Chapter 16
Sixteen
All I Want
Ryan
I can’t believe I did that back in the car.
Even now, walking into the exhibit with him at my side, my fingers still feel the solid heat of his thigh. The way his muscle flexed, just barely, like his body clocked me before his brain did.
Jesus.
That was ballsy, even for me. But I can’t seem to stop myself.
Six months. Six months of side glances in mirrors, watching him in the gym, watching the way he moves—controlled, precise, like everything about him is deliberate.
Six months of wanting. Of imagining what it would feel like to get my hands on him.
It was just a light touch, but my entire body ignited like someone struck a match inside my chest. I swallow, forcing my shoulders loose as we step further into the space.
I hate that I panicked. He pulled my hand away and I—what?
Smiled it off. Made it a joke. Slipped right back into the safe version of me.
The flirty jock. The guy who doesn’t mean anything by it.
I know it’s a defense mechanism. Always has been.
But how the hell am I supposed to get him to make a move if I keep hiding every time it starts to get real?
Because that’s the line we’re toeing, isn’t it?
If he wants me—really wants me—I’ll meet him there.
I’ll tell him the truth. I’ll trust him with it.
But I don’t know if I can be the one to say it first. Not without knowing. Not when everything could go up in flames if I guess wrong. What if he recoils? What if he laughs? What if he tells someone? I can’t risk that. So, I flirt. I push. I test.
And now… I’ve got new ammunition. My lips twitch as I glance at him out of the corner of my eye. Dimples are moving to front line offense, baby.
I huff a quiet breath and force myself out of my head, finally taking in the space around us.
It’s perfect. They transformed the entire office.
Neon accents everywhere. Vinyl records mounted like art.
Blacklight details that make certain colors glow.
There’s an ‘80s playlist humming through the speakers—synth-heavy, nostalgic as hell.
I shake my head, grinning to myself. Of course Chance would go all in like this. ‘80s music is such a big part of his and Anthony’s story. “Obsessed,” I mutter under my breath, amused. I spot our friends. “Hey,” I say, bumping my shoulder lightly into Spence’s and pointing. “Come on.”
He follows my line of sight, nodding once, and we head toward Jen, Lexi, and Beau gathered a little further inside. Lexi’s eyes widen when she sees me. “Oh my God, what are you wearing?”
Beau takes one look at me and loses it. “Dude,” he laughs, hauling me into a hug.
I clap him on the back, grinning. “You know I look good.”
When I pull back, I turn to Lexi, giving her a once-over. “You look incredible. That dress is perfection. Shows off those tats.”
She flips her hair over her shoulder. “I know.” I snicker and pull her into a hug. Out of the corner of my eye, I watch Spence with Jen as he leans in, hugging her, and something in my chest squeezes at the easy familiarity of it.
Jen’s in a tux, and she looks amazing. I step in as they break apart and she gestures at me. “I actually like it. Only you could pull that off, Butters.”
Spence scoffs. “Don’t encourage him.”
She just grins at him, and I shake my head before pointing right back at her. “And only you could pull that off.” She smiles like she knows. Then I glance past them and spot the man of the hour. “Oh, hey, I see Anthony. Let’s head over.”
As we move, I notice someone standing next to him. It’s Jason Ciccone, Atlanta’s starting pitcher. He’s also one of the athletes going in on this whole thing. My excitement spikes because this reveal tonight? It’s going to be epic. Anthony has no idea.
We reach him, and it’s a round of hugs—Jen, Lexi, Beau, me. When I pull back, I give him a once-over, smirking. “You look good, man. You do the paintings justice.”
Spence slides right past me. “Does he flirt with anything that walks?” he mutters, leaning in to hug Anthony.
And fuck… I stop hearing anything for a second.
Because his jacket rides up and there it is.
The curve of his ass, perfectly fitted in those pants.
Strong. Round. Built from months of work—work I’ve been watching, noticing, appreciating way too damn closely.
It’s better than it used to be. And I already thought it was a top tier ass before.
I can’t take it anymore.
He steps back from Anthony, ending up right next to me again, and I don’t overthink it for once.
I just glance at him, slow, deliberate, letting the grin spread across my face.
“No,” I say, voice low. “Only you, Muffin Man.” Then I reach down for a handful—and squeeze.
Firm and real. Not a ‘good set’ workout ass slap.
Spence startles hard, jumping. “Ryan Michael Buterbaugh!” he hisses, spinning toward me and shoving my chest with one hand. I’m already grinning, wide and unapologetic, drinking in the way his eyes flash.
God, he’s hot when he’s pissed.
