Page 95 of Three Grumpy Groomsmen

I yank his hair roughly with my free hand. “Look at me,” I demand.

He tilts his head, his eyes glazed over with pleasure, his lips parted.

“I’m yours,” I tell him, even as I tighten my grip on the base of his cock. “I’m all fucking yours. Tell me you know that.”

“I know that,” he whispers, and the look in his eyes almost undoes me.

He loves me.

He hasn’t said it, but he does. I can read it in the depths of his hazel eyes.

I give him a long hard stroke and his eyes roll back.

“Oh, god, damn!”

He spills out onto my hand in several shudders.

Liam’s shoulders relax and I ease my grip on him, feeling about as triumphant as I ever have. State lacrosse champions in high school was nothing compared to the way I feel when I bring Liam to his knees.

“Did you come?” I joke, running my lips over his temple.

Liam laughs softly. “Fuck you.”

I tighten my grip, drawing another shudder from Liam. “Does this count?”

He nudges me off of him. “Yes, I suppose it does. Now let’s go to the bed and I’ll return the favor.”

“William the Brilliant.” I run my hand under the water and open the shower door. “You always have the best ideas.”

CHAPTER 25

Ford

I’ve just startedthe coffee when I hear knocking on Harrison’s back kitchen door.

I frown and glance down the hall. I heard someone get up and go into the bathroom, but I’m not sure who it is.

Do I answer the door at Harrison’s?

There is a ninety percent chance that I’ll know whoever it is. But explaining why I had a sleepover at Harrison’s—which is obvious, considering I’m wearing my sweatpants and a T-shirt, my hair is still mussed from bed, I haven’t shaved, and…

I sigh as the knock sounds again. It’s nine a.m. and my car is out front. Everyone here knows my car. Hell, everyone in this town knows what brand of cold medicine I prefer when I’m sick, how much I paid for my car, and that I cheated on a chemistry test junior year of high school.

I’ll never live that down.

So everyone will know soon enough that I spent the night at Harrison’s. Might as well get it over with.

I pull the back door open and am nearly plowed over by Harrison’s father, Bill.

Followed immediately bymyfather.

“Dad?”

“Morning, son!” my father greets, pulling me into a one-armed hug.

Bill hands me a plate. It’s filled with muffins. “You baked for us?” I ask him.

Bill’s a fantastic baker. It’s been one of his hobbies since he retired. That and frisbee golf. And regular golf.

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