The Winner Takes All (Complete Collection)

25. The Hanging and the Banging

25

THE HANGING AND THE BANGING

Nate

In the morning, the first thing I notice is the sound of water pattering down on tiles a room away.

Then half-sunlight streaming through the nearby window as my eyes flutter open.

Next, the rumpled sheets next to me. An indent in the pillow. And…singing?

Is that a familiar song?

I tune into the raspy voice rising above the noise of the shower.

Are you lonesome tonight?

I sit up in bed and listen to the free concert.

Do you miss me tonight?

A smile takes over my whole body.

Are you sorry we drifted apart ?

I’m so tempted to walk into the shower and bust Hunter in the act of being absolutely swoony. But the sound of him crooning me awake is something I never knew I wanted.

And now I need every verse.

So I steal this time, quietly getting out of bed as he finishes the old-time song.

Then and only then do I walk into the spacious bathroom with its room-for-two glass-brick shower stall. He blinks under the stream of water when he sees me, then smiles a little dopily.

Maybe he’s thinking about last night too.

He pushes open the shower door an inch. “Want to join me?”

“I do,” I say, but first I brush my teeth, since I’m going to need to kiss him.

When I’m done, I join my roommate for the week. “You sing in the shower,” I say.

He dips his face. “Yeah, sorry. I live alone so it’s just a thing I do. Did I wake you up?”

“Felt like I was living in an animated flick. Being serenaded with birds chirping on the window. Maybe mice and chipmunks will come make the bed.”

“Shut it,” he says, rolling his eyes.

“I’d see that movie. I mean, my first crush was Gaston,” I say as I inch under the stream, dip my head back and wet my hair.

His nose crinkles. “He’s such a dick.”

“Tell me about it. I’ve been working through my issues ever since.”

Hunter chuckles, smart enough to connect the dots to my ex. “And have you progressed to a crush on the Beast? He does have a library. He’s a much better choice.”

I wiggle a brow. “I do like some chest hair,” I say, my gaze straying to Hunter’s pecs, covered with just the right amount of fur.

“Yes, Nate. I’m a veritable beast,” he says drily.

“And your singing is cute,” I add.

“Why do you keep calling me cute?”

“Do I call you cute?” I ask, arching a brow. Teasing him has become my new favorite hobby. “Or do all your new fans call you The English Cutie?”

“I will never live that down,” he grumbles as he tips his head back under the stream.

I grab the bar of soap and wash up. “You don’t want to be cute?”

“I’d rather be smoking, or hot, or sexy.”

Setting the soap back in the dish, I turn around and kiss his wet mouth. “You’re all of those. And you’re also cute,” I say, and Hunter murmurs a thank you.

Whether it’s for the kiss or the words I have no idea. But I know this—he likes what I have to give. It feels great to compliment a guy and for him to want it.

Lightly, I tap the top of his ass. “How are you doing?”

“Good,” he says, and he sounds sexy, like he’s remembering every delicious detail of last night.

Me too.

“Anything hurt?”

“A tad sore, but I’m a cyclist, and we have a saying.”

“What’s that?”

“Just get back in the saddle again,” he says with a sly wink.

“I like that saying.”

“What about you? How do you…” He stops before he says feel . Maybe he thinks it’s not the right word to use when I topped him?

I sigh dramatically. “I’d feel better if I could blow you before I took you out to breakfast.”

His brown eyes sparkle. “I was going to suggest you do that.”

I get down on my knees, savoring each of his moans, his groans, his thrusts. He comes quickly, and I finish myself off in my hand seconds later.

I’m honestly not sure who enjoys it more.

We make our way out of the room ten minutes later. Hunter is dressed for work in a snappy purple button-down and dark slacks. I picked a standard polo and jeans—casual but sharp. I want to represent the team well later today when we take the tube to our first practice on European soil. “Do you have time for breakfast? I never asked.”

I only feel half bad about that. I want what I want, and that’s time with Hunter.

“I noticed, Bossy Nate. But yeah, I can fit in a quick meal before I head to the office.”

“Good. But we’re not eating at the hotel,” I say as we reach the elevators and I push the call button.

He flinches, then rearranges his features. “Sure. Don’t want to see anyone and all,” he says evenly.

I rope my arms around him, tugging him against me. “You dumbass. It’s not because I’m embarrassed we’ll run into someone.”

