Eli Easton

All I’d ever wanted in life was to have two things, just two—wrestling and Jordan Carson. I was determined to hang on to both no matter what the cost. But I finally got it—if I wrestled, Jordan would not be in that life.

Fielding stood there staring at me. His eyes were wide, his irises nearly eclipsed by pupil. His mouth was slightly open, red from kissing, and emitting soft pants. Even in the moonlight, I could see a patchy red flush of arousal on the pale skin of his throat. Oh, fuck. He looked so openly bewildered and lost in desire that it took every ounce of will I had not pull him back in and kiss him again.

I started to think that maybe there was something different about me. And that maybe my friendship with Owen was a lot more complicated than I’d thought it was. I had a pretty good idea that I shouldn’t want the things that were starting to itch around inside me. I heard other guys talk about girls, and I wondered when I would start feeling that way about them.

That look on Emily’s face… In her face I saw what I’d never fully admitted to myself—the humiliatingly pathetic hopelessness of my love.

Owen didn’t want me the way I wanted him. He didn’t like boys. That was bearable. But I would die if I lost my best friend.

From that day on, Owen was my best friend—jelly to my peanut butter, fellow pea in my pod, Sam to my Frodo. And I was his.

When Fielding’s eyes said Eureka!, civilizations crumbled and gods wept.

Fielding’s first kiss. Jesus, the pressure.

It was so… fuck. And it was… damn.