Isn't He Romantic?

Book 3: Love on the Vine

by Adib Khorram

Genres: Multicultural & Interracial Romance

Synopsis

USA Today bestselling author Adib Khorram presents an all-new steamy, swoony fake dating romance.  

Release date: September 22, 2026

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 352

Sample

Arya was dripping.

It wasn’t quite warm enough to enjoy sitting by the pool—Napa wasn’t nearly as warm as, say, Los Angeles in March—but still, with the sun shining in a clear azure sky, and the hotel pool being heated, he’d decided to partake anyway.

Still, it turned out a heated pool in seventy-degree weather wasn’t quite as nice as he’d hoped. The water had barely been tepid, and he’d only lasted ten minutes before he got cold and had to dry off.

Arya lay on his lounge chair, soaking in the sun in his canary-yellow briefs, his long legs cocked to let the water dry better. He looked pretty good for thirty-nine years old. With the angle of the lounger and the early afternoon sun, his abs almost showed. They’d started losing definition over the last few years, no matter how much he worked out.

He was tall and slim—not gangly anymore, thankfully he’d filled out a bit in his twenties—trim and fit from the gym and kickball, not to mention years spent swimming, running, kickboxing, doing Pilates, and whatever other fitness routines had piqued his interest over the years. His ruddy copper skin was drinking up the California sun like a frat bro with a hangover. Arya’s skin was naturally on the darker side for Iranians—darker than either of his best friends, Farzan and Ramin—so the winter left him looking a little pasty.

Arya did not look sexy when he was pasty.

Now that the warm sun had coaxed his dick out of its sabbatical in his abdominal cavity, he spread his legs a bit more, glanced around for witnesses, and adjusted himself to present more favorably. He wasn’t here to get laid, but it never hurt to show off the goods. Also, he was alone this afternoon—the rest of the crew had gone wine tasting, with the promise that they would all be spitting to make sure they’d be sober for the show this evening.

(Arya didn’t make a joke about it, but it was a close thing.)

Granted, there weren’t many folks at the pool. A pair of senior femmes, chatting loudly about their latest divorces (third and fifth, respectively) over huge glasses of Chardonnay; a couple of exhausted-looking parents letting their kids go wild; a barrel-chested man with graying chest hair and an actual paper copy of the Wall Street Journal draped over his face for shade.

But there was also a fit-looking man who kept giving Arya glances. He’d stiffened at first (and not in a good way): Being queer, especially as visibly queer as Arya liked to present himself, meant always keeping a bit of an eye out. But also, Arya had done his share of cruising when he was in his twenties. Though he didn’t cruise nearly as often these days—apps were easier and, honestly, a bit safer—he wasn’t so out of practice he didn’t recognize the signs.

The guy (Arya was ninety percent certain it was a guy, at least) was white, with crinkles around his eyes and forehead, and the barest hint of grays at his temples and in his neat beard. Arya might’ve had gray hairs, but he wouldn’t know—he’d been shaving his head since he was in his twenties.

The guy glanced Arya’s way again, crystal-blue eyes flashing in the sun. He had an attractive dad bod: nice big arms and chest, bit of a belly, well-developed ass in his blue striped board shorts.

Those eyes flicked toward Arya yet again, this time trailing down to Arya’s bulge, lingering just a second too long. The guy looked back up, meeting Arya’s gaze. Arya quirked an eyebrow to let the guy know (a) he was caught and (b) Arya didn’t mind.

He saw the guy swallow, the movement visible even across the pool. Arya stretched, making sure to thrust his hips up just a bit from the lounger to make his bulge more prominent, then stood, drying off as slowly as he could while glancing at the guy every so often. He slipped into his flip-flops, grabbed his things, and headed toward the little hut that contained the pool’s two gender-neutral bathrooms. To get to either door, you had to go around a little corner. A bit of privacy, but not enough to obscure which way he’d gone.

Arya stepped into the one on the right and left the door cracked, smiling to himself.

As a rule, he didn’t go looking for hookups when he was on the job, but he wasn’t actually on the job until five o’clock. And Arya and his team were at a different hotel than their client, so there was zero chance he was about to fuck anyone associated with tonight’s event.

Plus he was overdue. It had been weeks since his last hookup. Fucking weeks. He used to get dick every other day.

Things were finally turning around, though.

Arya leaned against the sink, rested his hands on the lip, so his bulge was pointed like a laser at the door. Sure enough, after ten seconds, the door swung slowly open.

