Page 38 of Beautifully Devoted

Fuck.

My heartbeat ticks up just thinking about it. I was torn between falling to my knees and beating my chest like a caveman to see him so hungry for me, and there’s no doubt in my mind if he gives me that look again, I’ll do anything he wants. It’s that heady to be the object of his interest.

No wonder girls literally fall at his feet. I’d like to think I’m above that—growing up with the guy should make me somewhat immune to his charms, right? Although, you could probably make the case that I’m even more susceptible to them since a piece of him has always belonged to me, and vice versa.

This is a dangerous train of thought.

It was one encounter. An experiment. Even if it happens again—and given how much I know we both enjoyed it I’m not ruling that out—it’s still just a physical outlet between friends. One my cock appears to be on board with since it’s stubbornly hard even though my balls should be empty.

Grunting, I pop off the bed, grab some clean clothes, and storm off to the shower. A cold one, so I’m not tempted to linger and go through another highlight reel. Then I go down to make a couple burgers to throw on the grill, since I’m sure Jagger will be starving when he’s finished with his homework.

My plan falls apart when I get distracted by shouting from the couch.

“Ooh, that one actually looked like it hurt,” Liam subconsciously leans away from the TV, like he’s the one who just got pelted.

“Seriously?” Bennet scoffs. “It’s a pillow. How bad could it hurt?”

“It’s not a pillow, pillow, it’s a nylon bag stuffed with foam,” Liam argues his case. “Like a boxing glove.”

“Bullshit,” Bennet snorts. “Boxing gloves have soft foam under compressed foam under rubber foam. They’re infinitely stronger than whatever the fuck kind of foam is in that goofy pillow.”

I glance at the TV and see a boxing ring front and center, with two guys wearing what resembles boxing shorts, albeit a little tighter, and tank tops. But instead of wearing gloves they’re each holding a bag that sort of reminds me of the money bags that go in the armored truck in those heist movies my dad showed me as a kid. Except they’re a little shiny. They’ve got the same handles too.

“See,” Liam gestures to the TV as one of the fighter’s head whips around when he gets hit. “That was a solid hit.”

“With a pillow.” Bennet rolls his eyes.

“Okay, timeout.” All eyes look to me as I find a seat next to Liam on the couch. “What the fuck are you watching?”

“Professional Pillow Fight Championships,” Cruz says from the other side of Liam.

“This is a joke, right? Some sort of hidden camera prank show or something?” I look around the room for confirmation.

“No joke,” Bennet laughs. “We thought it might be when we saw it on the guide, but it’s legit. They tour with Arnold Sports and have fights at different expos.”

“Pillow fighting?” I wrinkle my nose. “Like—there’s an actual televised sport where you hit each other with pillows?”

“Specially licensed pillows or something, but yeah.” Liam’s brows draw together as he studies the TV.

“Unreal,” I mutter. “How’s it work?”

“Best we can tell, if you hit the other guy, you get a point,” Cruz says. “Even if you technically block the hit, it still counts. You have to dodge it completely or you get scored on. And the most points wins.”

“What just happened?” I ask as the ref steps in to break things up.

“That guy pushed the other guy.” Bennet rolls his eyes. “Apparently, the only thing you’re allowed to do is hit with that damn pillow, and you have to be holding the handles to do it.”

“Whoa,” Cruz and Liam cheer when one guy hits the other like he’s swinging a baseball bat, and he stumbles back a few feet.

“They actually train for this shit?” I ask Bennet, who seems just as skeptical as I am, while Cruz and Liam are simply entertained.

“Can you imagine that gym conversation? ‘What are you training for? Middleweight boxing title. You? Pillow fighting championships.’” He has an imaginary conversation between two fighters. “I’d be ashamed to say that out loud in a room full of people who hit each other for a living.”

“Think you can actually make a living doing this shit?” I tilt my head toward the TV right as Jagger walks in the room and falls comically silent as he takes in the fighters on the screen.

“The fuck?” he finally asks as though his brain can’t track what his eyes are seeing. “Does that say Pillow fighting?”

“Not a living, no.” Bennet shakes his head, ignoring Jagger to answer my question. “Maybe some cash for a rainy day though.”

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