Chapter Two
Armand Winters gazed into the gorgeous face of the man who sat next to him. “I’m sorry, what?” He must’ve heard wrong. Guys who looked like Hayden—sexy, messy blond hair, big green eyes, drool-worthy tattoos—didn’t talk to men like him. Someone who always managed to wear what he’d last eaten on his shirt or tie. A man always late or early but never on time. One unable to make a decision because he was afraid to say no and upset people.
Not the best look for the owner of a football team. Even a reluctant one.
Hayden leaned in and whispered, “I’d like to buy you a drink.”
“You don’t have to.” A shiver rolled through Armand, and nervous, he licked his lips.
“I know. I want to.”
Their mouths were temptingly close, and Armand wondered if Hayden could hear the thunder of his heartbeat. “Uh, sure. A Stella. On draft.”
A sensual grin curved those full lips, and Hayden motioned to the bartender. “Stella on draft for my friend.”
Hayden held out the beer. “Here you are.” Armand reached for it, and Hayden pulled the glass away at the last minute. “Ah-ah-ah. Not so fast. I need something before I give it to you.”
Armand’s brows knitted. “What?”
Again, Hayden commanded his personal space, bringing them almost nose to nose, and Armand’s breath caught. Oh God, he wanted to kiss him so badly. “Your name.”
In the heated air between them, Armand could almost feel his smile.
“Uh, it’s Armi.” A nickname only his closest friend called him. One he’d never felt cool enough to use with anyone else, but sitting there with Hayden made him feel daring enough to try.
“Here you go.” Hayden offered the beer, their fingers touching, and Armi’s hand shook. He’d never been so turned-on in his whole life. “Easy does it, Armi,” Hayden murmured, curving his hand over Armi’s to steady him. “We have all night.”
Another full-body shiver rocked him. What did Hayden mean, all night? Did he want to…? All sorts of thoughts ran round and round in his head. Armi gulped the beer, hoping it would cool the raging fire burning through him. He’d never done this kind of thing before—a pickup at a club could be dangerous. He’d heard the stories, seen what could happen on the evening news. But Armi was tired of living an ordinary life.
What did all the dating advice say? Ask them about themselves.
“Uh, so do you live around here?” He held on to the glass to keep his fingers from trembling.
“Why? You want to come home with me?” A wicked smile flashed across Hayden’s face.
Startled by the intense sizzle of heat those words brought, Armi stuttered. “Wh-what? N-no. I didn’t mean that. I was just making conversation. I—”
Hayden laid two fingers across his lips. “Shh. I know. I’m joking.” His eyes sparkled. “I guess we’ll just have to find out,” Hayden teased. “Why so nervous?”
Armi’s shoulders sagged. “I’m terrible at all this.”
Hayden shocked him by cupping his cheek. “Terrible at what?”
Everything. He was the one who could never get anything right. Armi wasn’t smooth or quick-thinking. Not suave or sophisticated. Everything he should be in his new position. The one he wasn’t qualified for. At least that was what his father had told him, every week, every day.
“Hey, where’d you go?” Hayden nudged their noses together.
“I’m sorry.”
“You’re sweet. I bet you taste delicious too.” Armi forgot to breathe when Hayden’s mouth covered his.
Armi’s eyes slid shut, the music faded away, and he opened to the push of Hayden’s tongue against the seam of his lips. He sucked its velvety softness, the pleasure melting in his mouth like chocolate warmed by the sun. He moaned. One hand fisted Hayden’s shirt, pulling him close…closer, while the other tangled in the hair curling at his nape. God, he was ready. He wanted to sit in Hayden’s lap and rock into him. His empty body ached to be filled.
“Two blocks,” Hayden whispered. “Let’s go.”
He’d never done anything so wild. So free. Hayden licked into his ear, and Armi’s heart hammered so fast, he grew dizzy. And then dizzier still when Hayden cupped the bulge in his pants and hummed his approval.
“ Mmm , can’t wait for this. In my mouth. You want that, don’t you, baby?”
Armi hissed at Hayden’s fondling of his swollen dick. He wanted…he wanted so damn bad. His gut told him Hayden wouldn’t hurt him.