It was Dad Bod Guy.

He took a tentative step inside the bathroom, another, a third, and then he let the door swing shut behind him. He turned briefly to set the lock before meeting Arya’s gaze again. His blue eyes were liquid with hunger.

“Hey,” Arya said softly, stepping closer.

“Uh…” The guy swallowed again. Arya noted with only a tiny bit of disdain that he wasn’t wearing any shoes, which was just asking for athlete’s foot, but whatever, it wasn’t like they were going to suck each other’s toes. Arya had silicone-based lube and a couple condoms tucked into his little satchel for anything they might want to do.

“Hey,” the guy finally answered.

He smelled like Merlot and coconut sunscreen and mistakes. Arya stepped closer, reached for his forearms. His skin was warm, the hair on his arms soft and still a bit damp.

“I’ve never done something like this before.”

“Oh really?” Arya asked. He didn’t believe that for a second. Not with the body language outside, not with how well the guy had read the signals. Still, maybe he was DL, or closeted. A place like Napa attracted lots of high earners, and in his experience, being a high earner meant you could afford a really big fucking closet.

“Really,” the guy said, giving a nervous laugh, but that didn’t stop him from dropping his right hand to cup Arya’s package.

“Oh, hi there,” Arya muttered with a smile. The hand holding his balls started to knead, the palm catching Arya’s dick where it angled to the side. Arya purred at the contact. The guy had turned his gaze downward toward Arya’s swimsuit. Arya shifted his own hands to grip Mr. Board Shorts’s butt. It was a solid handful, with definite muscle under there, but a pleasant give to it as well. “Nice ass.”

The guy let out another nervous laugh. It was almost cute. Arya’s dick was nearing full hardness, the head poking at his waistband.

“Take him out,” Arya said.

Most of the time, he liked to let things happen organically. Arya wasn’t particularly bossy in bed, not unless the guy he was with asked for it, and even then, it wasn’t Arya’s favorite thing. He liked a partner that met him halfway, that felt more like an equal, rather than Arya always having to lead. Yeah, he was mostly a top, but he wasn’t much of a dom.

But Mr. Board Shorts seemed to need the coaxing. Maybe he really hadn’t done something like this before. His hands were clumsy as they slipped beneath Arya’s waistband, wrapped warm fingers around his cock, and pulled it up and out.

Arya hummed his pleasure. His dick flexed. He could feel pressure behind his balls, that feeling he was about to start leaking. Mr. Board Shorts shifted his grip to give Arya a few underhand strokes.

“What’re you into?” Arya murmured into his ear, low and sexy. “I’ve got condoms.”

“I’m…” The guy’s voice stuttered, but his hand kept up its steady stroking. “Jesus…”

“I don’t know that position,” Arya joked, leaning back to meet the guy’s gaze. He finally looked up, desire mingled with terror in his sky-blue eyes, and swallowed, hard, once more.

God, that neck… if they’d had more time, maybe a proper bed, and a bit more conversation about status and safety and likes and dislikes, Arya would’ve enjoyed putting some hickeys on that neck. Maybe even a few bite marks.

As it was…

“Why don’t we start with you sucking me?” Arya said.

Again, if there’d been a bed, he could’ve suggested a sixty-nine, but the floor of the pool bathroom? Fuck no.

“I…”

Another swallow. The guy blinked.

And then his legs bent, and he started to get to his knees.

BANG! BANG BANG BANG!

The guy leapt up. Arya stepped back just in time to avoid a broken nose from the guy’s skull.

“Dad!” a voice called. It was reedy but sounded like the owner was trying to deepen it more than nature intended. “Dad, you in there?”

“Be right out!” Mr. Board Shorts called back, then cringed.

Arya’s eyes went wide. His dick went soft.

This guy had a kid? A teenager, by the sound of it?

“Mom texted, she’s on her way back from the tasting. She says we have to get ready.”

“I said I’ll be right out!” Board Shorts called, his voice clipped and short. “Jesus.”

This time when he said it, it carried none of the soft heat it had before.

“Sorry,” the guy muttered. “I’d better…”

“Yeah. You’d better,” Arya said, voice hard.

He was a slut, no doubt about that, no shame, either, but fuck, he wasn’t a home-wrecker. He should’ve checked first. He was just so surprised, getting cruised poolside, he hadn’t taken the time to ask the questions he normally would.

Arya tucked his dick back into his briefs and stepped into the corner so he wouldn’t be visible when the guy left.

