Page 282 of The Hopelessly Bromantic Duet

The prospect of Owen on this app is making my head spin with terrifying possibilities. He could have a boyfriend soon. Like, in a few days. He’s such a catch. He’ll be reeling in men like that. He’ll be having lunches and coffees and dinners lined up the second he returns to the city.

I should tell him I can’t wait to hear about his dates. But I’d rather drink battery acid.

Yup. That’s my answer to thewould you ratherrunning through my head right now.

Which brings me to another question—would I rather head to the guest room, shut the door, and lock myself in for the night where our friendship is safe and sound? Or would I rather take a chance?

My gaze locks on Owen’s. His blue eyes spark with challenge. Heat too.

Will we play a game of filthy innuendo alone in a cabin in the woods after dark?

Maybe it’s the snow. Maybe it’s the champagne. Maybe it’s the powder keg of lust.

Or perhaps it’s that Owen Hayes is unequivocally boyfriend material, and all these feelings for him want to come out.

I lift the phone, my eyes never leaving his face as I speak into the search bar: “Would You Rather dirty questions.”

Owen tries to fight off a grin.

I tear my gaze from his, look at the results, click on a page, and begin.

“Here goes.” I sit up straighter. “Would you rather have everyone you know be able to read your thoughts,” I say, and he winces, making his feeling clear on option one, “or for everyone to have access to your Internet history?”

Owen breathes a sigh of relief. “Easy. Internet history.”

“Ah, so you have all sorts of secret, dirty thoughts you don’t want anyone to access,” I say.Tell me your secret dirty thoughts. Are they the same as mine?

“Obviously,” he answers.

Dying to know. Just dying. “Well... what’s in your Internet history, cutie?”

Owen taps his chin. “Let’s see. Where to buy locally farmed veggies. Weather in Markleeville...” And the flirt that he is, the fucking flirt, he runs his teeth along the corner of his mouth, a move that makes me want to kiss that corner even more, before he says in a casual tone, “And last night I searched for my favorite adult performer’s page.”

My skin buzzes with excitement. “And what was on his page?”

Owen smiles slyly. “A hot solo.”

I am on fire, since I’m not thinking of just any performer stroking it. I’m picturing Owen doing that for me.

Putting on a show.

I shove the phone at him wordlessly. He takes it, scans the questions, then asks, “Would you rather do it with the lights on or off?”

I try to reset my brain away from the image of Owen’s hot solo by answering the question clinically. “Lights on. Always. All the time,” I say, then scrunch my brow. “Except for middle-of-the-night sleepy sex. Lights off for that.”

A lazy smile plays on his face. “Mmm. Yeah,” he rasps, and tugs at the neck of his shirt.

Such a simple reaction, but so powerful. His words and deeds say he likes the same things I do.

Andfuck clinical.

My gaze drifts down his face, his chest, his arms. What does Owen look like in the middle of the night, his skin illuminated only by moonlight? Shadows cast across all those muscles andflesh? What does he look like when he’s moving in the dark with a man?

With me?Forme?

My mind goes hazy. I’m so attracted to him I don’t know what to do with this lust. It’s like I’m suffering from an overdose. I’ve ingested too much Owen today, but I can’t stop. I want more. I crave more.

I take the phone from him. Looking at the web page, I select another question. “Would you rather be handcuffed or blindfolded?” I ask Owen, then knit my brow as I contemplate the query. “Hmmm. That’s a dilemma.”