The Winner Takes All (Complete Collection)

7. Try Me

7

TRY ME

LUKE

There is no clown at Strokers.

No pirate ship or dinosaur either.

The place has a whole nighttime vibe even though it’s barely noon.

I try not to read into the private club feel of the place in Chelsea. The very date-like feel of this underground, nine-hole mini golf course, with smooth jazz-type music playing and a bar that, while not open now, serves cocktails. No milkshakes in sight. No kids either. Strokers is a twenty-one-plus mini golf spot, located under a chi-chi hotel.

Is it purposeful? Did Tanner pick this place because of the evening atmosphere it exudes?

But the answer to that question eludes me, so after we say hi to his friend—a bearded guy named Elias—we set up at the first hole, where I key in on a question I can handle.

“So…Strokers?” I ask. Since that name. That fucking name.

Tanner gives me a deliberately blank stare. “What are you getting at?”

I take a practice swing. “Do you want me to spell it out?”

With my tongue? On your chest? Or your cock?

“Sure. Try me,” he says, and those words reverberate. Try me.

Does he know I want to try him?

“Well, Tanner,” I begin, going for a playful vibe, but he’s standing close enough that his scent invades my nostrils. And my brain empties of words. Quips about stroking off die on my tongue as images flood my mind.

I’ve got to focus. Quickly, I raise the club and swing.

And the ball screams down the green, flying past the windmill, rattling onto the next hole.

“Shit,” I mutter.

The only saving grace is there’s no one playing that hole. A group of college-age girls are a few holes ahead of us.

I jog along the green and grab the purple ball from where it landed—close to the windmill.

I trot back to the tee and set the ball down again with a sheepish grin. “Balls. Sometimes they’re hard to handle,” I say…and dammit.

That’s not sexy.

Especially since I can handle balls, thank you very much. Tanner laughs softly, but his amusement is a small consolation for my humor faux pas.

Note to self: Don’t make fun of your bedroom skills when you’re trying to impress a guy.

Except, nope. I am not trying to impress my good friend.

I’m just trying to play.

I line up again, hit it again, and overshoot again, the ball smacking the edge of the hole. But at least the ball stays on this hole this time.

“Guess I better work on my stroke,” I say. Maybe humor will get me through this awkward date.

“It’s all in the wrist,” Tanner says, too smooth, and entirely too tempting.

Just like he looks right now, in those dark blue jeans, and the tight red T-shirt, and with his trim beard.

He looks better than he did for his date the other night.

I step away so I’m not infected with his dopamine as he plants his feet, raises the club, and swings effortlessly.

Bet he looks good working his wrist too.

I’ve scored woefully over par on the first four holes, and this has to stop. No matter how sexy my friend looks, I am still a competitive man.

I can’t lose this badly.

I set up two feet away from the hole by the waterwheel, my purple golf ball mocking me. It’s taken me four strokes to even get it this close. Tanner finished this hole already.

In only two strokes. He’s under par.

Fucking show-off.

The picture of cool and casual, he rests his palms on his club, watching me. I t’s normal to watch your opponent play, right? Doesn’t mean anything. He’s so chill. Maybe this fire is just inside me.

I adjust my hips then take a swing. The ball glances right past the hole.

“Dammit,” I mutter.

He laughs. “I guess every man has a weakness, Remington. I’ve found yours.”

Ha. Not exactly. My weakness is this new way I’m thinking about his stroke, or his stick. But I’m not letting on. I switch tactics, since swagger won’t work when I have mini golf egg on my face. “Clearly, this course is rigged.”

“That must be it. Elias is a Minotaurs fan,” Tanner says.

“Obviously,” I say, grateful Tanner’s not poking at my soft spots today. I tap the ball the rest of the way in, then thankfully finish this hole.

As we head to the next one, he points at the string of lights hanging over the branches of a fake tree, giving it a romantic glow. “This place though,” he says. “ Nice , isn’t it?”

Nice .

That word tickles at my brain. When did he use it before in that tone? It sounds so familiar. Ah right, it was several months ago at Gin Joint when I’d ribbed him about a date, and he’d said maybe nice is a euphemism .”

I come out of that memory a little hotter than when I entered it.

“Yeah, it’s nice,” I say, my voice a little strangled.

“Glad you think so,” he says, then flashes me a smile that makes me feel like he’s undressing me.

It’s hot in here even with the low hum of the air conditioning. I tug on the neck of my tight polo. His eyes stay on me. Longer than is friendly. So much longer.

I’m starting to find answers. Pretty sure he’s feeling the same way.

I tear my gaze away to glance around. The college women are still a few holes ahead, practically out of sight. Behind us is an older couple, just starting the course.

Not too crowded at all.

But what are you gonna do about that ?

Hmm. Not sure if that’s my devil or my angel whispering in my ear, so I focus on brass tacks, setting the ball at the tee. The soft lights from the tree flicker nearby. This whole adults-only theme here is weaving dangerously around me, like a seduction. It’s making me think a whole lot less about the risks, and a whole lot more about immediate rewards.

“Or maybe I’m just letting you win,” I say, trying to wrestle some control.

“Well, then. How about a bet?”