“ What? I never said that.” But his tone says “busted.”

I tap his temple. “You didn’t have to. I can read tone and context.”

“Can you though?” he tosses back. “Reading tone wasn’t your top skill yesterday.”

The elevator doors whoosh open and we step into the lift. “What was my top skill yesterday?”

The doors close and Hunter reaches for the collar of my polo, tugs me close. “Topping,” he whispers.

“Mmm. Want to do that again,” I say.

“Tonight,” Hunter says, then he lets go. “Okay, so you don’t want hotel food.”

“It’s boring. I like local food. Something to give me a sense of the place.”

“So you want baked beans on toast, eggs, sausage, hash browns, mushrooms, and the rest?” he asks, arching his brow. Maybe not. “What about something not that heavy?”

He cracks up as I backpedal. “I had a feeling you weren’t a beans-on-toast guy.”

“But I do like sausage,” I say.

“I know, Nate. I know.”

We reach the lobby and as we cross it, I spot a familiar face. My former agent, Maddox LeGrande. I worked with him for a long time before he moved over to CTM with Vance, bringing me along. But the situation got complicated when he fell in love with a client – a hotshot baseball player for the San Francisco Dragons. A whole lot of back and forth later, and he’s, unfortunately, no longer repping me. But I call out to the dude as he strides across the lobby. “Hey Maddox!”

The sharp-dressed man stops in his tracks and comes over to say hello. “How the hell are you, Nate? I miss working with you,” he says. “But I trust Vance is taking good care of you?”

He’s so diplomatic. I fucking love him. And I bet Maddox wouldn’t have asked me to keep up this marriage charade. He was good at maneuvering, but he didn’t believe in manipulating. Though, honestly, I don’t mind the charade right now, especially after last night, and this morning.

“I’m good. Miss working with you too,” I say, then I gesture to Hunter. “This is Hunter Colburn. AKA my husband,” I say, feeling a little sheepish over the lie.

Maddox grins, a wide genuine kind as he shakes Hunter’s hand. “Congrats to the two of you.” Then he turns to me, professional fondness in his eyes. “This is great, Nate. I’m seriously happy for you.”

He knows about Oliver. Knows how hard I tried to work on my relationship with my ex. Knows probably too how Oliver played things off online. “Thanks, man,” I say, but I don’t want to stay in this weird place where I’m lying to a guy I respect. I shift gears to his dude. “Zane’s had a great season. And the Dragons look good in the playoffs.”

“They sure do,” he says, with pride in his eyes. “I’ve got some clients here in London for the game, but I should be able to catch one of his games when I return home soon.”

“Wish him luck from me.”

“And me,” Hunter chimes in.

I squeeze my temporary husband’s shoulder. “I landed a guy who likes sports. Lucky me,” I say.

“Lucky indeed.” Maddox smiles, then heads off.

At least I didn’t end the convo on a lie. Hunter does like sports, and I do feel kind of lucky with him. We leave and Hunter takes me to a shop around the corner. A white and green awning greets visitors, with My Cup Of Tea inscribed in a curlicue font across the window. “Tea and toast,” he says, grabbing the white door and opening it. “Doesn’t get more English than that.”

“Let’s do it.”

Ten minutes later, I’m sitting down at a tiny white table with a cup of English Breakfast and a couple of slices of avocado toast. Hunter has the same.

After I take a drink, I set down the delicate cup and look around. The shop teems with Monday morning crowds, the street bustles with let’s-get-to-work energy. A clock above the counter says it’s eight-forty-five.

“What time do you have to go to the office?” I ask.

“I should be there by nine-thirty,” he says, then crunches into his toast.

“Where do you work?”

“It’s about a five-minute tube ride. Twenty minutes by foot.”

I don’t have practice till eleven then a late lunch with my sneaker sponsor, and I won’t see him again till late tonight. Screw playing it cool. “Can I walk you to work?”

Hunter takes a sip of his tea, eyeing me over the top of the steaming mug. “Why am I the cute one? I’d say that’s you.”

My cheeks heat.

But what am I going to do? Downplay how I want to steal as much time with him as possible? It’s obvious I do. No point hiding it. “Look, Hunter,” I begin and he tenses. I reach for his hand. “I want to see you while I’m here,” I say in a low voice. “I want to spend time with you. Like I said last night.”