Holding hands, they hurried out of the club and through the streets until they came to a high-rise on 80th Street. Hayden’s apartment was dark, but Armi had little opportunity to view his surroundings as he was pulled into the small bedroom. True to his word, Hayden unzipped Armi’s slacks, yanked them with his briefs past his hips, and rubbed his cheek along the rock-hard length of Armi’s rigid cock.
“Fuck yeah, you’re so ready.” Hayden licked the precome leaking from the slit. “So fucking hot and wet. Want you in my mouth. Now.”
Hayden followed his words with action, and Armi’s groans filled the quiet room as Hayden’s mouth slid over the head of his cock and sucked him. Hard. “Oh God, oh please, please,” Armi begged, shameless in his need. His legs started to give out, and he braced a hand on the wall to hold himself up as he continued to watch Hayden take his dick in between those gorgeous full lips.
Hayden’s tongue performed delicious magic as it swirled and flickered. He bobbed up and down, and Armi lost touch with reality. His hips snapped back and forth, thrusting deeper into Hayden’s warm, wet mouth.
Hayden dug his fingers into the muscles of Armi’s thighs, his throaty moans vibrating along Armi’s throbbing cock. Saliva coated his rock-hard shaft, and Hayden pulled off and gazed up at him with swollen lips and hazy, lust-filled eyes.
“You like that, don’t you?” He sucked his fingers and pressed them along Armi’s taint. “How about this?” They slid higher, to the cleft between his cheeks. “And this?”
A feral, hungry need burst through him, and he clawed at Hayden’s shoulders. “Don’t stop,” he begged. “More, please.”
“Don’t worry, baby. I’m gonna give it all to you.” Hayden teased along his crease and circled his rim. Armi was lust-drunk, and hearing Hayden call him baby, feeling the scratch and tickle of his fingers slipping and sliding around his hole, catapulted him to the stars.
“ Ahh , please, please. Harder. More.”
Again Hayden took him into his mouth, his lips and teeth playing along its length.
“I can’t…don’t stop…too good,” Armi panted, his last bit of control lost. An electric shock raced up his legs, his balls tightened, and an explosion burst through the base of his spine. His cock jerked endlessly, and Hayden swallowed every drop, those sweet lips and tongue licking and sucking him dry.
“I was right,” Hayden said. “You taste amazing.”
Armi’s face burned, and he watched as Hayden wriggled out of his jeans and briefs. His dick stuck out, red, thick, and so beautiful. Fascinated, he watched Hayden pump it, the sticky-wet crown moving fast and furious through his fist. He crouched beside Hayden, excitement spiraling, the smell of Hayden making him reckless.
“Harder, come on,” Armi urged. “Do it. On my face. In my mouth. Come on.” When the hell had he gotten this daring? Maybe it was his father telling him he was a failure. That he didn’t have what it took to be in charge. His gay, fumbling son.
He’d never had sex like this—his mind and body voracious with want and need and a craving to be fucked until he couldn’t walk. It was primitive, raw and freeing.
Through surprisingly dark, thick lashes, Hayden’s green eyes blazed and he bit his lip. “Fuck, yeah.”
Armi put his hand on Hayden’s and his lips to that hot, hard shaft. One tantalizing lick led to another. Armi rubbed the wet, sticky cock all over his face, then sucked and flickered his tongue, playing with the slit. Hayden’s eyes rolled back.
“Oh, shit.” He grew stiffer, come shooting from his dick, coating Armi’s cheeks and lips, and dripping down his chin.
Armi licked up as much as he could and wiped the sheet across his face to catch the last drops. Hayden lay against the bed, eyes closed, breathing steadily. It took Armi a minute to realize he’d fallen asleep. God, he was so wild and beautiful—thick blond hair laying in damp waves, body glistening with sweat, setting off all that ink. Armi’s mouth watered, and he pressed his face to Hayden’s chest, smelling the sharp, salty aroma of Hayden’s come.
What had gotten into him?
Awkward now that the sex was over, he yanked up his briefs and pants, and with a sigh of regret, Armi left, making sure the lock clicked behind him. He lifted his head to the sky for a moment.
It took less than twenty minutes to walk to his town house on 71st Street. He showered, changed, and lay in bed, wondering if he’d always be alone.
