Deke (Fake Boyfriend, #3)

by Eden Finley

Sweet Neil Patrick Harris, I’m fucked. Ollie looks like he’s going to throw up, and I’m kicking myself for not recognizing him sooner. I should’ve known he was a jock with the way I immediately wanted to climb him like a tree. If he really was waiting in the bathroom for a hookup, I wouldn’t have hesitated. Closeted meatheads are my kryptonite, and apparently, I don’t even need to know that fact anymore before being drawn to them.

After we settle in, dinner becomes a quiet affair, probably because it’s feeding time at Jurassic Park.

“Don’t sweat it. It’s not every day I have a hot guy’s hands on me.” The corners of his mouth tip up ever so slightly. The quick response is on the tip of my tongue. “That can’t be true. You’re hot.” Fuck, I shouldn’t be doing this. Why the fuck not? a little voice says. I think it’s coming from my dick.

Ollie’s intimidating with his size and large biceps, his short-sleeved T-shirt showing those sexy-as-fuck arms covered in tats. I want to run my tongue over them while my hands weave through his ash-blond hair, which always looks wet. With sweat, with gel, I don’t know, but I also don’t care, because damn, he’s hot.

What is wrong with me? He looks like he wants to kill me, and here I am wondering what he tastes like?

When Noah told me Jet was Matt’s little brother, I expected a mini, younger, broody Matt. Turns out, he’s an adorable twink with attention deficit disorder.

The burn of staring follows me to the line at the bar, and I know exactly where it’s coming from. Ollie’s gaze is locked on me, as if trying to kill me with the Force. I’m tempted to fake choke, but I don’t want to make a fool of myself when no one will understand what I’m doing. This crowd doesn’t seem like the Star Wars type.

“You know who never has to point out they’re an adult? Actual adults.”

“Your mouth’s going to get you into trouble one day.” “I’m betting on it.”

“How about we tackle these stairs, you can sleep it off, and we’ll talk when you’re sober.” “More stairs?” I ask, my voice coming out as a whine. “One more set,” Jet says. “Ugh, you sound like my trainer. When I get to the top, are you going to tell me one more set again? That asshole does it to me every time.” “Just the one. I promise,” Jet says. “He says that too!”

“When are you going to tell them the truth about me?” he whispers. I shrug. “At our engagement party?”

I’m legitimately beginning to worry that topping for the first time means he lost a severe amount of brain cells when he came. Sex makes you dumb, people.

“Even if Sports Illustrated is my dream job, you’re my actual dream. Giving us a real shot is what I want.”