And then it really begins—the rhythmic sound of the bed rocking against the wall.

I break out in a sweat. He grunts, and I shiver. Every little noise he makes is gold. I close my eyes, and I could almost be the one underneath him. My heartbeat syncs to his rhythm. Inside. Straining. More. Yes.

“Please,” she moans. “Please.”

Her begging is the soundtrack of my life. Please, Dylan. For once she and I are in perfect agreement. I clench my legs together against the ache. And then I do it again.

I’m a sinner. I’ve always been a sinner.

Pressing myself into the mattress, I spread my legs, and I imagine his body over me. His hot skin against mine. His tongue in my mouth. His low voice in my ear. My pulse pounds, and my ears strain, and I keep forgetting to breathe.

“Grab the bed rail,” Dylan growls. “With both hands.”

Then the wall practically begins to shake as the rhythm rises. It doesn’t stop until a rich, satisfied moan comes from the other room, chorused with my roommate’s.

And now I know what he sounds like when he comes.

I don’t move a muscle. If I got up to close the window, I might be overheard. If Dylan knew I was listening, I’d die of embarrassment.

But nobody is thinking about me at all right now. I hear only the low murmured voices of lovers speaking to one another from very close range—the closest range there is.

I lay still and try to think of other things. But I’m turned on and lonely, and the room is spinning gently.

It takes a long time to fall asleep.

THIRTY-SEVEN

The Tavern Again

Alec

“Which beer do you think I should try first?” the attractive woman leaning on my bar asks. “The Goldenpour or the Barclay Stout?” She’s pretty. Early twenties, probably. Tight sweater and tighter jeans. I’ve never seen her before, but she gives me a big smile.

Then she shifts her body slightly and bats her eyelashes at my bartender, Smitty.

Beside me, Smitty grins with amusement. Because this girl isn’t just choosing between two beers. She’s what Smitty and I call a waverer—she’s mulling over her choice of bartenders, too.

“Well,” Smitty says, propping an arm on the bar. “Goldenpour is crisp and yeasty with aromas of pear and citrus.” He’s rolling up his sleeves, that fucker, purposefully showing off the colorful tattoos on his forearms.

“On the other hand,” I break in, “the Barclay Stout has hints of cocoa powder and vanilla, a creamy finish, a lengthy tail, and nice head.” I actually flex my pecs as I say this, while Smitty tries not to bust out laughing.

“Wow.” She blinks back and forth between us. “Tough decision.”

Competing for women is our little game. I get the girls who want the fit and clean-cut type, and Smitty gets the ones who like ’em tattooed and dangerous.

There’s plenty of female attention to go around. We just enjoy this bit of nonsense.