Playing it safe, p.7
Playing It Safe, page 7
But if the man was open to something sexual only? He could do that.
He wasn’t up for investing any feelings in a guy who wasn’t being honest about his life. Not again. Not when what Beck ultimately wanted was someone to love. And someone to love him back. And he’d be a fool to think that could be Donovan, a guy who was so clearly not on the same page he wasn’t even reading the same book.
Which just left sex.
Beck shut his eyes. Was he here on some booty call the other party hadn’t even asked for? He didn’t know. All he knew was that he wanted to see Donovan. So enough with the second guessing and the incessant bloody analysis. He was just going to go up there and take it as it came.
Opening his door, Beck stepped out then shut it behind him and headed for the house. When he got there, he knocked quickly, feeling even less sure in the handful of seconds it had taken him to arrive. But it was done now. No backing out.
He heard immediate noises inside, but it felt like an age before Donovan answered the door, and Beck’s heart thumped louder with each tick of the clock. Did he know it was Beck standing out here, waiting? Was he deciding whether to answer or to barricade the door?
When it finally opened, Beck almost sagged in relief. That was a positive sign, surely? “Hi,” he said, his voice high.
Bloody hell. He sounded like he’d been mainlining coke and helium. But his adrenaline was surging, and Donovan in a white tank top that barely covered his chest and shorts that rode high on his thighs was a sight to behold. The sharp tang of something hot and pleasantly pungent wafted out on a wave of heat. The black of his half-sleeve tattoos was fully exposed, and Beck wanted to trace them with his tongue.
Hell, he wanted to trace them with his dick.
“Oh.” Donovan swallowed, his eyes widening. “Hi,” he said as one big hand came up to absently massage the muscles that connected his neck to his shoulder.
Beck’s eyes followed the movement of those thick fingers, realising as he ogled the action that the aroma he could smell was some kind of liniment. “Are you hurt?”
He shook his head, dropped his hand. “No more than usual.” Silence descended then for long moments, their gazes locking, and Beck held his breath.
“How was Harry?”
The question was gruff, and Beck blinked in surprise. He hadn’t been expecting that and was momentarily lost for words. Had Beck spending some time in the company of a gay man been weighing on Donovan’s mind? A slow smile spread across his mouth. Was Donovan…jealous? The thought was more pleasing than it should have been.
“He was cute,” Beckett said, rolling his lips together so he wouldn’t laugh at Donovan’s quick, dismissive snort. “But apparently I’m now into big, buff rugby dudes who crack their knuckles and have never been kissed.”
The sudden flaring of Donovan’s nostrils coincided with the sharp internal rebuke Beck meted out. So much for taking it as it came. This was outright leading, damn it.
“Have you come for your bike?”
Beck shook his head slowly, the thud of his heart like a gong in his chest. Tonight’s game and his urge to see Donovan had completely obliterated the bike from his memory.
“No.” He hadn’t meant for it to sound so low and rough, but it did.
He watched as Donovan swallowed, the bob of his throat thick and apparently painful if his grimace was any indication. His large hands clenched and unclenched by his side, his jaw blanched almost white through the cover of his whiskers. It was as if he was standing on some kind of precipice, deciding whether or not to take a chance and leap.
“It’s okay…I can go,” Beck offered. Hell, he shouldn’t have come.
But then Donovan stood aside, a clear invitation. “It’s fine,” he said, and Beck brushed past him and into the house.
Chapter Five
Apparently I’m now into big, buff rugby dudes who crack their knuckles and have never been kissed.
Fucking hell. Donovan had no idea what to do with that. Or even why he’d let Beckett in. But he hadn’t wanted him to go, either.
“You want a beer?” he asked, still clutching the doorknob, wanting Beckett to say no. Wanting him to say yes.
“Yes. Please.”
Fuck. Shutting the door, Donovan was grateful for the opportunity to move as far away from the guy as was possible, even if he was playing Susie fucking Homemaker. His pulse was hammering and his breathing had got all backed up in his lungs and he didn’t feel like he was getting enough air. At least doing something far away from the temptation of Beckett bought him time.
