Fitz wraps an arm around me and drops a possessive kiss onto my shoulder. He does everything possessively. His entire body seems wired for possession.

I arch a brow and fire back at him. “Every night? You sure about that?”

He nods vigorously against me, his beard scratching my neck. “Every night. Every morning. Couldn’t you?”

“That’s a tall order. You would want to go every night and every single morning?” Goading him is easier than dealing with this strengthening storm in my chest. And because of course I could fucking go every night and every morning. Of course I’d want to with him.

“Yes,” he says with certainty, then he shifts, looking into my eyes. “With you, absolutely. I would fuck you every night and then I would fuck you every morning.”

Well, I can’t back away from one question that comes up. I drag a hand down the hard planes of his chest, trailing it toward the V of his abs. “But what if I wanted to fuck you, Fitz? What would you do about that?”

His eyes darken, and the sound that emanates from him is an animalistic rumble. He drops his face to my neck and licks a line up to my ear, making me shudder. “I would let you, now and then,” he murmurs.

I want to laugh, arch a brow, and say, Let me? You’d let me?

But he pushes up on his elbow, expression serious.

This matters to him.

This is a big deal.

I can see it in the set of his jaw, the vulnerability in his eyes.

So instead, since I want to understand what this means to him, I say evenly, “Is that so?”

“Yeah, I would. I wouldn’t let anyone else do that. I haven’t in years. But I would with you.”

I sit up and take notice of this. “Why with me?”

Fitz lets out a deep sigh. “I’ve always liked the control, needed it, even. But with you, Dean, I already feel reckless.”

“You seem pretty in charge.”

He shakes his head. “I’m hardly in control with you.”

“So when you pin me down and have your way with me, that’s not control?”

“No. Not at all. Because everything’s different with you. And I don’t just mean how great the sex is.” He snakes an arm around me, dragging me close. Fitz is the most tactile person I’ve ever known, seeming to crave constant contact.

“How? How is it different?” I press. This tells me volumes about Fitz. “Why would you switch for me?”

“Dean, I don’t think you’re getting it.” His tone brooks no argument. “I would do that with you. Because you’re you.” He hauls me in for another possessive kiss. “You”—he kisses me hard—“make”—sucks on my bottom lip—“me”—jerks my body against his—“feel”—levels me with his intense gaze—“so damn much.”

My heart thumps a little harder, a little faster.

And that pisses me off.

My reaction to him is highly inconvenient.

I know he’s just saying this because he can. He’s saying it because it’s easy. He’s leaving, and I’m his final fling. That’s all this is and all it’s going to be.

What do stupid hearts know?

I tell mine to settle the hell down, that it doesn’t matter that I feel the same way about him, that I can’t get him out of my head.

That doesn’t matter, since this—us—is just a game.

Just pillow talk and pretend.

This is fantasy. Nothing more.

And none of this conversation matters because he’s leaving, so I decide to give him a little bit of what he wants.

He wants the fantasy of him and me, and so do I. Time to spell it out for him as I slide a hand down his chest, my fingers traveling through the hair on his pecs, then to his stomach.

“We could do that, then. Every night, every morning. And I’d go to your games. I’d cheer you on when you scored or blocked or what have you.”

His smile lights up. “I stop goals. I crush the other team.”

“Yes, that. I’d cheer for you when you did the stopping goals thing you do.”

His mischievous blue eyes seem to delight in this scenario. “And before the games, I’d get on my knees for you, take you deep, and suck you off,” he says.

I smile. “Excellent. I get blow jobs before your games. Lucky me. Sign me up.”

Fitz arches a playful brow. “Dude. It’d go both ways. Hello. I blow you; you blow me.”

“Ah, the old tradesies game. Fine, I can live with that. Since you do give spectacular head.”

His grin is magnetic. “You do too. We’ll call it a good luck charm.”

I lift a finger. “I only have one issue with this scenario.”

“What’s that?”

I move my mouth to his ear, nipping his earlobe. “Don’t call me ‘dude.’ That is a horrid word.”

He cracks up, big and warm and so very him, and my heart does that annoying stutter again when he pins me, hands on my wrists, stares down at me, and says, “I like you so much that I won’t say ‘dude.’”

Tags: Lauren Blakely Romance