“See you around?” Board Shorts muttered.

Arya just shook his head. Fuck no.

As soon as he was gone, Arya locked the door again and went to the sink. He washed his hands, splashed some water on his face, fixed his satchel over his shoulder.

Fuck.

It didn’t used to be this way.

He used to have his pick of dick in whatever city he found himself in. He used to have washboard abs and smooth skin and a refractory period of less than five minutes.

Now here he was, soft around the edges, with creaky knees, and he was lucky to get off twice in one hour.

And worse, he was attracting guys on the down-low.

“I tried to warn you,” the voice of his best friend Ramin whispered in his ear, hovering over his shoulder like a little angel.

“Me too,” Farzan, his other best friend, said from the other shoulder, with a little halo and wings of his own.

What did it say about Arya that he imagined both his best friends as little angels over his shoulders?

That he was the devil?

“Fuck my life,” he groaned, swiping a hand over his smooth head and massaging his scalp a bit.

His phone buzzed in his satchel. A text from Carley.

Carley

Be back soon, boss!

Leave for the venue at 5?

Arya

Yes, 5:00 departure

See you soon

Arya sighed, tucked his phone away, and let himself out of the bathroom.

He needed to shower this whole thing off.

Benny!” Ben’s mom shouted up the stairs. “You need to do any laundry?”

“I’m good, Mom!” Ben called down, trying his best to keep the frustration out of his voice.

Ben loved his parents—loved them enough that he even let his mom call him Benny—but he hated being home. Well, home wasn’t right. It was his parents’ home. It was where he’d grown up. But home was…

Complicated.

For the last five years, home had been San Francisco (well, Oakland, technically, because he couldn’t afford to live in San Francisco proper, not on a classical musician’s salary, not even one for the San Francisco Symphony); and before that, seven years in Detroit; and before that, three years in Raleigh.

Even then, they weren’t homes, just possible homes. He wouldn’t know where home was until he finally got tenure somewhere. Though his new contract was tenure-track, so his hopes were high.

It didn’t start for another week, though, while his lease in Oakland had run out at the end of February, leaving him no choice but to move back in with his parents (the rest of his stuff was in storage) until he could actually move into his new place.

So he’d spend the last two weeks at his family’s vineyard in Napa. Even though Phoenix Mountain was doing well enough for them to move into the city, Ben’s parents still loved the old farmhouse at the edge of the vineyard, looking northwest toward Mount Saint Helena, with the tasting room downstairs and living spaces upstairs.

Growing up, Ben had hated that his family home constantly had strangers in it, but his siblings (and parents) had loved it. Somehow Ben had gotten all the introversion for the entire Liu family.

Even now, as he tried to practice his Dvořák 9—he’d be playing it at the beginning of April—he could hear footsteps on the hardwood floors down below, not to mention the bustle in the courtyard outside as some event company set up a party for finance bros.

A party. For finance bros.

Phoenix Mountain didn’t host events, not usually, but apparently the event planner had sweet-talked his mom and dad into letting them. Well, sweet-talked, plus offered a huge check, courtesy of the finance bros.

“Shit,” Ben said as he flubbed the same measure he always flubbed. He set down his cello and stood, rolling out his neck, stretching his back. He was forty years old; he couldn’t hunch over his cello for twelve hours a day anymore, not without spending some quality time with his foam roller.

Still, being forty had its benefits: Things didn’t bother him so much anymore. His opinions carried more weight. His playing had only gotten better, more nuanced, more expressive, the more life he lived. He’d learned to laugh at himself.

Yeah, forty was great, even if he was starting it out unexpectedly single.

Speaking of which—

“Ben?”

Justin’s voice carried up the stairs.

If Ben could do it all again, he absofuckinglutely would not date a man who worked for his parents. Much less move back into his parents’ house after breaking up with said man. But here he was.

And there Justin was, softly knocking on his bedroom door.

“Ben? You done practicing?”

Everyone at Phoenix Mountain (well, everyone except his mom) knew not to interrupt him if they could hear his cello, not unless something was on fire. On second thought, he never should’ve put down his bow.

He sighed and answered the door.

“I’m just taking a break. I’m still practicing.”

He went to close it, but Justin put his hand in the doorframe, and Ben was too aware that Justin needed his hands for pouring wine in the tasting room to actually close the door on Justin’s fingers.

“What do you want, Justin?”