Breathing space. Thinking space.
Why in hell hadn’t he just sent the guy away? Got his bike, loaded it into his vehicle, and waved him goodbye. Especially with Beckett looking all casually sexy in his faded Levi’s and navy button-down shirt that fit snug across his chest and abs.
He’d seen the guy looking corporate hot in a suit and tie, sporty hot in soaking wet Lycra, every part of him moulded to perfection, and now relaxed hot, and Donovan couldn’t decide which hot he liked more. He was pretty sure naked hot would outrank them all.
For fuck’s sake, it wasn’t like naked guys were a rarity for him—they were a goddamn occupational hazard. He’d lost count of the number of bare asses he’d seen and showers he’d taken with other dudes in locker rooms over the years.
But he hadn’t wanted to check them out. To stare and ogle. That was work. Not play.
Not…whatever this was with Beck.
Donovan twisted the lids off the long-necked bottles of beer, and then, steeling himself, he wandered back to Beckett, who had moved away from the door to stand near the couch.
“Cheers,” he said as he handed the beer over, taking care to stay just outside of reaching distance. He probably should offer him a seat, but standing felt safer.
Felt temporary.
“Cheers,” Beckett returned before pressing the bottle to his lips and taking a deep pull of the ale.
Donovan was temporarily transfixed by the bob of the other man’s throat, his cleanly shaven face and neck allowing an unencumbered view. He wished he didn’t have the urge to nuzzle the hard ridge of his windpipe—to sniff him.
“You were great tonight,” Beckett said.
Donovan blinked then laughed. It felt good to laugh. Felt good that his lungs were expanding fully again, felt good knowing he wasn’t in any imminent danger of the hypoxia that had threatened the second he’d opened his door. “You really don’t know much about rugby, do you?”
He grinned. “Okay, yeah…I could see you didn’t exactly have your best game, but the way you set up that try for Ronan, running along with three guys attached to you like cling-ons trying to pull you down, and you just kept forging on, refusing to be stopped?” Beckett shook his head. “That was…something else.”
Donovan was used to accolades. He was used to people telling him he was brilliant and relaying a try or a tackle, play by play. Those compliments didn’t usually go to his dick—Beckett’s did. Because there was such blatant admiration in his tone. From a guy who’d confessed to not being a rugby groupie. And because there was definitely an edge of sexual appreciation that was fucking electric.
“Had to get something right,” he dismissed, trying not to let that edge go to his head—either of them.
They both drank then, and when he was done, Beckett glanced around, his eyes settling on the television which Donovan had paused. “You’re re-watching the game?”
“Force of habit.”
“I figured you’d be out…partying or something?”
“I do sometimes, with the others, if we’ve won. We used to do it more, but with three quarters of the team all partnered up, we don’t tend to go out as a group anymore, and if we do, it’s usually to Tanner’s.” Donovan grimaced at how boring he must sound. “Sorry, it’s not very rock and roll, is it?”
Sure, he did attend some swanky events from time to time, and he was more than aware his celebrity opened doors, but he preferred to stay out of the spotlight. For him, in particular, recognition was a double-edged sword. Hard to fly under the radar when too many people knew who you were in the age of phone cameras and social media.
Beckett shrugged. “You’re a homebody. I get that.”
Yeah, that descriptor was spot on. Mostly because he was a family man. He might not be married anymore, but he still had Miri to think about, and any bad press could blow back on her. As well as her mother. And then, there were his parents and grandparents, who were proud of his accomplishments. He didn’t want to jeopardise that by going out and making the kind of headlines football players too often did.
Apart from training, games, team social gatherings, the odd official awards night or fundraiser/galas necessitating a tuxedo, and his regular Wednesday night poker game with the guys, he was pretty much a hermit. Which suited just fine, because outside the door lurked temptation.
The kind that would bring a whole host of different headlines.
