodies facing the dance floor, military-grade haircuts, what’s better than one SEAL but two?
One of them has lighter hair, the other a rich brown to go with his tanned olive skin. The dark-haired one meets my eyes, and his lips quirk. One looks like a typical military dude—huge and domineering—while the one smiling my way looks less scary, but they’re both bulky and gorgeous.
The bigger one is all hard features, and that’s the sexiest thing to me.
I break eye contact with them and go back to the guy I’m dancing with, a twink who’s obviously here for the same reason we are. That’s the only problem with Felix and me using each other as bait. I sometimes get the attention of others who are like him. It’s not that I’m turned off by smaller guys, it’s just that I have a type.
And the two guys at the bar are my type. With any hope, they’re into three-ways.
I lean in and say in the guy’s ear, “I need to get a drink,” and leave him before he can offer to come with me. Within seconds, he’s grinding up on someone else.
I go to the bar, and unlike Shenanigans—a college bar near campus—Bottoms Up doesn’t make over twenty-ones wear a wristband to drink. This one uses good old-fashioned carding, and luckily for me, I’m six three, over two hundred pounds, and don’t look like a college kid.
Still, when I get to the bar, strategically walking by the two guys I’m interested in so their attention is on me, I only order a Coke. If I do have the chance to hook up tonight, I want to be sober.
Felix and I have a system in place to make sure we’re both safe when going home with strangers. Staying sober is one of our rules. So is letting each other know where we’re hooking up and with whom.
As soon as the bartender hands me my drink and I pay, I turn, only to hit a wall of SEAL. It’s the darker-haired one of the two. My drink spills all over his tight black shirt, and I would be mortified if it wasn’t the move I was planning to do on my way back past them. It just so happened he approached me first.
“I’m so sorry,” I say, trying to sound as sincere as I can.
The half smile he sent my way while I was on the dance floor is still in place. “I’m sure you are.” Then? He reaches back and takes his shirt off, wiping down his wet abs with it.
I almost swallow my tongue.
A voice comes from behind me. “Ignore him. He wouldn’t know the word ‘subtle’ if it hit him over the head.”
I turn to find the other guy there, and I have no idea when he moved. If the haircuts, muscles, and dog tags hanging around the shirtless one’s neck didn’t tip me off about them being SEALs, their stealth would.
“I’m Kit. The show-off is Prescott.”
“Brady,” I croak and then clear my throat.
I was supposed to be approaching them or subtly moving closer and closer to them to get them to approach me. I love that they’ve made the first move, but they’ve thrown me off my game.
It’s hard not to blurt out they should take me home and fuck me.