Justin sighed and turned on his puppy dog eyes. He was a tall (well, above average height at least) white guy with brown eyes, auburn hair with a few flecks of gray in it, a dusting of freckles across his cheeks, and the kind of tan that everyone who worked in Napa got sooner or later.

He was gym-fit, and the relaxed dress code at the winery meant he was in a red Phoenix Mountain T-shirt that hugged his chest and molded to his triceps.

Ben used to think he was the most handsome man in the world. Now he was just… annoying.

“I want to talk to you,” he said. Justin’s voice was smooth and clear and just a bit husky. That used to be Ben’s favorite, the little bit of scratchiness. Now it just irritated him. “How many ways do I have to apologize for you to forgive me?”

“I do forgive you,” Ben said. He and Justin wanted different things. That didn’t mean he was angry and it didn’t mean he hated Justin. Just that they were done.

“Then why—”

“Just because I forgive you doesn’t mean I want to get back together. At the end of the day, you said what you said. You can’t undo that. I can’t pretend like I never heard it.” Ben ran a hand through his hair, messing up his middle part, but he didn’t even care. “I’m moving next week. Just let it go.”

“I won’t give up,” Justin said earnestly. He dialed up the puppy-dog factor around his eyes. “I won’t stop fighting for us.”

“God, Justin, there is no us. You need to accept that.” He took a deep breath. “Now, can you please excuse me? This Dvořák isn’t going to practice itself.”

Justin finally let him close the door.

“Fuck,” Ben muttered. “Fuck!”

He never should’ve accepted his parents’ offer to stay with them. He should’ve gotten a hotel. Lived in his car. Anything but dealing with this.

When Justin had floated the idea of an open relationship last year, Ben thought he was just joking. Doing one of those hypotheticals that couples sometimes did. Would you love me if I was a worm? type shit.

But then, in January, he’d brought it up again. He wasn’t satisfied with their sex life. He loved Ben, but he didn’t want to have sex with only Ben.

Well, fuck that.

So Justin had moved back to Napa (he was already spending four days a week in Napa, sleeping in a friend’s spare room), and Ben had mentioned to his parents that they broke up, but not why.

As pissed off as he was, he didn’t want his parents taking it out on Justin. They’d spent their whole relationship navigating that particular dynamic, and Ben wasn’t so petty as to screw Justin all the way over.

But now Ben’s parents were convinced this was just a fight, that they’d get back together, and he wasn’t sure if Justin was the one who’d convinced his parents of that, or if his parents were the ones encouraging Justin to keep bothering him.

Things were done between them, though, well and truly done. Ben could never unhear that Justin wanted to sleep with other people.

Ben shook his head. He really needed to practice. He wasn’t going to get much chance once this event started and the house filled with noise.

It was nearly midnight when the hubbub from the vineyards finally died down and quiet descended. Ben took off his headphones and sighed.

Another thing that sucked about being back in his parents’ house: having to hide when there’s something going on at the vineyard. But the finance bros had finally cleared out, the tables and chairs had all been picked up. The sky was clear, the moon and stars were out, and Ben could finally get out of his room and stretch his legs.

He headed downstairs. The third stair from the bottom still squeaked, just like it always did. Growing up he’d learned to avoid that step if he was doing something he didn’t think his parents would like, though he’d never been that rebellious as a child, other than the whole becoming-a-musician thing. Despite the stereotype about East Asian parents, Ben’s mom and dad had actually been a little disappointed he wanted to be a cellist instead of a winemaker. After all, there weren’t too many top-tier wineries in Napa operated by the descendants of Chinese immigrants.

Ben loved wine, but he loved the cello more. And thankfully his siblings Nathan and Alexandra did love winemaking and were taking over more and more of the winery every day.

“Oh, Benny!” Ben’s mom caught him as he headed for the back door.

Judy Liu had a round face framed by black hair with a few streaks of gray in it, pulled back into a ponytail when she was working. She was a full foot shorter than Ben—he got his height from his dad—and pear shaped, and she always had a song in her voice. She’d been responsible for Ben’s love for music, much to her own chagrin.

“Hey, Mom. Everything go okay?” Ben leaned over for a quick hug.

“It went great. And best of all, it’s all done now.”

Ben laughed. His mom hated staying up past her bedtime.

“I’m just going to get some air before I go to bed,” Ben said, kissing his mom on the cheek. “Dad already go up?”

She nodded. “You want waffles tomorrow?”

