It’s perfect—better than any dream I’ve ever had.

He talks about his friends and what they got up to yesterday, his generally good mood switching for a moment when he tells me about what they did to his room.

I laugh. I can’t stop laughing. “I have to see it,” I tell him.

So when we pull into his garage, he opens my door, helps me to step out and holds my hand as he leads me through his house. The one and only time I’d been inside, I only really saw the hallway and the kitchen. He shows me through the rest of the house, which is basically just the living room. It’s nice. Neat. But definitely very male. The one thing that stands out are the pictures framed and hanging on the walls. So many pictures of Dylan, of his brother, of his mom and dad, and then of the three Banks Military Men. From babies, to kids, to teens to adults. There’s even a glass case in the living room with all the boy’s trophies and participation ribbons. Basketball for Dylan. Academics for Eric. I point to one of him standing next to his truck, Jake next to him, with the bed loaded. “What’s that?”

“That would be the day I left for UNC.”

“I bet your dad was proud.”

He smiles. “Honestly, I could’ve flunked out of high school and pressed metal over at the factory like he does and he’d still be proud.” He places his hands on my waist and kisses my shoulder. “Okay. My room. Promise not to laugh?”

“I can’t promise that. At all.”

He rolls his eyes but guides me, his hands staying where they are, through the living room, past the hallway, and to his closed door. “Ready?”

“I don’t think I’ll ever be ready,” I joke.

He reaches across and turns the handle, then stops. “I just want to make it clear that this isn’t some kind of personal joke or anything. Never, and I mean ever have I mentioned anything about ponies or glitter or—”

“Just open the door,” I say through a laugh.

I try. Truly, I try not to laugh, but how can I not? It’s ridiculous. He gently pushes me inside, while I continue to cackle with laughter, my hands out, moving the streamers out of the way. He stands in front of me shaking his head. “It gets worse,” he tells me, grasping my shoulders and spinning me around to face his now closed door. “High School Musical?” I almost shout, turning to him. But before I can laugh, before I can breathe, his mouth is on mine, his hands gripping my waist, pushing me slowly until my back’s against the door. His tongue parts my lips and I welcome it. I welcome him and his entire body as he pushes up and into me, his leg between mine, his hands gripping my wrists and moving them above my head. He doesn’t stop kissing me, not for a second. When he needs air, he moves from my lips down to my neck and I gasp for breath, but he doesn’t give me long before his mouth covers mine again and I get lost. Completely lost. In this moment and in his kiss and in our mixed moans. He steps back, just enough to shift so his hips are between my legs and I can feel his excitement pressed against my stomach. He takes his hand off my wrists and uses the other to keep both my hands pinned against the door, trapped with his force. His free hand glides down my side, past the swell of my breast and my waist, ending on my bare thigh. He lifts my leg, forcing them both off the ground, using his body to pin me in place before his mouth is on my jaw, my neck, my collarbone, his tongue sliding across my skin.

Using his body, he shifts me higher until his hardness is exactly where I want it.

“Dylan…”

He responds by moaning into my skin, his hand pressing harder on my wrists.

I try to break from his hold. I want to touch him. I want to feel every single inch of his body but he’s too strong. Too overcome by lust.

His hips start thrusting, slow, smooth movements and I’m wet. So damn wet.

“Dylan…”

He covers my mouth again, his tongue soft and warm and relentless. He keeps thrusting, keeps pushing me closer and closer to—

“Dylan!” For a second I’m confused because I didn’t speak his name and it’s not my voice. “Dylan!” Bang bang bang. I get pushed forward by the force of the door opening.

Dylan curses and drops me to the floor while his hand slams against the door. “What, Eric?!”

I wipe my lips with the back of my hand, my eyes wide in panic.

On the other side of the door, Eric shouts, “I left some shit I need for work in there.”

Clearly reluctant, Dylan plants his hands on my waist, guiding me in front of him with his hard-on pressed against my back. He opens the door for his brother, whose eyes widen when he sees us.

“Oh,” his brother says. Then he smirks. “Riley, right?”

I nod.

Dylan’s grip on my waist tightens.

His brother asks me, “You still got that mole on the inside of your left thigh?”

“What?” I pant.

“He’s fucking around,” Dylan says from behind me. “Get your shit and leave, E.”

Eric steps forward, his strides short and slow, his eyes staying on us. Dylan moves us as one, turning slightly to follow him across the room.

“I can’t for the life of me remember where I put it,” Eric says, index finger tapping his chin as he slows his steps even more. “Maybe it’s under your bed…” He stops moving.

So do we.

“No.” Finger on chin again. “We cleared that out for your she-male porn.”

“Get the fuck out,” Dylan snaps.