Chapter 34
Thirty-Four
Better Off Alone
Spence
I wake up slowly to the feeling of being weighed down. I don't even need to look to know, but I open my eyes anyways, and sure as shit, the muscular thigh of Arizona's soon-to-be former quarterback is sprawled across my midsection, and Fucker is curled up on my lower legs.
This isn't surprising. I've been waking up to it every morning for weeks now. Every night, I go to bed alone while Ryan and Fucker go to the guest room. And every night, at some point, Ryan crawls into my bed, Fucker not far behind.
I don't hate it, but I'll never tell Ryan that. No, I'll never admit it to him, but I also can't exactly say I'm discouraging the behavior either, which is irresponsible because I know I can't have Ryan. Not really. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to give him what he deserves.
I'm not exactly encouraging him to go home either.
His injury is recovering well enough that he could manage on his own.
But over the past few weeks, Ryan's cooking series has exploded across social media.
People are gushing about the sexy football player and his fancy recipes, not to mention the ridiculous aprons he wears with dad jokes on them—completely on brand for Ryan.
Last week, I walked in from work while he was on a live session and his apron said, MASTER BASTER as he showed his audience how to properly baste Cornish hens.
The show's going really well for him, and I know he hates his kitchen, so who am I to deprive him of my gourmet kitchen that I never use? I guess he could come over just to shoot content, but this is easier for him. There may be some selfish reasons at play here as well. Sue me.
Plus, since I introduced him to Tyler, the two of them have been glued at the hip.
Tyler is, of course, enamored with the big goofy jock, and Ryan—Ryan is so damn good with him.
They play video games like a couple of overgrown tweens, trash talking and laughing while I work on my laptop nearby.
Ryan and I took him to meet The Bettys—we both figured they'd give him a run for his money in the snark department.
That failed. Tyler had them eating out of the palm of his charming hands in two minutes flat.
Then they all started in on Ryan and me.
I think they've figured me and Ryan out, but he hasn't mentioned it, and I'm certainly not bringing it up. That Betty, she’s a keen one.
Ryan's even started taking him to the gym with us.
Ryan can't do much in the way of working out yet, but he's doing it for Tyler.
His police officer crush is all muscle, and Tyler told Ryan he feels insecure whenever he comes into the center.
Tyler's not a twig-he's got a good natural build-but he didn't have the resources growing up for a gym membership, and his interest has always been in fashion and design anyway.
Within an hour, Ryan had Tyler set up with a membership, and they worked out a schedule to hit the gym. They've spent the past three Sundays meal prepping in my kitchen so Tyler has enough protein and the right balance of nutrition for the week.
If I had a heart, it would have melted into a puddle by now. But we all know I don't. Even if I did have moments of warmth flooding my chest—flickers of flames lapping at the walls of my hollow cavity—I can't have Ryan Buterbaugh. I either ruin people or they ruin me. I'm better off alone.
I look over at Ryan, who's still sound asleep, his dark blond hair cutely mussed, eyelashes fanned over his cheeks. I sigh, then turn slightly on my side and lean down and gently kiss one of his eyelids then whisper, “I wish I could give you more.”
I gently remove Ryan's thigh from my midsection, and I shift to get up. Fucker mewls, and when I get out of bed, he tucks himself in the crook of Ryan's arm, surrounded by his big bicep.
I look at them for a moment.
I can let myself have it a little longer.
I head to the shower, thinking to myself that it's Sunday, and I don't have any work that can't wait until tomorrow. So, I'm going to spend the day with Ryan and Tyler.
I finish my shower and take my time brushing my teeth, dragging the minty foam across every surface twice because I'm in no particular rush this morning. When I pad back into the bedroom section of my master suite, towel draped over my shoulders, I stop short.
The bed is empty.
Ryan's gone. Fucker's gone. The sheets are rumpled, the pillow still bearing the indentation where Ryan's head had been, but the warmth has already seeped out of the cotton, leaving nothing behind but the ghost of what was there.
I stand there longer than I should, staring at the vacant space, and I hate that it bothers me.
I hate the hollow sensation that opens up in my chest, the way my eyes keep drifting to the spot where his thigh had been draped over me an hour ago.
It's pathetic, really. I shouldn't need him there. I shouldn't want him there.
But I do.
I shake it off and drop the towel, grabbing a pair of silky gray casual pants from the drawer and stepping into them commando. I'll put on proper clothes later, but for now, this works. The fabric slides against my skin, cool and smooth, as I make my way down the hall toward the main living area.
I round the corner and freeze.
Ryan is standing in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows, silhouetted against the morning light spilling over downtown Phoenix.
He's holding his coffee cup with both hands, bringing it to his mouth like a kid with hot chocolate on a snow day.
Except this is no kid. The muscles in his arms ripple with the movement, broad shoulders tapering down to a sinful waist, and those legs. God, those legs.
But it's what he's wearing—or rather, what he's not wearing—that roots me to the spot.
A skull cap. That's it for coverage up top.
And below, a pair of grayish-green shorts that can only be described as barely there.
The material is stretched so tight across his ass it has the bottom hem cutting high enough that his cheeks are quite literally spilling out.
Two perfect handfuls of muscle and flesh are defying gravity and decency.
The fabric clings to his thighs, his hips, every ridge and valley of his lower body on obscene display.
I feel the blood rush south before I can stop it, my cock twitching against the silk of my pants.
Alexa, define unnnnngh.
I shift my weight, trying to get my body under control, and clear my throat. “Cute outfit, Ry.”
