“No,” Justin croaked. He shouldn’t have rolled over.
Wes stood, grabbed his shirt, and tugged it over his head. “I have to work out every day. I’m still in training, even though I’m here.”
“It’s fine.” Every morning, like this. He might not survive. He really should have gone out last night, tried to find a Parisian fling again, but… he was having too good of a time with Wes to end things. Dinner turned into wandering the streets, which turned into sharing a half bottle of wine as they people-watched at a sidewalk café until almost midnight. Damn it.
Wes fiddled with his phone. He didn’t look at Justin when he spoke. “You wanna come with? I can show you the park.”
Justin blinked. “Yeah, sure. Give me a minute to get dressed.”
“Take your time.” Wes went to stretch by the window as Justin pawed through his duffel, pulling out his running shorts and shoes, which he’d thrown in optimistically, laughing at himself as he did. Running in Paris was half romantic and half ridiculous. He’d hoped for a different type of cardio on this trip. A minute later, he was laced up and ready to go, and he did a few stretches as Wes tapped at his phone and plugged one earbud in his ear.
“Ready.”
They only had three days of classes a week, which left long, empty weekends for everyone to pack in the optional extra outings. Justin had flicked through the catalog of options before he left, dog-earing the pages on wine tasting in the countryside, short trips to Vienna and Prague and an overnight in Rome, a weekend in Marseille and Monaco. The first long weekend loomed before them, and if he was going to catch the shuttle to the airport for the short hop to the coast, he needed to leave soon.
But Wes, at lunch, fed the birds at the pond in the university’s quad, and when Justin wandered over to watch, he saw Wes smiling as he tossed food into the water for the ducks and ducklings and the few swans joining the feeding frenzy.
All his weekend plans screeched to a halt.
Wes was bathed in the French sunlight, his cowboy hat shadowing his face, his plain white T-shirt clinging to his thick chest and his cut biceps and his trim, slender waist. His jeans that were too tight for decency. Sure, Justin wore skinny jeans, but Wes wasn’t wearing them by choice. They just fit him like a second skin because he had the body of Adonis. Thick, tree-trunk thighs. What would they feel like if Justin had his own thighs wrapped around them? If he was perched on Wes’s lap, grinding their hips together? If he got his fingers on Wes’s jeans and ran his palms over them?
Wes smiled, that lopsided, shy grin, when Justin ambled across the lawn to join him. He’d thought Wes was throwing a baguette to the ducks, but no, he was throwing seed and nuts. There was a feed dispenser behind him, up on the trail that ran through the quad.
“If you feed ’em bread, it hurts the ducklings’ development,” Wes said. His voice rumbled through Justin, vibrating his bones. “Too many empty calories, not enough nutrients, gives them angel wing. They can’t fly.” He tossed another small handful of feed, scattering the ducklings across the pond.
“I never knew that.”
Wes squinted at the water. “I know a thing or two about animals.”
“What are you doing this weekend?”
Wes shrugged, looking down. His hat shielded his face, hiding his expression from Justin. “Exploring the city. It’s Paris. There’s a million things to see. I’ll try and scratch a few off the list.” He looked up, this time squinting at Justin as he tossed the last of his seed to the ducklings. “You going with the group to the coast?”
The French Riviera, sun-drenched beaches, golden sunshine. Perfect, tanned bodies lying on the sand. More gay clubs than he could count. Nightlife more famous than Vegas. His French lover might be down there, just waiting for his Texan summer fling. “No,” Justin said, shaking his head. He shoved his hands in his jeans pockets. “I was going to explore the city, too. Want company?”
He was being all kinds of stupid, sacrificing his plans to tag along with Wes, a straight cowboy from Texas. Straight cowboys were a dime a dozen back home, and football players? Every guy had a jersey in his closet, dreams of his glory days running