Love is Always Write Anthology Volume 5

up in the high twenty-something range, stalking had to be involved.
    It wasn't like he purposely woke up early to stare at the beautiful, tattooed man who had by some serious stroke of luck become his lover. He hadn't set out to see how cute it was when Devon's bottom lip puffed out just the tiniest bit when he snored or how he muttered and giggled—actually giggled—when he was dreaming. And Scott certainly hadn't wanted to giggle like a teenage girl himself when he saw how Devon reached out for him when he left the warmth of the bed, then snuggled Scott's pillow when he couldn't find the real thing.
    No. Scott watched Devon because he couldn't for the life of him figure out why Devon kept coming back. Scott prided himself on having a rational, logistically-configured brain, and there was nothing about Devon reappearing time and again that fit into any of his logically set-up hypotheses. The data that brought about the unexplainable outcome was overwhelming, but just did not compute in Scott's mind. Sure the sex was great and in that way they were very compatible, but in all other ways they didn't seem to have anything in common.
    Devon Ducaine was hot. Hell, even his name was hot and when he said it with that slight hint of a Southern accent it made Scott weak in the knees. And there, that right there— weak in the knees —was another clear example of how preposterous it was for Scott and Devon to even have a conversation let alone a relationship or whatever it was they were having. Scott was the kind of guy who actually used that phrase like some old-fashioned granny in a rocking chair. Devon, on the other hand, was more likely to say "you rock my fucking world, dude."
    Devon was what Scott would describe as a man's man, every holey jeans, tight t-shirts, nipples and ears pierced, motorcycle boots-wearing bit of him. He always had a hint of eau de motor oil mixed in with all the other delicious scents that poured off him, more than likely because he drove a motorcycle, or was it rode one? Scott could never remember the correct term. He barely knew a motorcycle from a scooter, just another one of those illogical incompatibilities in their relationship.
    When Devon had practically begged him to watch a football game on a couple of Sundays because his beloved Saints were facing an awesome match-up, it had added another thing they did not have in common to Scott's growing list. In the end, Scott hadn't minded at all, content to rest his head on Devon's lap and read. He'd loved seeing another side to Devon's personality that matched the enthusiasm he usually saved for the bedroom, plus when Devon's Saints did win he was always horny as hell.
    But back to Devon's hotness. Almost six feet—if Scott had to guess he'd say five foot, ten and three-quarter inches—of muscled, ropey not bulky, toned manly man. Add a bubble butt that could stop a truck, the sweetest crooked smile this side of the Mississippi, brown doe eyes batting long, dark lashes any woman would be jealous of, thick dark-brown waves of hair that touched his collar in the back, and a permanent five o'clock shadow, and you had the stunning man that was Devon Ducaine. The intriguing artwork that decorated his arms and part of his back was just icing on the proverbial perfect cake.
    Then there was Scott. He was three inches—possibly three and three-quarters—shorter than Devon, but there wasn't a muscle to be had unless you counted the big, engorged one between his ears. He wasn't a hundred pound weakling and wouldn't take first or even second place in an ugly contest by any means, but he had none of the physical attributes that made Devon a walking bundle of sex. His blonde hair was the unattractive color of dishwasher, his blue eyes were closer to the color of a cloudy ocean than a glimmering sea, and his nose was definitely more Romanesque than Devon's turned-up button.
    Devon was so far out of his league he was in the wrong ballpark, and that bugged the living crap out of Scott.
    "You think too much, especially so early on a Sunday morning." Devon's soft eyes were still hazy from sleep, one side of his face sported a wrinkly line from the pillow, and his hair was more a mess than his usual casually-messed 'do. He still made Scott weak in the knees.
    "I was just wondering if you wanted, you know, breakfast." Phew, good answer, Scott. Not.
    Devon reached an arm from beneath the covers, snagging Scott's hand and tugging him oh-so-not-gracefully onto