Page 23 of A Hard Sell

“You were gone for a while.”

“Yeah, we…got to chatting. I had a few suggestions.”

Thomas looked skeptical. “Really. That’s generous of you.”

“Mmhmm,” Luka squeaked, busying himself checking his email. A minute later he snuck a look at Thomas. He was typing away, brow furrowed. Luka cursed himself, because now he had tried to fix a half-truth by outright lying.

If he thought hard, he could remember moments with Morgan that were happy. The way he kissed, lips nimble and eager to please. The soft sounds he made when Luka touched him just right… It was hard to reconcile those warm moments with the conniving, selfish asshole who was now blackmailing him.

He vowed that next time he would just say no to Morgan, no matter the consequences.

Chapter Seven

I’ll Give You a Hint

Thomas peeled off his shirt, his muscles rippling in the soft light. He prowled toward Luka, who sat naked on the edge of his bed. Thomas splayed one hand on Luka’s chest and pushed him back, flat onto the mattress. Quivering with anticipation, Luka watched Thomas slide his pants and underwear off. He licked his lips as Thomas’ hard length sprang free. Thomas climbed onto him, straddling his hips.

“You want me?” Thomas asked, his voice impossibly deep and sexy. His brown hair was loose, brushing his shoulders. He pushed it back with one hand, biceps flexing.

Luka couldn’t speak. He nodded frantically.

Thomas ground down onto him, rubbing them together. “I said, do you want me?”

Luka’s lips wouldn’t open. He met Thomas’ eyes, trying to make the yearning plain on his face.

“If you want me”—Thomas leaned down, his lips ever so slightly brushing Luka’s—“you just have to tell me, Luka. Just tell me.”

Luka tried to make his mouth form the words, but nothing would come out. He wanted to cry in frustration. He gave one last final, straining effort, then jolted awake, panting. “Oh, God,” he moaned, scrubbing a hand over his face.

The sex dreams would not stop. He had woken up achingly hard, heart pounding, almost every day the past week. He looked over at his clock. Just past six o’clock in the morning. Too early for a Sunday.

The dream came back to him in the shower. He let his soapy hand drift downward, touching himself slowly at first, then faster, imagining what might have happened next in the dream. It provided some relief, but not enough. He did a load of laundry, vacuumed and made a half-hearted attempt at cleaning off his desk, but filing old mortgage papers wasn’t helping pass the time. He was too jittery to play his guitar. After rattling around his condo for another hour, moving things then moving them back, he felt like screaming. He grabbed his keys, phone, earbuds and a sweater, then headed out the door, not sure where he was going.

He decided to head left out of his front door, and joined the usual Sunday morning foot traffic, mostly consisting of parents with strollers and crowds heading out for brunch. Turning off the main road, he wandered through his neighborhood, noticing the pumpkins dotting front steps here and there. His feet took him to his favorite park and kicked at the fading red leaves as they blew past him.

The houses and buildings around him grew less familiar the farther he walked, but he spotted a coffee shop he used to visit sometimes when Tawney had lived nearby. He hadn’t been since she’d moved last spring. It was called Jitters and he remembered why he loved it the moment he pushed open the door and the smell of roasting beans flooded his nostrils.

It was a funky old place, with a long, irregular shape and exposed brick along the back wall, crammed with fading, comfortable armchairs and vintage wooden furniture. The baristas were the best part though, lots of blue and purple hair and colorful socks, and they changed the quote on the chalkboard every few hours. Right now it read,Pilates? I thought you said pie and lattes.

Sitting down with a steaming mug in a creaky chair by the window, he slipped his earbuds back in and caught up on his latest podcast obsession. It took a deep dive into the craft of a different music legend every week, and the details in those interviews fed Luka’s very soul. The time drifted by as he managed to get his mind off Thomas, when suddenly he was aware of a large figure standing in front of him.

His head snapped up.

It was Thomas.

Holy fuck.His stomach bottomed out. “Hi.”

Thomas was wearing black running tights and a dry-fit shirt. His hair was back in a messy knot, curls escaping down the sides of his face, and he was sweaty. Very sweaty. A day’s growth of dark stubble somehow helped him reach a new, catastrophic level of brain-melting hotness. He was carrying two cups of coffee. Luka’s insides turned to jelly.

“May I join you?” Thomas asked.

“Of course,” Luka stammered, attempting to act like he was still in one solid piece.

“I got you a refill.” Thomas eased his heavy frame into the chair and pushed one of the cups over to him. “Two cream, two sugar?”

“That’s right. Thank you. Out for a run?” Luka tried not to stare at the way the sleeves of Thomas’ shirt strained around his arms.Poor shirt.

“Yup. I usually grab a coffee here when I’m done.”

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