I mean, seriously. Who wears a skull cap indoors?
It's November, sure, and Phoenix has finally cooled off enough to justify winter accessories, but the condo has heat.
Central heating. A functioning HVAC system.
There's no logical reason for that skull cap except that Ryan knows exactly what it will do to me.
He turns around, and the smile he hits me with is beyond bright. It's nearly devastating.
So, so pretty.
“Yea?” he asks, voice rough with sleep and coffee. “You like?”
I nod, because what else can I do? I'm only human. “You might want to move away from that window.”
He gives me that puzzled look, head tilted, dark blond eyebrows raised.
“Before this sector of downtown sees their favorite quarterback getting fucked up against it.”
His smile turns wicked. He pumps his brows, slow and deliberate, and then—because Ryan has never met an innuendo he wouldn't escalate—he drops one hand from his cup and adjusts himself. Even from here, I can see he's half-hard, the outline unmistakable against that absurdly tight fabric.
He walks over, stopping close enough that I can smell the coffee on his breath, the sleep still clinging to his skin. “Mornin', Perfect,” he murmurs, then leans in until his lips brush my ear. “You can fuck me wherever you want, whenever you want, however you want.”
His hand drops, finding my half-hard cock through the silk, and I suck in a sharp breath.
His palm is warm, his grip firm, and I'm already leaking—have been since I saw him in those shorts—leaving a damp spot that's surely ruining the expensive fabric.
He gives me one slow stroke, just enough to make my knees weak, then releases me and presses a kiss to my cheek.
“Go. Sit at the counter,” he says, casual as if he hadn't just turned my blood to lava. “I'll make your coffee before I get setup for a live.”
He pats my ass—pats it, like he owns it—and saunters into my kitchen like he's been doing it for years. Like it was always his to begin with.
I stand there for a moment, breathing through the arousal, the want, the dangerous warmth spreading through my chest. Then I force my feet to move.
He’s already got the kitchen island prepped for showtime. Ryan's iPad sits on his keyboard stand, angled toward the stove, and the counter near it is scattered with ingredients: eggs, flour, sugar, a carton of strawberries, and my eyes snag on a can of whipped cream.
I settle onto a stool and watch Ryan work the espresso machine I had installed when I bought this place. It's a ridiculous piece of equipment, all chrome and levers and Italian engineering, and he’s figured out how to use every feature on it.
My mouth waters, but it’s not for the coffee.
He's moving efficiently, hips shifting as he tamps the grounds, as he steams the milk, and those shorts.
Jesus. The fabric pulls and his ass jiggles with every motion, giving me glimpses of things I shouldn't be thinking about before breakfast. The dimples at the base of his spine.
The way his shoulders flex when he reaches for a cup.
The sheer impossibility of how much muscle he's packed into that compact frame.
Jesus. Those shorts are lethal. And that ass is going to be my undoing.
I force my eyes away, staring at the countertop instead, and clear my throat. “You're doing a live this morning?”
Ryan turns, leaning back against the counter and folding his arms over his chest. The position does spectacular things to his biceps, his shoulders, the line of his throat. Behind him, the machine grinds fresh beans, the sound rich and mechanical.
“Yeah,” he says, “I got a lot of requests for weekend breakfast content, so I promoted a live 'Breakfast with Butters' segment for this morning.” He glances at the microwave, checking the time.
“In about twenty minutes, in fact.” He nods toward the ingredients spread across the island. “You get to be the beneficiary.”
My stomach chooses that moment to rumble its approval. “Oh yea? What're you making?”
Ryan turns back to the espresso machine, retrieving the cup now full of dark, fragrant liquid. He walks over and slides it across the counter to me, his fingers brushing mine as he pulls away. The coffee smells like heaven—rich and nutty and exactly what I need.
“Crepes with sliced strawberries and a strawberry coulis drizzle,” he says.
I wrap my hands around the warm ceramic and take a sip, letting the heat spread through me. “That sounds good. I haven't had crepes in ages.” I nod to the whipped cream can. “That's surprising, though.”
“Why?”
I shrug, playing it casual. “I just think your audience would expect fresh whipped cream from 'Chef Butters.'“ I use air quotes for the last two words, watching his reaction.
Ryan smirks, that cocky jock expression I’ve begrudgingly come to find adorable. “Someone's been paying attention.”
He picks up the can, tossing it lightly in one hand, catching it with the ease of an athlete who's spent years handling footballs.
“I'm going to make fresh whipped cream, Spencester.
But I'm going to show them the brand of canned I think comes closest to homemade.
The holidays are coming up, and it's one less thing to make when you're already stressed about turkey and stuffing and relatives judging your life choices.”
He flips the can again, catching it behind his back, showing off. “Plus, Anthony wants me to sneak little brand mentions in here and there to attract sponsors for this new career venture. Can't hurt to start building those relationships early.”
I nod, genuinely impressed. “That's actually smart.”
Ryan sets the can down and leans forward, resting his forearms on the counter.
He starts tapping at the iPad, pulling up apps, checking his setup, and I watch in mounting agony as he settles into a comfortable stance.
He's bent over the counter, ass presented like an offering, and as he types and swipes and adjusts settings, he's absently wiggling his hips.
Side to side. A little circle. Like he's got a song stuck in his head and his body can't help but move to it.
The shorts ride up higher. The muscles in his back shift and flex. The dimples above his waistband taunt me with every sway.
I can't breathe. I can't think. I can't sit here for one more second and pretend I'm not about to explode.
I stand up and walk into the kitchen.