One bed. Him and Justin. Who’d fallen into his arms out by the lake. Made of cinnamon eyes and slim tempting hips and that half-shy half-flirtatious mouth.
And they had one bed.
He’d known that intellectually—hell, he’d even said blithely that it wouldn’t be a problem, he’d slept on tour buses and on shared mattresses with Reggie. He stared at the bed.
It stared back as sarcastically as solid wood and mattress-foam could. He thought it might be laughing.
Justin peeled off his shirt, tossed violet fabric at a chair—it landed and clung in an act of improbable determination—and then froze, having visibly come to the same realization. “Um.”
Kris cleared his throat. Justin shirtless was a dream, a fantasy, a glory of slender waist and smooth skin and tiny pert n*****s, dark and taut and me
