10. Chapter Ten

Chapter Ten

It was hot.

Okay, it wasn’t actually hot. It was Portland in the fall, which meant it was drizzly and mid-forties and Brody spent most of his time bundled up in sweatshirts and sweatpants, trying to get feeling back into his toes.

No, it was just Brody. Just Brody, right now .

He’d been sitting in his room, trying to focus on writing up this homework assignment for his psychology class, when he’d heard the front door open and close and a few minutes later, the shower flip on.

The sound of the water went on and on and on, and the longer it did, the more distracted Brody got.

He didn’t have a particularly good imagination—he was a fucking scientist, alright?—but ever since their first hookup, it felt like Brody couldn’t stop thinking about it.

About Dean’s hard body and water cascading down it.

What he could be doing for so long in the shower.

His hand sliding down ridged abs. He’d have a big cock, because Brody was all too aware of how big the rest of him was. And Brody, who hadn’t ever thought he’d be interested in one that didn’t belong to him, found himself grower hotter and hotter at only the thought of Dean’s.

That one night, he’d barely touched it. Hadn’t gotten to explore more. Of course, at the time, he’d been so shocked at the thought of how brilliant the whole experiment was that he probably wouldn’t have been ready to. Not the way he wanted to, now that he’d had time to adjust to the idea. To accept it.

He wanted Dean.

He wasn’t sure Dean wanted him , though.

Brody let out a deep breath, feeling unbearably hot under the collar. He’d already stripped off his sweatshirt and now he did the same with his T-shirt, tossing it onto the bed.

It didn’t help. Not enough. Sweat still prickled along his skin, like it was suddenly too tight, and his cock? It was half-hard in his sweatpants, and he nearly stripped those off, too, but if he did, he’d only end up getting himself off.

And if he’d learned anything about jerking off in the last few weeks, it was that ultimately, it just wasn’t satisfying. Not anymore. If he did it, in an hour he’d be hot and hard again, ready to go.

He’d gone out of his way to become friends with Dean, because it turned out not only did he definitely lust after him, he just plain fucking liked him. But all this hanging out and liking had only made his lust burn so much hotter.

You’re not a fucking coward. Go knock on his door and ask him for a repeat. He didn’t have a bad time. You definitely didn’t have a bad time. Why can’t you just experiment again?

What would Dean do if he did it?

Shut the door in his face?

Or welcome him in?

“Fuck this,” Brody said, and he stood, shoving his chair back and headed out into the hallway.

But instead of turning in the direction of Dean’s room, he went into the kitchen.

A nice cold drink. That was what he needed. Or maybe to hold an ice pack to his crotch and cool himself down once and for all.

But as soon as he walked into the dimly lit kitchen, he stopped in his tracks.

“Fuck me,” Brody muttered under his breath.

Dean was in the kitchen, in front of the open refrigerator, only wearing a pair of tight black boxer briefs clinging to his shapely ass and his muscled thighs. His arms were braced on each side of the open door and his back was a fucking work of art, all smooth rippling muscle.

He turned.

His hair was still damp from his shower, and there was at least two days of thick black scruff dusting his jaw.

He looked wild and rough and Brody burned . His body so hot, it was amazing his bare feet didn’t sizzle against the linoleum.

So much for cooling down.

Dean’s gaze swept over him, head to toe, and not for the first time, Brody swore that he wasn’t the only one currently suffering from this standoff. Because that was what it had to be, right? Brody couldn’t possibly be the only one feeling this way. Caught between desire and restraint.

Then Dean pushed off from the fridge and prowled closer. Brody’s breath caught in his chest as he stopped right in front of him.

Neither of them had said a word yet. Brody because words had permanently dried up. Dean . . .well, it wasn’t like he was a man of many words, anyway.

“You’re bruised,” Dean finally said, voice low and rough. Reaching out, Brody swore he wasn’t fucking breathing as he gently traced the edges of the bruise on the curve of his torso that he’d gotten during the last game, when one of the opposing players had shoved him a little too hard into the boards.

“Uh, yeah,” Brody said, barely managing to unstick his tongue.

Saying something brilliant and/or witty was a fucking pipe dream, especially with Dean touching him like that.

“Does it hurt?”

He’d already established there was no blood in his goddamn brain, and so it wasn’t all that much of a shock when he laid out the blunt truth. “No, that’s not really what hurts.”