Intrigued, I turn around, club in hand. This time, his blue eyes are darker as he holds my gaze. Just fucking holds it. He’s kind of fearless in this moment. Where he’s been surly recently, today he’s like a Viking leader or something on a ship. Confident, bold—nothing can knock him off his game.

I swallow past the desert in my throat, eking out, “What’s the bet?”

“If you can stop letting me win, I’ll buy lunch,” he says, his gaze as confident as his tone.

That’s a clue, possibly. Tanner’s betting like we’ve always done as friends. Except, buying lunch after this nice “date” feels like more of this nice “date.”

And the thing is…I do want more of this date. More of this time with him, even while I’m uncertain, even while I’m confused. And, honestly, even if it’s risky to our friendship.

Because I’m feeling a little fizzy too. And that feels incredibly good.

“Fine. You’re on,” I say.

But I go on to finish over par at the next hole, and the next, and the next. “Dammit. I thought I was good at golf,” I mutter as we reach a waterfall cascading down fake rocks that form a small cave.

Tanner clears his throat. “Want help?”

I look up, confused. He’s never offered to help before. In any game. “Lunch is obviously on me. You’re going to win. Why are you offering?”

“Because you don’t seem like yourself,” he says in the same friendly tone he used to reassure me after the tough loss last season. “And I know you can play regular golf. Mini golf is different, but I can help.”

The offer is a reminder. The word too— help. That’s what we do for each other as friends. We help. We support.

So what if I bid one hundred thousand? The money goes to a good cause, nice date or not. Lust fades. Friendship lasts.

“Sure,” I say, taking what he’s offering.

Tanner moves behind me. His heady scent invades my nostrils, winds through my body. Then, his voice drifts past my ear. “Can I show you?”

That rumbly tone sends sparks crackling along my spine.

“Yes,” I say on a rough swallow.

He inches closer, wraps his arms around me, and covers my hands on the club. His breath hitches.

And it answers the question once and for all.

He is feeling this too.

The fire ignites in me. I’m warm everywhere.

To the casual observer, there’s nothing too sexy about the way we’re touching now.

Just one dude helping another with his golf swing.

But to me, this is all the confirmation I needed to know that this is not a one-way street. This is not a friendly golf lesson. It’s so not friendly, that my concerns about friendship slink away. They’re nowhere to be found, not as his arms line up along mine and not as he moves closer. I can barely remember my reasons to resist when he says in a tempting, sensual tone, “Your hands are too tight. You want to loosen them up.”

My breath hisses. “Yeah?”

He nods against me, his face inches away, his stubble so near I can almost feel the sandpaper burn. I want the sandpaper burn. “Yeah. Like this.”

He curls his hands tighter over mine, like he’s showing me his grip. But he’s showing me his want instead.

“And then what?” I ask.

“Then you swing, but not too… hard .” It’s said like a tease. Like a dirty invitation.

I weigh my choices one last time. Heads, there’s friendship. Tails, there’s desire.

And…desire wins the coin toss.

But before I can even turn around and grab his face, he’s running his nose along my neck, inhaling, drawing in deep hits of me.

And I’m letting him. Inviting him. Wanting him. I inch back, pressing my ass against his pelvis for the first time.

And hello.

That’s another answer. I didn’t need it, but I like it now that I’m close enough to feel it. Oh, do I like the hard ridge of his erection.

More answers come in the heat of his breath. The shape of his hands over mine. Then his lips coasting along my jaw.

I’m vibrating.

I don’t care about anything else at all. Not football. Not friendship. Not a damn thing.

I drop the club. Then, I make the next first move.

I whirl around, pull on the neck of his shirt, and tug him past the waterfall, into the cave, under the rocks. I grab his face in two hands, and I crush my lips to his.

I kiss him deeply and thoroughly. Tasting his longing. Giving him all of mine too.

We kiss hard and passionately, like this tension has been building for months, and the rocket is finally blasting off.

Lips crush. Tongues delve. Hands grab.

All that banter, all those barbs—they were foreplay. They were flirting. They were leading to this .

To the sexiest kiss of my life.

My friend is kissing the fuck out of me, like he needs to get closer and closer still. Like this kiss is everything he’s thought about late at night when he’s alone.

He pushes me against the fake rock, and my libido is so glad he planned this date. So glad he picked this place. I hope he picked it for this reason—to get me here, right here, away from the not too crowded course.

In this private little cave, he slams his pelvis against mine. My brain scrambles. I slide a hand down his strong arm and grab at his hip so I can keep him in place as I rub against him.

My hard-on seeks his and happily finds it. As our dicks meet, we both moan. But we don’t stop. We keep going, hands grappling, tongues tackling, erections grinding.

As he devours my lips, he groans. It’s the most carnal, horny sound I’ve ever heard. He follows it with his hand rushing down my chest, tugging at the waistband of my jeans, his fingers dancing perilously close to the button.

Holy fuck. He’s so aroused he wants to strip me in public. He wants to get his hands all over me.

I’m buzzed. Especially when he fingers the button, almost, almost undoing it right here.

I’m dying for his touch. But I need all of it, so I grab his hand, stopping him, then I break the kiss. “Want to get out of here?”

“Hell yes.”