He links his fingers tighter through mine. “Same.”

“And originally, I thought I was going to be busy every second. And I know you’re busy too. But I just want to find a way to?—”

“Make time,” he cuts in, letting me know he’s on the same page. “We can make time. We can enjoy the week.”

But we’re definitely going to need some ground rules.

A crowded tea shop isn’t the place to lay those down.

We finish breakfast and start for the Webflix offices, passing a high-end department store with Union Jack flags waving above elaborate window displays of teddy bears in tartan jackets.

Time for total honesty. “Here’s my deal,” I say and I’m going to tell him about my marriage. But when I look at Hunter, his gaze earnest, his expression vulnerable, I swallow the words. My ex played mind games about sex, he claimed headaches, and I don’t think he ever wanted me . No man wants to hear about another guy in bed. All that matters is that sex with Hunter is everything I’ve craved for years. “Sex with you is just out of this world,” I admit, tingles rushing down my spine.

He bites the corner of his lips. “Are you serious?”

Stopping, I grab his shirt and drag him against me here on the streets of London. “I have the hardest time keeping my hands off you.”

He glances down, his lips curving up. “I’ve noticed and I like it.”

“I just want to touch you and kiss you and get my mouth all over you,” I say. Cool October air whisks by, but I don’t feel a chill. Heat spreads through me. “And with you I feel like I’m having sex for the first time.” There. That’s one of the truest things I’ve ever said to anyone.

He blows out a surprised breath. “You do?”

I’m about to answer when a pack of men and women in suits trot past us, maybe late to work. Shit. Hunter has to move too. Get to the office.

I drape an arm around him, urging him forward. We pick up the pace. “Everything feels new again. Everything feels…”

Right .

But right is a terrifying word.

“Was your twat ex not into sex?” he asks.

I wince, chagrined he’s hit the nail on the head. But then, it wasn’t hard to guess. “Not with me,” I clarify, the admission scraping my throat. “He wasn’t into sex with me.”

Hunter growls, then bumps his shoulder to mine. “I’m very into sex with you.”

This man is the jackpot. “I know. And I like that.”

As we dart past a pack of men in suits barking into their phones, I take a beat to sort out my wild, lustful thoughts for Hunter Colburn. But they’re tanglier than I expected, twisted up with the need to spend time with him.

We stop at the crosswalk as the morning light streams over a nearby red phone booth. There, I try again. “I can’t do commitment. I can’t promise anything. But I’d really like to spend as much time with you this week as we can,” I say, adding that the team goes into lockdown on Saturday morning. Players have to stay alone—no wives or girlfriends, or husbands or boyfriends—the night before a game.

“I’m in,” Hunter says, and it’s that easy.

Now that I’ve put my cards on the table, I’m jazzed by the idea of another great night, or two or three. I’m even excited to go to the reception Friday night with him. “What do you like to do for fun in London?”

“Bike rides around the city or on trails. Going to the movies. Theater. Music. The concert was great. I love going to see bands. And just hanging out with mates. Trevor and Liam already want to meet you.”

I can tell that would make him happy.

The thing is, it would make me happy too.

“Hanging with buds is the best. Let’s do whatever we can, okay? I mean, we’re married. And we’re staying together in my hotel. So I figure we can have lots of sex at night and in the mornings, and then maybe find time to see each other when we can.”

I’m a salesman, making my big pitch. A week of no strings.

“We’ll be two Ryans,” Hunter says, upbeat.

Confused, I knit my brow. “What does that mean?”

“It’s something my sister said about us yesterday. She said we were two Ryans, like in The Proposal . Well, if Ryan Reynolds wound up with a man. Come to think of it, maybe I should just produce a hot queer film called Two Ryans .”

Before I get distracted by thoughts of this flick that I definitely want to see someday, I file away the fact that Hunter told his sister about me.

“In Two Ryans , do the dudes agree to hot banging and hanging out for a week?” I ask.

Hunter nods big and long. “Why yes, Nate. They do. And it’s fantastic. The hanging and the banging.”

“It will be,” I say, sealing the deal.

One week in London, no strings, all the sex, and all the good times. None of the hurt.

This is going to be the best seven days ever. The only thing that would make it better would be some football—oh, wait, that’s happening too. Since this week will end in a football game.