The Best Man: Part Two by Lola Carson Read Free Book Online Page B

genius plan. “More alcohol.”
    They tussle at the drinks cabinet, Noah with his head inside it trying to find a good bottle and Patrick crowding behind, one hand on Noah’s hip, as he attempts to reach past him for what he wants. Noah can feel Patrick’s groin against his arse but then Patrick’s distracting him by grabbing for a bottle of whiskey, and Noah tutts and tries to tug it away from him.
    “No, you’re not having whiskey. You always drink whiskey. We’re having tequila. Live a little.”
    “Says the infant.”
    “Hey, I’m twenty-three—” He turns and he’s flat against Patrick’s chest and he’s still trying to wrestle the whiskey from his grip but he’s not letting it go. “Put that down .”
    He eventually manages to snatch it from his hand and hide it behind his back. Patrick makes a grab for, but Noah holds it out of reach, and their entire bodies clash together.
    Patrick stops and takes a breath. “Do you honestly think you’re tall enough to keep that out of my reach?”
    “No,” says Noah. “But getting it means you’ll have to get really close to me and I know you don’t want to risk that.” It’s the closest anyone’s come to saying it out loud and Noah holds his breath for the response.
    Patrick stares at him. There’s a storm churning in his eyes. “Tequila it is.”
    “Shots,” says Noah, and he breaks away from Patrick to find shot glasses and lime and salt, heart pounding the thrill of excitement into his ribs.
    They end up sprawled on the floor, Noah with his head resting back against the front of the couch, Patrick reclining beside him, propped up on one elbow.
    “To Santa,” Patrick says, and then they each lick the dusting of salt they’ve sprinkled on their hands and drink the shots, sucking on lime pieces after to chase the taste.
    “Why do you wear this?” Noah asks him during a moment of quiet minutes later, hand lifting to trace his fingers over the cross pendant dangling on its chain, resting against Patrick’s chest.
    Patrick looks down at Noah’s hand touching him, then up into his eyes. “I like it.”
    “Are you religious?”
    “Depends on your definition,” Patrick murmurs. They’re sitting so close together that they can keep their voices low, secretive. “I believe in god, and I try to live by a moral code. Not always the best moral code…”
    Noah licks his lips, tangles the necklace around his finger so it’s pulling at the skin of Patrick’s neck, creating an indent, making him lean forward slightly, into Noah’s space. “What does your code say about getting drunk with your best friend’s fiancé?”
    Patrick stares at him, then his eyes flick down to Noah’s mouth, and then he’s running the very tip of a finger along Noah’s jaw. “There’s a lot of ways my best friend’s fiancé is testing my code.”
    “Like what?” Noah’s breath is caught in his throat.
    Patrick hesitates, and he keeps his eyes on Noah, and when he speaks it’s with an edge of caution in his tone. “This is a dangerous subject.”
    “Getting drunk with you is dangerous.” He swallows, and he pulls on the necklace, and he tilts his face to feel the warmth of Patrick’s breath across his lips. “Makes boundaries harder to see.”
    Patrick dips his face the barest of an inch, enough that his nose ghosts over Noah’s, and the finger on his jaw comes up to Noah’s mouth, traces over his bottom lip, presses on it to make him part his lips. Noah’s tongue edges forward, and he tastes skin, and Patrick’s eyes on his mouth are burning. “You ever done a body shot?”
    “Yeah.”
    Patrick gets his fingers on Noah’s jaw again and tilts his face up, and then he’s leaning forward and licking a stripe up Noah’s neck, and Noah’s breathless with it, and he’s so drunk, and the wet heat of Patrick’s tongue against his neck is making his heart hammer and his head spin, blood rushing to his groin, hardening him. Patrick reaches for the salt