“Still, I’m surprised you’re watching the game.”
Donovan frowned. “What else would I be watching?” He would probably watch this game, remote in hand, another half dozen times before next week’s game.
It’s what he did.
Beckett gave a laugh. “I don’t know. You’re a guy who just dragged three men down a field, got crunched and crunched back countless times, and ran your ass off for eighty solid minutes. Even losing, you got to be jacked up on some kind of testosterone high and you’re alone in your house with a big-screen TV. I would have thought porn was a go-to?”
Porn. The word and the open way Beckett bandied it about hit Donovan straight in the chest. Men—himself included—watched porn. He knew that. So did women. And it was apparently perfectly au fait these days to be out and proud about it. But it felt different admitting the practise to another gay man.
And loaded.
Like talking about this with Beckett was another step toward something he told himself he couldn’t have. Another step onto the slippery slope.
Also, he actually wasn’t a regular consumer of porn—not the kind Beckett was referring to anyway—not least of all because his fourteen-year-old daughter stayed at his place a half dozen times a year. When he did succumb to the allure of, it was in his bedroom on his laptop. Not out here on the TV.
If Miri was anywhere near as good with cyber snooping as she was at sniffing out where he hid her Christmas presents, he didn’t need to leave any breadcrumbs on the smart television for her to follow. The only thing Annie had ever asked of him was that Miri at least be out of high school before Donovan came out publicly. Neither of them had wanted their daughter subjected to any schoolyard slurs, and as Donovan had no intention of revealing his sexuality until after he’d retired, that worked out well.
He certainly didn’t want to ruin that plan by her stumbling across a stash of his gay porn.
“Oh God,” Beckett said, shaking his head as Donovan chose to have another mouthful of beer rather than respond to the question.
Why did he open his damn door again?
“You don’t watch porn? You’ve never been with a guy and you have all that—” He paused and ran his eyes over Donovan’s body, which, although brief, was as sexually cataclysmic as a blowjob. “Excess testosterone. You have to be out of your mind with horniness. You’re going to blow a nut if you’re not careful.”
Donovan almost laughed at the abject horror in Beckett’s voice. He waggled his right hand instead. “Don’t worry. I’m not in any imminent danger of nut blowout.”
A slow smile broke over the other man’s face, his dimples deepening into grooves, his eyes going all soft and flirty. His face went from achingly good-looking to impossibly sexy in the space of a heartbeat. “I’m sure they’re grateful for that.”
His voice was warm and rich with innuendo, making Donovan a little dizzy.
“So if you’re not watching porn to get off, you must have a very…active imagination.” Beckett waggled his eyebrows and lowered his voice a notch. “What kind of dirty things go on in that brain of yours, Donovan Bane?”
Donovan’s grip on his beer bottle tightened as he shifted his weight from one foot to the next. He was both discomforted by this topic and utterly turned on. It wasn’t like he hadn’t been part of many conversations over the course of his teenage/adult life with other guys about porn and masturbation and who had what in their spank banks.
But mostly that was just dudes talking shit. This was much more risqué. Its potential to become something else hovered just out of reach if he had the cahoonas to snatch it up.
“Do you really just say anything that pops into your head?” he sidestepped, because there was no way he was admitting to how the brush of Beckett’s lips on his knuckles, the slight scrape of his teeth, had caused him to lose his load several times since Wednesday.
He’d bet Beckett was into more hardcore stuff—orgies and BDSM shit. Handcuffs and paddles and…gimp masks.
“Yeah, sorry, terrible habit,” he apologised with a grin that said he wasn’t even remotely sorry before continuing. “I think my next masturbatory aid”—the words rolled off Beck’s tongue like he said them all the damn time—“will be recording rugby games and watching all the good bits on slow-mo. Particularly if you’re in them.”
Had Donovan not already been painfully turned on, that admission would have done the trick. The tantalising thought of Beckett sitting at home, jacking off to him running down the field or mauling or tackling insinuated itself into his head.