**
“Good morning, Mr. Winters,” the receptionist in the lobby of the skyscraper where the Brooklyn Kings were located greeted him.
“Hello, Audrey.” He smiled. “Please call me Armand.”
The security guard waved him through. “Morning. How are you, Mr. Winters?”
“It’s Armand. And I’m fine, Jerry, how’re you doing?” He held his coffee in one hand and stuck the ID card into his pocket. He noticed a grease stain on the lapel of his suit and mentally slapped himself. One day he’d manage to come to the office and not look like he’d just rolled out of bed. But after his shocking hookup with Hayden, he’d barely managed any sleep. His body buzzing with desire, he’d replayed every intense, exhilarating second, and it wasn’t until almost three a.m. that he’d finally closed his eyes. He’d awoken late and shoved a buttered bagel into his mouth as fast as he could. Obviously, some had landed on his clothes.
“Good, good, sir. Have a nice day.”
The elevator whizzed him up to the fortieth floor, and Armi walked into the corporate headquarters of the Brooklyn Kings, still in disbelief that he was now the owner of a professional football team. Him, the most unathletic person in the family. The gay son, who was more interested in flowers than football.
There had to be some irony in this situation. After all, his father had always said it would be over his dead body that Armi would inherit the team. And now here they were, almost three months after a small-plane crash had killed Randolph Winters, his girlfriend, Anna, and Peter, his father’s personal assistant, and Armi was owner and president of the Brooklyn Kings.
He’d rather be mulching his rosebushes.
“Good morning, Mr. Winters.” Josh, the front-desk receptionist, smiled brightly at him. “How are you this morning?”
“Please, Josh, call me Armand. And I’m well. How’re you?”
“Oh, uh. I’m fine, thanks.”
His father hadn’t liked the first-name familiarity with the staff Armi insisted upon, but Armi was determined to change the culture.
“Great.”
He noted the sign behind him, with the Brooklyn Kings name and logo—a football sailing between the two spires of the Brooklyn Bridge. And underneath it, in big gold letters: Randolph Winters, Owner and CEO.
It was something he’d meant to change but hadn’t yet gotten around to. After the shock of his father’s death, Armi had allowed Russell Anders, the Kings’ general manager and his father’s best friend, along with the rest of the “inner circle,” to run the team, but at his mother’s urging, he’d decided only a week earlier to take the reins and step into the role.
Jacob Whitmore rushed over to him. He was the Kings’ chief legal counsel and chief thorn in Armi’s side. “I hoped you’d be here earlier. I wanted to review those contracts.”
Speaking to Whitmore always left Armi feeling inadequate and useless.
“I still have time before the meeting, don’t I?” He checked his watch to see the time and promptly spilled coffee down the front of his shirt.
“Shit,” he yelled and jumped, hoping to avoid the hot liquid, but the damage was done. A wet, brown stain spread across his white shirt, silk tie, and the top of his pants. Great. Tears stung his eyes at his incompetency. Maybe his father was right and he lacked the ability to be a leader.
Russell appeared at his side. “I’ll get you some paper towels.”
“It’s not going to help,” Armi called out, but Russell had already sprinted to the men’s room and returned with a bunch in his hand. The man might be in his early sixties, but he was fast on his feet—Russell had been an All-Pro running back in college and had spent two years in the NFL prior to a knee injury, which had forced him to retire—and could probably beat Armi in a race without even trying.
Armi knew it was fruitless, but he dabbed at his shirt anyway. “Thanks.”
“Don’t worry. Happens to all of us.” Russell’s reassurance was tempered by Whitmore rolling his eyes.
Armi managed a weak smile. “Well, uh, I’d better get ready for the meeting. Jacob, did you email me the contracts?”
Whitmore raised his brows. “Last night. I expected a response, but I guess you were busy with something else?”
His face flamed. “I’ll read them and let you know.” Yeah, he’d been busy. Busy having a gorgeous stranger suck his dick, then paint him with come. Armi hurried away to his office.
Russell followed. “Don’t worry. It’ll be okay. I’ll help you.”