A dark eyebrow quirked upward. “Yeah?” Dean asked. He was close enough that it would be so easy to just reach up and take . But Brody had enough of his mind left that he wasn’t going to do it if he wasn’t positive Dean wanted it, too. They were friends, now, after all, and he was pretty sure you weren’t supposed to go around kissing your friends, uninvited.

But that gentle, purposeful touch sure as hell felt like an invitation.

Tilting his head back, Brody took in those light green eyes. Piercing and intense. It felt like they could see all the way through him. Through all his pretenses. All his bullshit.

And pretending he didn’t want Dean was a fucking ton of bullshit.

“You gonna tell me what hurts?” Dean asked again. His lips curled up into a knowing grin.

Brody took a deep breath and then another. Every bit of the air smelled like Dean. Felt like Dean. “Every bit of me, every second I don’t do this,” he said and settled a hand on all that bunched muscle on Dean’s shoulder.

Their lips met at the same time.

If the first time had been a hesitant experiment, this was a conflagration, burning out of control from the first brush of their mouths together.

Brody knew what he wanted, and it was pretty damn clear Dean wanted the same thing. At least now that his mouth was on Brody’s and he was kissing him fiercely, tongue slipping into his mouth, hands curled around Brody’s waist, digging into his skin like he wanted to leave his own marks.

They stumbled across the little kitchen and Brody’s hip hit the edge of the back counter as he panted into Dean’s mouth, trying to give as good as he was getting.

It was the wildest kiss he’d ever had, full of intense longing, and Brody realized, with a hard clanging realization, that he hadn’t been the only one wanting this. Craving this.

He pulled his mouth off Dean’s, breathless. Dean’s chest was rising and falling just as hard as Brody’s own. “Why didn’t you say?”

Dean chuckled, but he didn’t look upset. In fact he looked . . .

Brody swallowed hard.

He could feel the ridge of Dean’s hard, muscled thigh against his and that wasn’t the only thing that was hard, either.

If Brody had been hot before, he was scorching now.

“Why didn’t you say?” Dean retorted lightly.

“I . . .uh . . .well, that’s a damn good question,” Brody admitted.

“You said we were just gonna be friends, but here’s the thing, I don’t usually want to strip my friends naked and explore every inch of their bodies,” Dean said.

The top of Brody’s head blew right off, and the only appropriate response he could come up with was to kiss him again, hard, pouring everything he’d thought about into it.

Dean’s hands slid up, cupped his cheeks, and it wasn’t tender, not exactly, but it was full of . . . something . Not just heat, not anymore.

But there was plenty of heat, too, if Dean’s hard cock was any indication. Brody knew he had to be feeling his, too, and he nearly said fuck it and just rubbed it against Dean’s muscled body, openly chasing pleasure.

“You can’t say shit like that,” Brody said, after he broke the kiss. “You really fucking can’t say it.”

“Why not?” Amusement—and arousal—glinted in Dean’s pale green gaze.

“’Cause that’s gonna make me just hump your leg and not feel an ounce of shame.”

It was only the truth, but it was wondrous what Brody’s confession did to Dean.

His brows slammed together, pupils dilating even further, and Brody swore he felt his cock twitch against his thigh.

His fingers itched to explore it, to feel what that hard ridge was like.

But he held back.

It wasn’t really fear or uncertainty. It was clear they both wanted each other. Instead it was a foolhardy desire to prolong this moment as long as possible.

Because Brody knew the moment they touched each other, it was going to be game over. He was too hot and worked up, and he had a feeling Dean was the same.

“Well, don’t let me stop you from doing it,” Dean teased in a low voice. “Maybe I want you to do it.”

“Kiss me,” Brody half-moaned, half-begged, and then he was, the two of them wrapped up in each other, Dean’s bigger body pressing him into the counter.

Brody couldn’t help himself. Not when the pressure of Dean’s thigh was so delicious, exactly the pleasure he wanted so desperately, the kind of feeling that he couldn’t stop himself from chasing any longer.

“Come on, take it,” Dean groaned into his mouth, and Brody did what he was told.

Took everything he wanted, their tongues stroking, his body thrusting against Dean’s, his thrusts becoming more and more uncontrolled because of the need coiling hard and insistent at the bottom of his belly.

He needed just a little more. Pressure. Or something .

Then Dean slipped a hand down his stomach, those calloused fingers sending shivers up his spine, and he cupped his cock in his palm. Two strokes later, that was all it took, and Brody’s whole world was rocked to its foundations as he came and came and came, shuddering hard with the power of his orgasm.

Brody came down from what he could only describe as a fucking high . And he’d only been humping against Dean’s thigh and then his hand.