Ben laughed. “I’m good, Mom. You don’t have to feed me.”

“I like feeding my son,” she said, swatting his chest affectionately. “Don’t stay up too late.”

“I won’t.”

She turned to go, but then stopped herself. “Oh, Benny, one more thing?”

Ben pushed his glasses up his nose. “Hm?”

“Don’t you think this whole breakup thing has gone on long enough? You’re only hurting you both.”

He sighed. “It’s between me and Justin, Mom.”

“I know. I just hate to see you both so unhappy. Couples fight and make up all the time. It happens.”

It wasn’t just a fight, and they weren’t going to make up. But Ben couldn’t tell her that.

“Good night, Mom.”

He grabbed his cardigan—a white, fluffy wool thing he’d found at a flea market back in San Francisco—and put it on before stepping out into the cool night air.

The vineyard still smelled like grape blossoms, and Ben closed his eyes and breathed in. Was there anything in the world that smelled so sweet?

If so, he’d never found it.

The stars were bright and clear, and the full moon painted the rows and rows of vines in silvery light. To the right, next to the house, the parking lot was mostly clear, though Ben could still see signs of the party: discarded black napkins barely visible against the asphalt, cheese and crackers and crudités smashed and left on the ground. Not too bad, though. A few folks in black shirts and dark jeans, nearly invisible in the night, were wandering the periphery, probably the last of the crew cleaning up.

Ben’s gaze landed on one in particular. This one was in a suit. It was hard to make out the color, dark but not black, slim fit to accentuate the guy’s (he assumed it was a guy, at least) lean height. His head was shaved, shining in the moonlight, and he carried himself with the kind of quiet confidence Ben associated with eccentric conductors.

He was hot, no denying that, and Ben took a moment to admire the view.

“Ben? You out here?” Justin’s voice rang from the other side of the house.

Shit. Shit.

His bullshit meter was already full up. He couldn’t handle another conversation with Justin tonight. His heart beat in andante as he scurried out of the light of the house, toward the moonlit vineyards—and the guy in the suit.

“Evening,” the guy said as Ben approached, taking in Ben’s appearance—jeans and a white fluffy cardigan—and cocking his head. “You with the vineyard?”

“Yeah,” Ben said.

“Ben?” Justin’s voice rang out again. Ben looked back over his shoulder, trying to figure out if Justin could see him. How deep could he get into the vines? How far did he have to go before he was out of sight?

Why the fuck did he have to hide, anyway? This was his family’s place.

God. What did he have to do to get it through Justin’s thick skull that they were done?

He turned back to find the man in the suit smiling at him. No, that wasn’t just a smile. It was… appreciative.

Fuck it.

“Listen, I know this is a wild ask, but can I kiss you?”

Suit Guy’s eyebrows shot up, crinkling his forehead.

“It’s for a good cause.”

His smile widened. “Sure you can.”

“Ben?” Justin’s voice was getting closer.

Ben grabbed the guy by the lapels and pulled him into a kiss.

This was not how Arya had expected his night to go.

The event had gone off without a hitch. Their client, Avery & Lloyd Financial Group, had loved the party; the weather was perfect; only two guests vomited from drinking too much, and that was already cleaned up; and the trucks with all their gear were now trundling down the dirt road that ran from Phoenix Mountain back toward Silverado Trail and the valley floor.

Carley, Arya’s right hand, had gone with the rest of the crew, leaving Arya alone to take in the vineyard one last time (and make sure the caterers had finished cleaning up) before he headed back to the hotel.

Instead, a stranger—a hot stranger named Ben (he assumed)—had begged him for a kiss.

If he had to guess, he’d say Ben was of Chinese extraction, especially given the Liu family who owned Phoenix Mountain were descended from Chinese immigrants. He had a strong jaw, stronger cheekbones, a long elegant nose, deep brown hooded eyes, and inky-black hair. Arya was desperate to know if it felt as silky as it looked—ever since he went bald, he’d appreciated a good head of hair—but his hands were too busy holding on to Ben’s butt to shift. Ben’s hair was parted in the middle, framing his face and glasses.

Those fucking glasses.

Arya had heard people talk about slutty little glasses before, but he’d never really understood it. Not until now.

The glasses weren’t even that little: octagonal things, metal framed, the perfect size for Ben’s face. And they were real fucking sexy. Even Ben’s cardigan—a white fuzzy thing that should’ve been more cozy than sexy—managed to show off strong shoulders and a firm set of pecs.