He glares at me, then rolls his eyes, muttering, “I’m getting a drink,” before turning on his heel and stalking off. But I catch his words—soft, under his breath, not meant for me to hear. “Gorgeous idiot.”
My grin turns feral and Anthony looks at me, brow raised. “Why is he middle naming you?”
I shrug, all innocence. “No idea.”
Then I turn and follow. There’s no way in hell I’m letting Spence get away from me right now.
I slide in beside him at the bar. He doesn’t look at me.
Won’t acknowledge me. I bump my shoulder lightly into his.
“Hey. I’m sorry if I upset you back there.
” I let out a soft sigh, a half-smile pulling at my mouth.
“Seems I couldn’t help myself. Our workouts are paying off. ”
He groans, but I continue, “Better be careful walking around this event with an absolute shelf. Someone might try to set their drink on it.” Slowly, he turns his head. And glares.
My grin slips. “Shit. I’ll remember you don’t like that.”
He turns his gaze back to the wall of liquor, voice lower now. “I didn’t say that. Just surprised me is all.”
Oh.
Deciding this is a good moment as any to deploy the newest weapon in my arsenal, I turn slightly toward him, just enough to catch his peripheral vision, and let a slow smile spread across my face.
Then I tap the dimple in my chin with one finger. “Hmm. That’s good to know,” I murmur. “Thanks for the disclosure, Counselor.” Spence shifts, just a fraction, but I catch the flicker of heat. His eyes land on my mouth. My chin. The dimple I know damn well is working its magic on him.
He snaps his gaze away. “God help me,” he mutters under his breath. My smile gets impossibly wider. The bartender appears in front of us, and Spence practically bites out, “Just order a drink, Ryan.”
I lean an elbow on the bar, tapping my chin again like I’m deep in thought. “Mm. What am I in the mood for tonight?”
He huffs beside me.
The bartender—tall, dark-skinned, and absolutely built—grins back, easy and confident. Normally? I’d appreciate the view just enough not to raise suspicion. But tonight? Nothing. My attention is locked firmly to the man at my side. I grin and look at the bartender. “Do you have a slippery dick?”
Spence coughs.
The bartender laughs and says, “I think you’re confusing a Stiff Dick shot with a Slippery Nipple shot. Which one do you want?”
I lean in slightly, playful. “Definitely a stiff dick.”
That does it.
A low, annoyed sound rumbles out of Spence. “He’ll have a light beer. Same for me.”
I snort. “Yeah, okay.” The bartender chuckles, grabbing two bottles from the ice, popping the caps, and sliding them across. We both take them, turning toward the stage where Liz, the owner of the gallery exhibiting Chance’s work, is stepping up, ready to speak.
I lean back against the bar, lifting the bottle, taking a long pull. Then I glance at it, tilting it slightly, waiting. Timing it. Spence lifts his own bottle, takes a sip, and I strike…
“Beer was probably a wise choice. Enough hard liquor and my ankles pin themselves behind my ears.”
He chokes.
Good.
Beer goes the wrong way, and he sputters, grabbing napkins, wiping his mouth and the front of his tux while glaring daggers at me. I bite down on a grin, watching him.
God, I love this.
Joke’s on me, though. Spence leans in close. His breath brushes my ear, voice low. “If I ever fuck you, Ryan,” he murmurs, tone dark and deliberate, “I’d want you completely sober and clear-headed, so you remember every thrust of my fat cock in your pretty jock ass.”
My dick twitches and my grip tightens around the bottle. Spence pulls back just enough to look me in the eye, his gaze sharp, controlled. “And trust me,” he adds quietly, “you wouldn’t need alcohol to pin your ankles behind your ears. I have restraints for that.”
Then he straightens casually, like he didn’t just detonate a lust bomb in my groin. Spence searches my eyes for something, but doesn’t say another word. He just turns back toward the stage.
Liz, the owner of Muse gallery, cuts through the noise of the room as she taps the mic, starting her speech. But I don’t hear a word of it. I’m just leaning against the bar, staring blankly. Heart pounding. Throat dry.
And very, very aware of the fact that I am in deep.
During the speeches—when Chance takes the stage and blindsides Anthony with everything he’s been coordinating for him in secret—I hang back, watching it all unfold.
A new agency partnered by Anthony and his mentor, Meg. A starting roster of the nation’s hottest athletes, me included. The THRIVE Foundation and Queer Youth Center.
It’s all bigger than anything I think Anthony ever let himself believe he could have. And when it all clicks? When the realization hits him? I see it in his face. Shock. Awe. Emotion that looks like it might split him open.