And his cock.
“So…” Beckett said as the silence stretched, because Donovan couldn’t word right now. Not with the image of Beckett, hand on his cock, playing through his head.
Donovan watched as he lifted the bottle to his mouth and tipped his head back slightly. Their gazes held briefly before Donovan’s drifted south to the other man’s throat. Beckett swallowed—once, twice, three times—real slow, clearly aware of Donovan’s interest.
Pornographic drinking of his beer done, he continued. “If you’re not going to tell me what you think about when you”—he leaned in a little and whispered—“touch yourself…” Then he straightened, a small, sexy smile playing on those full, sexy lips. “I’m going to have to guess.”
Just barely suppressing his snort, Donovan said, “Oh yeah?” Good luck with that, buddy.
“Let me see.” He rubbed his jaw, pretending to think, that hovering smile, small but utterly biteable. “Threesome? Or maybe you fantasise about doing it with some military dude? No, wait—” He wagged his finger at Donovan. “I reckon you’re more of a fetish guy. You’re into feet. Or food. Or…giant tentacle dildos?”
Donovan couldn’t help it, he laughed out loud. He knew Beckett was being deliberately outrageous to dispel the awkwardness, but he was going to have to get a lot more vanilla if he hoped to hit anywhere near Donovan’s proclivities.
“Not into giant tentacle porn?” Beckett clutched his chest and faked being crestfallen.
Blowing out a breath, Donovan gave a half laugh. “No.” And he almost left it there. He should leave it there. But what was wrong with talking about this stuff with Beckett? He’d have smack-talked his way through this conversation in the locker room like a pro. Why did he want to avoid it here? With someone who understood him far more than any of his teammates ever would.
Because it felt illicit. Good illicit. And that was terrifying. Also hot as fuck.
Slowly, Donovan took a step toward the slippery slope. “I know I should be all about the ass, right? I’m this big, hard, Maori rugby dude with tats and a rep for ploughing through a pack, right? I should be all about the domination. About…being daddy. Or however it goes.” His cheeks grew hot at his lack of knowledge where gay sex stuff was concerned. “But, honestly, I just like to watch guys…” He hesitated, wanting to say it but unsure.
“You like to watch guys what?”
“I’m into…kissing.”
Beckett’s lips parted slightly, his brow wrinkled. “Kissing?”
The guy seemed perplexed, and Donovan immediately wished he’d kept his mouth shut. Beckett’s open, nonjudgmental demeanour had lulled him into a false sense of security. For crazy moments he’d thought he might not sound…sad. Shaking his head, he said, “It doesn’t matter,” before turning away, heading to the kitchen to dump his empty beer bottle and grab another.
“Donovan.”
The quiet entreaty in Beckett’s voice reached across the room, but he ignored it. “You want another beer?” he asked, his head in the fridge. Although leave would probably have been a better thing to say.
“Donovan, kissing was a good answer. I just…didn’t expect it.”
Donovan straightened as he pulled out two more beers. “Of course you didn’t, because it’s…pathetic.” Jesus, he couldn’t even pick the right gay porn.
“No.” Beckett crossed to the kitchen. “It’s not. It’s sweet, actually.”
He winced at the S word. No one had ever called Donovan Bane sweet. Screwing the top off his bottle, he said, “I rest my case,” then drank half his beer in one go. He could feel Beckett’s eyes on him the whole time and fought the urge to turn and run.
“Is there something kissing-specific you like to watch?”
Donovan pushed the other beer across the countertop. “It doesn’t matter,” he repeated.
“I’m not here to judge you.” Beckett picked up the bottle and took a drink before meeting his eyes. “I want to know.”
Beckett’s tone ached with sincerity, and Donovan swallowed, feeling that ache in his lungs and his bones and his balls. He sighed, dropping his eyes to his beer. “It’s just…a reel someone put up on YouTube. It’s like nine minutes…an amateur thing that’s all individual footage that has been edited together so there’s one couple after the other just…kissing.”