Arya had just been wondering what those shoulders might feel like beneath his hands when Ben had asked him for a kiss. Who was Arya to say no?

Ben’s lips were warm, and soft, and more insistent than Arya was expecting. He let out a little grunt of surprise as Ben’s tongue slipped past his teeth and began stroking his tongue.

His dick, which had been feeling full and unsettled all night after the disaster at the hotel pool, started firming up, snaking toward his left hip. Arya smiled into the kiss, hummed in delight, grabbed Ben’s waist, and pulled them closer together. He wasn’t sure why, exactly, Ben had asked to kiss, but he wanted Ben to know just how much he liked it. Ben let out a little hum of delight himself as Arya pressed his cock against Ben’s leg.

He took control of the kiss, sucking on Ben’s luscious bottom lip. Ben’s mouth was a thing of beauty, his lips full and smooth, a faint bit of stubble surrounding. He tasted of Cabernet and chocolate, poor choices and happy endings.

Ben pressed against him, forcing him back, and Arya felt the brush of grapevines against his jacket. Before he could slip, though, Ben’s hand came up to his lower back to steady him. Shit, should they be doing this here, now? What if they damaged the vines?

Then Ben let out a little satisfied sigh, and Arya forgot all about the damned vines, and his suit, and the crisp night, everything but the feeling of Ben’s lips.

Arya had kissed a lot of men in his life. He’d kissed a lot of people, period. He was definitely gay, but he was also curious, and he’d tried out lots of genders in his twenties.

But this kiss?

This kiss was different.

He couldn’t say why, exactly. Ben had a talented mouth, but so had lots of folks. Hell, Arya had a talented mouth himself. That wasn’t conceit, just fact: He’d hyperfixated on his kissing technique in his early twenties, and it had paid dividends.

And it wasn’t the setting, though that was particularly magical, like something out of a rom-com, kissing in the grape-scented air beneath the silvery moon.

And it wasn’t that Ben was a fucking masterpiece of a man. He was, of course, but Arya had kissed (and fucked) plenty of masterpieces in his life. His body count could’ve been in the Nelson-Atkins.

No, it wasn’t any of those things that set this kiss apart.

Arya’s friends had talked about a spark before, but he’d always assumed it was hyperbole. They both had boyfriends, after all. They did sappy, romantic shit. Arya figured it was all made up.

But how else could he explain the feeling of electricity crackling between his lips and Ben’s? Like they were made for each other? Like the world around them—the vineyard, the house, the earth, the stars above—had ceased to exist?

If this was a spark, sign him the fuck up.

He shifted so his leg was between Ben’s, and he could feel Ben’s own growing arousal in his black sweats.

Arya wished they were gray.

He and Ben were more or less the same height, so he had to dip his hips a bit to get a good grind on. Ben’s pleased grunt made him smile. He was just about to do it again when a voice broke in from way too close.

“Ben?”

Ben broke the kiss smoothly, biting Arya’s bottom lip for good measure. When Arya opened his eyes, Ben was looking past him at the newcomer.

It was a masc white person, shorter than Arya but broader, with a button nose and cleft chin and brown hair short and swooped up in the front. Arya couldn’t quite tell their age: they had crow’s feet around their eyes, but their cheeks were full, either due to luck or youth or filler. Their hair didn’t quite match the color of their eyebrows.

“I’m busy, Justin,” Ben said. He pulled Arya’s face back toward his, but before they could kiss again, Justin spoke.

“Seriously, babe? What the fuck?”

Arya’s heart stammered. It bounced against his rib cage like a pinball, dipping down toward his stomach before a flipper launched it somewhere toward his throat.

Not a-fucking-gain.

He had a strict no home-wrecking policy, for fuck’s sake!

Arya tried to extricate himself, but Ben’s grip on his back stayed strong.

“For the millionth time,” Ben said, voice turning icy, “I’m not your babe. We’re done. We’ve been done for months. Now, do you mind?”

Before Arya could do anything—say anything—Ben pulled Arya back into a kiss.

Arya’s heart settled immediately. Fuck. Home-wrecking or not, Ben kissed him like no one else.

Like nothing in the world mattered except their lips, together.

Arya’s heart had settled—though it was still beating fast—but his brain was another story. Five different fucked-up scenarios sprang to mind, and he pulled out of the kiss.

He looked around, but the guy from earlier was gone, thank fuck. Arya let out a low, shaky breath.

“Who was that?”

Please, pleas