Give Me More (Salacious Players Club #3) (74)

“All right, here,” he replies. “Help me lay these planks.”

He tosses me a long piece of wood—the double meaning not lost on me, and I kneel next to him. Together, we make quick work of the new wood flooring. He does the cuts while I continue locking each board in place, working in comfortable silence. It takes a couple more hours, and by the end, we’re both sweating.

After the floor is finished, he and I both slouch against the floor, downing the water I grabbed from the bar.

“Where’s Isabel?” he asks.

“She was teaching tonight. But I’m sure she’s home now.”

He nods. The silence between us has grown awkward with the mention of her. It’s not like we’re talking about the intense threesome we had in the kitchen or how I gave him a blow job before that. I keep waiting for him to bring it up and want to talk about it, but he doesn’t.

It’s like a delicate explosive. We don’t touch it or talk about it or even look at it because, once we do, it’s going to take us all out. Instead…we keep relighting the flame.

He stands up and looks down at me with an austere expression. “I’m going to grab a shower here before heading home.” Then he lingers for a moment too long, as if he’s waiting for me to respond.

“Okay,” I stutter, my voice coming out in a weak attempt at sounding normal. Then he shoots me one quick loaded glance before disappearing from the room.

Suddenly, I’m overcome with nerves.

I sit on the floor for too long, playing that last moment over again and again. My mind is like a tennis court, jumping back and forth between reason and desire.

Did he really need a shower? Or was that an invitation?

No. Not everything he says to me is a come-on. How many showers has he taken in our entire friendship that meant nothing? Thousands? This is the same.

But this isn’t the same. He’s definitely leaving the ball in my court.

And even if he did mean for that to be an invitation, am I ready for that?

Do I want it to be an invitation? Yes.

Do I want to take it? Yes.

But what if I go in there and it’s all too much, too soon, and I freak out? What will that do to him?

Then again, it won’t be too much. That’s just my ingrained fear talking. And the longer I sit here and play this decision over and over in my head, the lower my chances of finding out are.

If I’m wrong and it wasn’t his way of asking me to come and get naked with him, then I can play it off without anything awkward happening. But there’s only one way to know for sure.

In a rush, I hop off the floor and practically run to the men’s locker room. To my relief, the water is still running when my shoes click against the tile floor. It’s steamy as hell in here, and I shed my pants, shoes, and socks in a rush.

As I peel my boxers off, I feel a nervous shake in my hands. I can’t believe I’m doing this. I can’t believe this is happening. What if I’m wrong? What if I’m not ready?

This is my best friend—which means it’s safe. There’s no one I’d be more comfortable finding out with.

With a deep breath, I shut my brain off and step into the large shower area. He’s facing the wall as the water streams over his back, and I stare for a moment at his perfect, long body, sculpted over time by muscle and manual labor. I wait for one second to see if he’s going to speak, but something tells me he’s holding out for me.

So…here goes nothing.

My cock is jutting straight out, hard and excited, and just as nervous as I am. Holding it in my hand, I stalk closer to him, waiting for the moment he asks what I’m doing or tells me he doesn’t want me to touch him.

But that doesn’t come. I reach his tall frame, extending out my hand to slide it against his wet skin. He hisses as I glide my fingers over his shoulder and around his neck. When I ease my grasp around his throat and pull his hard body against mine, wedging my hard cock between us, he smiles.

“What took you so long?”

And I distantly realize that he could mean tonight, just now in the shower, or he could mean our entire friendship.

The moment I have Drake in my grasp, my brain silences, and my body takes over. Rutting my cock against his back, I hold one of my hands around his throat as the other travels to the front to wrap around his impressive length.

We groan in unison as our cocks receive the mutual attention they crave. Drake’s hands are planted against the wall as I grind myself against him. I wish I knew what it was about his body that feels so fucking good. And I’ve only experienced the tip of the iceberg, but with every touch, the craving for more gets even more unbearable.

“What are you doing to me?” I ask, my lips exploring the back of his neck and shoulder.

Suddenly, he spins and drags me against him, so our chests are touching as he crashes his mouth on mine. His kiss is warm and brutal as we stumble against the wall. I shove myself hard against him. It feels impossible to satisfy this need, as if I can’t get enough of his skin against mine. I desperately need more.

Our kisses don’t stop as we grind against each other, and it’s all happening so fast. His taste, his smell, his touch, it’s a kaleidoscope of bliss—him and me together—and it’s making me crazy.

Grabbing the back of his neck, I growl into the space between us. “You make me fucking crazy.”