“Fuck,” he says. A bead of sweat rolls down his stomach, and I sit up and lick it off. “You’re perfect. Can I keep you?” “That’s the orgasm talking. I hope my mouth is better than your hand.” “Significantly.” He drops his head back and stares at the ceiling. “I really fucking hope we win today.” “You’re thinking about football right now?” I ask, and his lips curve into a grin. “I guess I need to step my game up.” “I’m thinking about football, because if we win, we’re doing that every fucking Sunday morning. And it would be a shame to waste such talent.” Later, when Dallas kicks a sixty-seven
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