A cold nose rubbed into RJ’s arm, digging until he groaned. Then he was slurped by a tongue.

“Awright, awright, Samson. I got it. Daddy isn’t home yet.” RJ couldn’t even remember how he got home last night. At least he did make it home. His body ached, and it felt like he’d had a rough night. Laurence and Josh sure knew how to throw a party.

Holding a hand to his head, he stiffly rolled to sit up. “You, then me,” he muttered to the dog with the patience of a saint with a wagging tail. After lurching to his feet, he managed to stumble on wobbly legs across the room, aiming for the rear glass patio door. “Here ya go, big guy.”
The door opened and Samson was out like a shot. RJ knew just how he felt.

Blearily, he made the return trip, walked into the bedroom and froze solid, his heart slamming to a dead stop in his chest. Lying in RJ’s bed on his stomach, facing away—of course—was a person he didn’t know. “Shit,” he hissed. “What did you do, RJ?”

His bladder prompted him to do things in order. Avoiding the bed, he made it to the bathroom, grabbing a pair of fresh briefs out of a drawer on the way. Behind the door, he held himself on a flat palm to the facing wall as he emptied himself of probably a quart or two of fine liquor. Smacking his lips, they felt dry. Yep, drunk himself dry. He’d take a shower if he’d been alone. A splash on his face was the most luxury he could take for the moment.

First things first: he needed to see who was sleeping in Papa Bear’s bed.

Opening the door, he gazed over the now-flipped body splayed across his sheets. “Oh, mama.” That came home with me? His guest looked to still be asleep, a strong arm tossed over his head on the pillow, the other tucked under the sheet that was almost not even covering him, and RJ would bet a ten that he was cupping his cock in sleep.

A hard, broad chest, wide shoulders, brown hair, but it wasn’t dark, more candied… He tried to think, his eyes locked on the sleeping god in his bed. Caramel. Who did he know with that color hair? RJ wracked his brain. No one who would sleep with him. This guy was as unknown as a Catholic nun at his mom’s house.

“Babe, if you keep staring, I’m never going to be able to move.”

RJ startled. “You’re awake!” He stumbled until the bathroom door hit his ass, holding him up. The husky, sleep-drawled voice sent goose bumps over RJ. “Who-who are you?”

A gentle smile curved lusciously full lips. RJ licked his. Fuzzy memories of devouring those lips, or them devouring him, danced into his thoughts.

“Someone who’s been waiting over a year for you to get rid of that lazy ass you were letting screw you.”

“Huh?” he squeaked. With flat palms, he scrubbed his hands over his face, driving away the sleep and the remaining alcohol fumes. “He…you…”

Finally the gorgeous man in his bed opened his eyes and drifted to look at RJ. Rolling onto his side, he propped himself on an open hand, his elbow beneath him. Suddenly, RJ wished he was wearing a hell of a lot more than just underwear. An allover suit of armor might just fit the bill, because the way this guy was looking him over made his skin tight and his dick throb. No one had ever looked at him like the main dish of a seven-course meal. Screw that. RJ was the dessert.

He gulped noticeably. “Look, I appreciate you getting me home, but I don’t bring guys home—”

“That’s good to know, because you didn’t bring me home. I made sure you didn’t kill yourself last night after you got snookered off your ass.”

He raked a hand down his face, trying to remember. All there was in his mind was a swirl of fog.