“Fuck me,” I growl.
Oliver’s eyes snap open, then widen in horror. Slowly, his gaze slides up my torso, before his eyes meet mine. “Ah!” he yells, thrashing violently back.
We’re so tangled in the sheets, it brings me with him, wrenching my back painfully, then my knee. “Fuck!”
“Shit,” he says hoarsely, wiggling frantically. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
“Bergman, stop.” He doesn’t stop. He’s thrashing, tugging, spinning, and it’s hell. It’s agony, because the tighter he tugs, the closer we get, our hips, groins, thighs. “Wait. Just—Fuck!”
We tumble off the bed. I land on him, but catch myself with my hands. It does nothing to keep us apart except to keep us from bashing faces. The sheet is knotted around us so tightly now, I feel him, every inch of him, hard and long, wedged right beside me, the material between us horribly inadequate.
Air saws out of Oliver’s lungs, hands over his head, his hair splayed out on the dark carpet, like a comet streaking across the night sky. His eyes are wide, a sweet, unfairly beautiful blush on his cheeks. “Jesus,” he whispers, shutting his eyes.
I’m speechless. I’m afraid to move. One single rub of my hips or his and I am in serious danger of spilling my load. My cock pulses, my balls are tight and heavy. Oliver exhales roughly, moving his hips enough for me to slam a hand down on his wrist, to make his eyes snap open.
“Do. Not. Move.”
He stares up at me, frozen, mouth parted. Looking at him, I know that if God Himself laid a new body before me, the cosmic forces of time to bend and reverse at my will, and made me choose between that and one taste of this man’s lush mouth, I honestly cannot say that I would have the strength to make the sensible choice.
“Gavin,” Oliver whispers.
I stare down at him. My name. On his lips. It’s my undoing. “What?” My voice is hoarse. Breathless.
“We’re…really stuck,” he says quietly.
“I know. I just…” I shut my eyes. “Give me a minute.”
He’s silent for two pathetic seconds, before a smoky laugh bursts out of his chest.
My eyes fly open. “What the fuck are you laughing about?”
His nose wrinkles, and he clutches my shoulders, smiling so wide as he laughs, it fucking wrecks me.
I stare down at him, tears leaking out of his eyes as his hands, warm and strong, clutch me, the ripple of his throat as he throws his head back and laughs even harder, so hard it curls his legs up, pins our hips even tighter.
A growl of annoyance rumbles out of me as Oliver shakes with laughter.
“S-sorry,” he says between spasms of laughter. “God, you’re heavy. I—” He laughs even harder.
“You are fucking useless,” I grumble.
Oliver bursts out another laugh, but it cuts off abruptly as I brace myself on either side of his head, then wrench him with me, so that now I’m on my back, a movement that hurts like hell but is entirely worth it because now Oliver’s on top of me.
His laughter dies off. His eyes search mine.
I stare up at him, my hands slipping between us to the tightest knot of fabric stuck low between our hips. “Not so funny now?”
He laughs nervously. “It’s uh…” He swallows, tries to shift, which rubs our bodies together again. I hiss in a breath as his eyes snap shut. “Maybe not as funny as I originally thought.”
“Exactly,” I say through clenched teeth, attacking the knot between us. “Now be still.”
For once, Oliver does as I ask, quiet, hands braced on either side of my head, as my hands make slow progress on the sheets, my knuckles brushing his flat stomach, making it jerk. Our breaths echo in the room. I glance up and watch his throat work in a swallow, fresh sweat beading down his skin.
Peering back down, I keep my eyes on my task and scour my brain for something horrible to knock down my erection, but nothing—nothing—is working. If Oliver’s trying what I am, he’s just as unsuccessful.
We’re both as hard as when all this started, which I try very much not to think about.
Unfortunately it’s all I can think about.
Finally, the knot gives. And then Oliver Bergman moves faster than I have ever seen him, flying in a tangle of white sheets streaking behind him as he races toward the bathroom. “First dibs on the shower!” he yells.
The door slams.
I lie on the floor, willing my dick down, praying my body can forget what just happened.
It’s absolutely hopeless.
I’m dressed and ready when Oliver reemerges from the bathroom, a towel slung low on his hips, his cheeks flushed. I tell myself that’s from a hot shower, though the chances he took a hot shower when it’s still sweltering in our room and he had an iron-hard erection are virtually nil.
I turn away, giving him privacy while pretending I’m actually reading the emails that roll in on my phone.
And then a few minutes later, he’s there, close behind me, that familiar clean, warm scent wafting from his skin, chewing the last of a banana.
I turn back as we both say, “Sorry.”
Oliver shakes his head as he tosses the peel in the wastebasket. “It’s okay. It was an accident.”
I nod. “Right.”
He glances away, cheeks heating, an infuriating smile on his face. He snorts a laugh.
“It’s not funny.” I grab the keycard and my bag, then wrench open the door.
He hikes his bag higher on his shoulder, strolling past me out into the hallway. “It’s kinda funny.”
“We’re never talking about this ever again. It didn’t happen.”
He wrinkles his nose, staring up at the ceiling and completely ignoring me. “What I wanna know is, how did we move that many pillows? I mean you had a veritable pillow Fort Knox between us.”
“Bergman. Drop it.”
He lifts his hand in surrender, and we stroll down the rest of the hallway in silence. When we get to the elevator, there’s music playing, a funk song that Oliver starts shimmying to, before he transitions to the chicken dance and uses his elbow to hit the button.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?”
“Lots,” he says matter-of-factly. “But while using my elbow might look funny, it is good hygiene. Buttons, handles, doorknobs are germ central.”
The elevator door opens with a ding, and I gently shove him in. “Captains of professional soccer teams don’t do the chicken dance.”
“This one here does. And the moonwalk.” Oliver slides backward across the elevator. I am dangerously close to smiling.
“I’m embarrassed for you.”
“C’mon, Hayes.” He starts doing the floss. “It’s the only way we’re going to get past the awkward. We gotta dance our way there.”
“Absolutely not.”
He spins on his heels and starts the running man.
I bite my cheek and stare up at the ceiling. “You’re a menace.”
“But a smooth-moving one,” he says on a wink. The door dings, and he moonwalks his way out of it, then promptly spins and straightens up professionally, a breezy smile in place. “Good morning, Donald!” he calls to the guy at the front desk.