Page 101 of The Game Plan

I can’t keep my hands off him either. I catch him doing sit-ups and jump astride his hips before he does another crunch. Hischuckle dies in a strangled groan when I kiss and lick my way over his hard body, tugging his shorts down to pull out thatglorious, thick cock I crave.

Ethan’s often away. It isn’t great. But it doesn’t hurt the way I thought it would.

Because I know that, on the nights he is home, we’ll fall into his massive bed to cuddle under the covers and talk about anythingand everything until a touch or a look triggers the need we have for each other and we come together like a conflagration,burning hot and bright. Only when we’re completely worn out will we fall asleep.

More importantly, I know I’m loved. And I love him. Having that security in my life is a joy I only now realize I’d been searchingfor all along.

I grow inordinately giddy at the sight of Ethan’s big shoes—which include a ridiculous amount of sneakers—lumped togetherwith mine, of my body washes and hair products crowding out his lone shampoo and soap.

I get to talk to Ethan’s parents, an experience I’d feared would be awkward as fuck, given the circumstances. But they’re warm, nice, normal. Ethan’s dad thanks me for making his son happy. Ethan’s mom assures me her son has impeccabletaste, so if he likes me, she will too. I’m left blushing and stammering that, yes, I’d love to meet them when they return to California.

Ethan’s little brother is a slightly tougher judge. He asks me if I like Minecraft.

When I confess to having had an Enderman figurine on my desk in college, I’m deemed cool.

But I fall irrevocably head over heels for Ethan when he takes my hand one sunny morning and asks me to come out to his studio.I’ve been there before. It’s a bright, airy space. His older work hangs on the walls or sits stacked in the corner. A fewpieces are half-done and on easels, waiting for completion.

Ethan specializes in photorealism. He uses lush colors and goes for close-up studies. Most of his subjects are football related,though he’s done a few people as well. He’s been working on one of Drew, dressed in his uniform, helmet on the ground, hishands low on his narrow hips as he looks off in the distance.

“Anna asked me to do that one,” Ethan told me. “It’s going to be a wedding present. Though I seriously think she’ll enjoyit more than Drew will.”

I think he’s right.

Today he walks me out to the studio, a secretive smile on his lips.

“Have you finished your portrait?” I ask, though I don’t know when he’d have found the time. We’ve been in each other’s pocketsthis past month.

He shakes his head. “Nope.”

“Why do you look so smug?”

His grin grows. “You’ll see.”

“Tell me.” I tug on his hand.

“No.”

“Tell me, tell me, tell me.” I tug again, wiggling his arm as I smile up at him.

He laughs and swings me up in his arms. “Little pest. So impatient.”

He kisses my nose and carries me up the stairs. The sharp scents of paint and turpentine mix with the warmer scent of pineand fill my nose as he opens the door.

Ethan sets me down, and I turn around only to gasp, my hand flying to my lips.

The canvases and easels are gone. In their place is a woodworker’s fantasy: circular saws, bandsaws, table saws, routers andlathes, miters, drills, joiners... Everything I need to make furniture.

“I thought maybe you could get started sooner rather than later,” he says, mirroring my thoughts.

“Oh, yes,” I murmur, walking around, taking it all in.

Worktables, a dust vacuum, stacks of different types of lumber. Emotion grabs me by the throat as I turn back to Ethan, wholeans against the doorway, hands in pockets, a curious, almost anxious expression on his handsome face.

“Where’s your painting stuff?” I croak out.

“Moved it to the guesthouse,” he says with a shrug. “I don’t need all this room, anyway.”

I swallow convulsively. “How—when?”

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