Armi sat behind his desk and listened as Russell talked about salary caps and trade deadlines. As a CPA, Armi understood numbers. They went through the documents Whitmore had sent, and Armi asked questions, took notes, and was able to understand the complicated world of salaries, signing bonuses, and incentives. Russell explained how their scouts spread out over the dozens of top college teams, looking for standouts they could pick up in the college draft. The nuts and bolts of putting together a winning team that could make the playoffs and win the Super Bowl all made his head spin, but he struggled to understand.
“Wouldn’t it make more sense to look for excellent players who maybe don’t get all the attention? We could pay them less and give someone else a chance who maybe didn’t have the opportunity to make it to a big school.” An underdog himself, Armi wanted to give everyone equal footing.
Russell’s smile was indulgent. “That’s very noble, Armand, but fans aren’t going to pay season-ticket prices for nobodies. They want to see the players they’ve been following in college football—kids who’ve helped win the Bowl games and hold college records. We need the stadiums filled and advertisers buying space. The NCAA almost rivals the NFL in the money it brings in for advertising, and rabid football fans know their stuff. They don’t want to see some no-name player. They want Heisman Trophy winners. Rushers who break records. Defensive ends with big moves who hold sacking records. We have to be competitive with our offers to the top college players.”
While it made sense, he didn’t have to like it. “Understood. However, I’d still like to see a little more effort made with lesser division schools.” Nervous sweat rolled down his back. Taking a stand made him sick to his stomach, but he forced himself. “That’s my decision as owner.”
Russell frowned but nodded. “All right. We’d better get to the meeting. You can tell everyone your thoughts there.” His hand on the door, Russell hesitated. “You’re sure you really want to do this? Take over ownership of the Kings?”
He knew the organization expected him to sell the team, take his hundreds of millions of dollars, and wipe his hands clean. At the party his mother had thrown for him at his family’s East Hampton home when he’d passed his CPA exam, Armi had overheard his father talking to Whitmore, Russell, and Troy Geiger, the Kings’ CFO. He’d gone inside to change his pants after dropping a piece of cake on his lap, and the four men had been in his father’s study, having a drink.
“To think he’s my only child, a limp-wristed klutz with no head for business. All he knows is grubbing in the dirt. I still remember the first Kings game I took him to. Cried like a baby because the players were knocking each other over and he thought they were being mean.”
After hearing that exchange and the laughter from all the men, Armi knew, no matter how hard he tried, he’d never be the son his father wanted. It was one thing to feel a parent’s disdain, but to hear it put so bluntly to strangers was burned indelibly in his mind.
As for grubbing in the dirt…Armi’s first love had always been plants and flowers. As a young boy living on their Long Island estate, he’d helped the family gardener with the vegetable flats and the profusion of prize-winning rosebushes. Here in the city, he’d turned the backyard of his town house into a rose garden and spent all his time learning grafting to create new varieties and how to keep his bushes healthy. He loved his flowers. They were his world. Their beauty brought his heart joy when he had little else to give him happiness.
In response to Russell’s question, Armi raised his chin in defiance. “Yes. I’m taking over ownership of the Kings. Why? You don’t think I can do it?” Russell had been the one person he’d thought he could count on to help guide him. If Russell turned on him too, Armi might have to walk away.
“That’s not what I’m saying at all. I believe with work you can. But you need help. Not only from me. I’ve selected some candidates for personal assistants who can help smooth out the everyday busy work and let you concentrate on the important stuff.”
“I appreciate it, but I’ve also been thinking about an assistant. My friend Trevor runs an excellent agency and—”
“No need for that. I’ll take care of everything for you.” Russell put a hand on his back and steered him toward the conference room. His touch startled Armi, and confused, he pulled away. Russell gazed at him steadily as they stood before the closed door. “You can trust me, Armand. I hope you know I have your best interests at heart. I always have.”
Was Russell telling him something? In all the years they’d known each other, Armi had never picked up any hint that Russell might be attracted to men, but there was a glint in his eye Armi couldn’t deny spoke of something different.
An odd sensation curled in his gut, one he chose to listen to.
Be careful.
It hadn’t failed him when he’d decided to go home with Hayden, and he’d had the most pleasurable experience of his life.
“Thanks, but I’ll hire my own assistant.”