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Summary
“Hey, hey.” Nicholas’s brows draw together when he feels it. His hands slide down to Yuma’s hips, holding him still. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Nicho, are you wearing it?” Yuma gasps, already too far gone to sound coherent.
“Am I wearing what—”
“You know what!” Yuma squeaks, clutching at Nicholas’s arms, fingers digging into the fabric stretched over his biceps. “The strap . . . do you have it on?”
Or, trapped in one closet and one very inconvenient heat, Yuma learns exactly how impossible it is to hide from his husbands.