6. Carson

Oh fuck, my head is pounding. Shit. Is the bed moving? Or is the room spinning? Fuck. I don't know.I haven't been that drunk in a while. I wasn't really planning on getting that drunk last night, but I wanted to celebrate.

My first professional race.

And okay, yeah, maybe twentieth isn't as good as I thought I'd do, but it wasn't that bad. I finished. I did good, damn it. I feel like I've finally made it, and I wanted to celebrate.

So celebrate I did.

With the hottest fucking guy I've ever seen in my life.

I smile to myself. Brayden. The guy hates me, but he went with me to the bar. We had dinner, and we drank. Hell, Brayden was even singing in a crowd of people. Never thought I'd see the day.

Of course, it did take a hell of a lot of alcohol, and I'm paying for it now. But it was worth it. So totally worth it.

I can't really explain why I decided to beg him to celebrate with me, other than I like getting under his skin. I knew it would irritate the shit out of him, me showing up at his nice, boring hotel room, and I just had the urge to do it. Riling him up is just too fun, and I couldn't pass it up.

"Holy fuck. My head is going to explode." I startle at the sound of his voice. Brayden?

I look to my left on the large king-sized bed. Oh holy fuck.

It's Brayden. Nearly fucking naked and sprawled out on the bed, lying on his stomach like my wildest wet dream.

Last night, when he lifted his shirt, showing off just the barest hint of toned stomach, I nearly swallowed my tongue. Or got down on my knees and begged to swallow his cock.

Thankfully, I didn't do that. I'm pretty good at playing it cool. But Jesus Christ, I wanted to.

But today, there's so much bare skin in front of me, I'm really not sure I'm capable of keeping my composure. I'm not a saint. He's cut. Which I already knew. I'm a gay man who loves racing, so of course I've seen his many nearly nude photos over the years. Calendars. Jesus Christ, the calendars.

I've even been part of some of those photo shoots, but this is different. This is Brayden Beckett in bed with me, no one else around, and only wearing a snug pair of black boxer briefs.

Lord help me. Maybe I died last night and this is my heaven.

I watch the muscles in his back flex as he stretches. The colorful tattoos on his right bicep move with each flex.

Phew. If this is my heaven, I'm okay with it. I had a good run. Totally worth it.

"Why the fuck are you naked?" I look at his face, which is now turned toward me with a deep scowl as his eyes creep over my skin. I feel it everywhere, like an angry caress. "And why the fuck are you in my bed?"

I grin, turning on that cool attitude I'm so good at portraying. "I think you're actually in my bed, champ." I'm lying on my back, naked as the day I was born, and yeah, my cock is standing tall and proud.

Could be morning wood, but my guess it's the hot-as-fuck, nearly naked, broody racer in my bed. That's probably it.

His eyes settle on my cock, and it twitches at his perusal. I lick my lips and keep my eyes on his face, waiting for any sign of lust. Any sign that he might want me even half as bad as I want him.

"Jesus, fuck. Please tell me we didn't fuck last night."

My mouth opens, and a hearty laugh leaves me. I don't get the impression he's freaked-out to be in a bed with a man, but I think he might be more freaked-out that it's me in bed with him. "Well, my ass isn't sore, so either we didn't fuck, I fucked you, or your dick sadly didn't leave an impression."

His glare just deepens. "We didn't fuck."

I grin widely, knowing it drives him insane. "You sure?"

He shuts his eyes and rolls his body to sit up on the edge of the bed. All his muscles bunch with every movement, and I'm pretty sure I'm drooling. "Shit. How much did we drink?" he groans.

"Oh, come on. It's not that bad." I mean, yeah, my head was a little sore when I woke up, but I'm starting to feel better.

"Must you be so fucking loud?" he asks, and I chuckle.

"Aw, feeling your age?" I tease.

He tosses a pillow at me, and I catch it. "Fuck off."

"Wanna shower? It'll make you feel better." I waggle my eyebrows at him as I stand up and start toward the bathroom.

"How the hell are you not hungover?"

"I am." Because yeah, I don't feel the greatest but not close to death. "Just not old, so it'll pass."

He looks like he wants to punch me, and I laugh, moving to sit next to him on the bed instead of going to the bathroom. My dick has waned a little, but it's still pretty hard. I wonder if he woke up the same way.

If we touched last night.

I don't remember anything past singing and dancing at the bar, but I do remember my arm being around him down there.

My eyes move to his lips, and he grumbles, "Stop looking at me like that. Nothing happened last night."

I cock my head to the side, studying him. "You sure?"

"Positive." Hmm, he does look really sure.

"So you're straight then, huh?"

He sighs heavily, and an odd sense of hope makes its way through me. "That's really none of your business."

Holy shit. That wasn't a yes."Not so straight?"

Another very heavy sigh. "If you must know, I identify as bisexual. Have for a really long damn time too."

"How did I not know that?"

"Because I know how to keep my shit private."

I roll my eyes because, yeah, he does keep buttoned up, that's for damn sure. His interviews are always boring as all hell. Just about racing. Nothing else. Not ever. "Well, I'm gay as fuck, and I bet you didn't know that." I sound like a kid, and I kind of hate that because that's how he sees me.

He studies me carefully, and I fidget a little under his gaze before he nods his head slowly. "I'm surprised."

"That I'm gay?"

His eyes roll now, clearly irritated. "No. That it isn't public knowledge."

"I'm not an idiot," I say. "I know how hard it is to be out in the public eye in the racing world. Hell, in the sports world. I'm not fucking up my career."

He looks like he wants to ask me something, and God, do I want him to. I don't even care what it is. We're talking. Like actually talking, and I don't want it to stop.

But then he steels his expression and stands up from the bed, grabbing his discarded jeans and pulling them on very slowly. It's clear he's in pain from drinking too much.

I'm sure he regrets it.

Still, my eyes rove all over his body as he gets dressed, like the total damn creeper I am, and my dick only gets harder. He eyes it, not missing a damn thing and then looks back up at my face, unimpressed.

Fuck him. I have a nice cock.

I know I do. I've been told many times when I have a discreet hookup here and there.

"Don't get any ideas. I don't fuck teenagers."

"I'm not a goddamn teenager," I say petulantly. "And who said I wanted to fuck you?" I would. I so fucking would. "You really aren't my type."

He smirks at me, the smile confident and strong. "Your dick says otherwise." He smooths down his t-shirt, his hand sweeping over those firm abs I want to lick.

"My dick gets excited by a hot guy, but my brain knows I don't want you. I like guys around my age. They can go for hours. Don't have to wait for them to get hard, and they don't need rest and a sandwich before fucking me again."

His gaze hardens, and I can't tell if it's anger or something else, but then he just chuckles and shakes his head at me. "Whatever you need to tell yourself, rookie. But when we're on the track, you keep your desire and your dick to yourself."

"Don't dry hump you out on the track. Got it," I say dryly, and he just laughs again like I'm ridiculous.

I want to punch him now, but he just leaves. Striding out of my hotel room, totally unbothered.

Well, that was weird.

Usually, I'm the one playing it cool, and he gets all riled up.

I don't like this change.