Chapter 3
Evan Brock’s temper was the least of my problems. The real problem was that he was someone I wanted to destroy.
His hair was a sweat-spiked mess of dirty blond that made me ache to run my fingers through.
I wanted to lick my way from his jaw to his cock.
His eyes were the exact shade of the Caribbean Sea, placid one moment and a storm-tossed chop the next.
And his ass in baseball pants fried every rational thought in my brain.
God, that ass. Perfect was the only word for it.
The sketches became a thing sophomore year. I told myself it was anatomy practice. Glutes were a complex muscle group and practically a requirement for my major. But my charcoal pencil constantly betrayed me.
I’d spend hours on the shadow between his thighs, imagining the heat and musk. The graphite on the page became a substitute for my fingers, and every finished drawing was a sin I couldn’t wait to commit again.
I jerked off to those sketches regularly. One hand wrapped tight around my cock while I stared at his ass, imagining my tongue tracing the lines of his jockstrap. I pictured peeling the sweaty fabric away and burying my face between his thick cheeks, tasting him.
The drawings lived in the back of my pad, buried behind figure studies of random guys and still lifes of coffee mugs. I never worried about anyone seeing them, because no one ever flipped past the first few pages.
Thursday evening at The Grind meant burnt coffee and being surrounded by people who had nowhere better to be.
I was trying to distract myself by putting the finishing touches on a sketch of Hunter staring out a window when he slid into the booth across from me. Radiating a post-gym dampness that smelled of salt and sweat.
He made a grab for the sketchbook, his enormous hand engulfing half the pad. I tried to yank it away, but it was like wrestling a grizzly bear.
“Ooh!” he cooed, studying the page I’d been working on. “Bro, you got me looking positively statuesque. But let’s be real—when are you gonna ask to draw me like one of your French girls?”
I snorted loudly. “I wouldn’t subject the world to that much trauma. Besides, I’m really not dying to see your dick.”
He was completely unoffended. “What about my ass? I got voted Best Butt in the dorm, you know.”
“I think I’ve seen your ass more times than I’ve seen my own,” I deadpanned.
“I’m just saying, if you ever wanna branch out into heroic nudes, you know my schedule. I’m very available. Also, my glutes are at their all-time peak.”
I rolled my eyes. “I already have more reference shots of your ass than I know what to do with, thanks to your thirst traps.”
“You’re welcome. Artists need inspiration.”
I tried to reclaim the sketchbook, but he held it out of reach and started paging through. “Damn, you really do a lot of hands, though. Are hands, like, your kink?”
“Hands are literally the hardest thing to draw,” I said, voice climbing an octave. “It’s not a kink; it’s a technical challenge.”
Hunter shot me a look. “Mmm-hmm. If you say so.”
My heart rate doubled as he reached the forbidden section. He took in every sketch with wide eyes and flushed cheeks.
When he spoke, his words came out breathy. “This is Evan Brock’s ass, right? Is he your muse or something?”
I yanked the sketchbook from Hunter’s grasp and hugged it like a flotation device over my chest. Pure panic must have registered on my face because Hunter’s eyebrows shot up, and his mouth twisted into a knowing, wolfish half-smile that reminded me why he was pure, weaponized chaos.
“Wow,” he said, giving a slow, mocking clap. “Didn’t know you had it in you, Picasso. Or should I say, Porncasso.”
“Shut up,” I hissed. “You weren’t supposed to see that. Nobody’s supposed to see that.”
Hunter leaned back, the ancient wood of the booth groaning under his frame, and gestured magnanimously at my chest. “It’s impressive, Tommy. If I had your talent, I’d do the same thing. Do you jerk off to them?”
“Holy shit, Hunter. Can you not, for five seconds, be yourself?”
He grinned wider. “Absolutely not. If God wanted me to have a filter, He wouldn’t have given me this face.
” He tapped his jaw, which was currently dusted with stubble and smugness.
“But, real talk, I think Brock’s ass is a more substantial muse than most Renaissance painters ever had. You should be proud.”
“Anyway,” I snapped, biting off the word, “that was private, alright? Can you just, I dunno, forget it?”
Hunter waggled his eyebrows. “No way. This is so much better than I hoped. You have, like, a whole spank bank dedicated to the baseball team’s golden boy, and you never said a thing.”
I must have looked like I was going to hyperventilate, because he held up his hands in surrender. “Hey. Tommy. For real—your secret’s safe with me.”
I let out a shaky breath, forcing my eyes back to the table. I could still feel my pulse thumping all the way down in my toes. A vision of Evan, shirtless and haloed by sunlight at the batting cages, flashed across my brain like a screensaver from hell.
“So,” Hunter said, “when you said the roommate thing was going to be a problem, you weren’t being dramatic.”
“I was not.”
“And now you get to share a hotel room with the guy. What does he sleep in? Boxer briefs?”
My brain, which had been operating in panic mode, went into a silent, screaming freefall.
Boxer briefs. Boxers. Nothing at all.
The possibilities flashed behind my eyes in a series of catastrophic Polaroids.
“Oh, you hadn’t thought about that.” Hunter’s grin returned. “Well, enjoy spending the night trying not to get a boner every time he rolls over.”
“I hate you.”
“You love me. Now, here’s some advice—take it or leave it. Set rules. Keep it transactional. And for the love of God, leave that sketchbook at home.”
I stared down at the book still clutched against my ribs. “I’ll leave it.”
“Good.”
“But I’m bringing a blank one.”
The source material would be sleeping three feet away. To be that close and unable to draw him would be blasphemous.