Imagine what it would feel like if they did more.

Heat spiked through him at just the thought. It wasn’t the insistent blaze of before, because he’d finally gotten some relief, but it was hot enough that he knew this orgasm wouldn’t be enough to forestall it forever.

He was going to want a hell of a lot more.

Speaking of more . . .

Dean was still, unnaturally so, as he watched Brody come back down to earth—and Brody realized then that he hadn’t come.

This is your chance , his brain whispered. You wanted to see. Then see.

“Is this okay?” Brody asked, reaching down and cupping Dean’s cock, much the same as he’d done to him only a minute ago.

Dean nodded, face tense with need.

“How about this?” Brody steeled himself—reminding himself exactly how much he wanted this exact thing—and slipped his hand inside those tight black boxer briefs.

Dean was big and hot against his hand, twitching against the pressure he was already giving it.

“Yeah,” he ground out, head tipping back, wonder filling his whole face.

Brody had never done this to anybody but himself, but surely it wasn’t so hard to just copy what he liked and try it on Dean.

A second experiment, of sorts.

His cock was wet at the tip, and Brody spread the moisture down, making his movements a little smoother, a little easier.

“Fuck,” Dean groaned, his Adam’s apple bobbing.

It was glorious to bring a guy like this, big and powerful with so much self-control, to his metaphorical knees. It was intoxicating, like the best high in the whole goddamn world. Better than any drink that Brody had ever tried.

“You want more?” Brody asked.

He wasn’t ready to get to his knees and try a blowjob, but he could at least give himself a little more room to work. With his other hand, he slid Dean’s boxer briefs down his thighs and couldn’t help but look down. To watch as his hand wrapped around Dean’s cock and gave him an experimental stroke.

“Harder. Faster.” Dean was lost to it, and Brody wasn’t even sure he was aware he was giving orders.

But Brody didn’t mind. He liked doing what Dean liked.

He squeezed harder, giving it to him a little rougher, like he liked when he got close, when he just needed a tiny bit more stimulation to tip right over the edge.

It must’ve been the same for Dean, because a second later he was falling apart, breath sawing out of his lungs in big gulps of air, his cock going rock-hard in Brody’s hand and then spurting come between them.

Brody tried to catch it all, but he missed some, a few drops falling to the floor.

He worked him through the pleasure, and only once Dean began to flinch he moved his hand, reaching for a paper towel from the holder.

He cleaned his hand and then dipped down to the floor, to clean up there, too.

When he rose back up, Dean was staring at him.

He’d looked at him like that before. Like he was a problem Dean couldn’t quite solve.

But now it was ever so slightly different. Like Dean was finally beginning to figure him out.

Well, Brody didn’t think it was all that complicated. He had a major hard-on for the guy, and he liked him as a friend.

“That was good,” Dean said.

He was not quite as awkward as he’d been the first time, and Brody had to say he was handling it a hell of a lot better. No freakouts here. He’d touched a dick that wasn’t his own and jerked Dean off to what seemed to be a pretty damn good orgasm, and he wasn’t panicking at all.

In fact, he was already wondering when they could do it again. Maybe they’d actually make it to a bed this time.

“Just good?” Brody teased.

Dean’s eyes fluttered. He had surprisingly long, surprisingly pretty eyelashes. Spiky and dark, framing those light eyes beautifully. “Okay, you caught me. Best orgasm I can remember.”

“Let’s not fuck around anymore,” Brody said.

Dean raised an eyebrow. And okay, fair , that was not really what he’d meant.

“I mean ,” Brody regrouped, “let’s fuck around some more. A lot more, actually.”

“Yeah?”

“Do you want that?” Brody had noticed Dean liked to answer questions with other questions. It was annoying, but not surprising.

Still, he’d thought he’d managed to get under those walls at this point, at least for a little while.

Dean didn’t say anything for a long minute. And this time, there was no awkwardness. Dean was standing there, in the dim light of their kitchen, pants around his ankles, dick hanging out, and he wasn’t looking away from Brody or looking like he wanted to run away.

And Brody had to wonder if last time, a lot of that awkwardness he’d felt had actually come from him . If he’d been so shocked and so floored and so overwhelmed by his world expanding around him in that dizzying rush that he’d imagined Dean felt the same.

But maybe Dean hadn’t felt the same.

From the way it was looking now, he hadn’t.

“Listen,” Brody said when he couldn’t take that long, slow perusal of Dean’s gaze any longer, “I know I didn’t react very well the last time we did this.”

Dean raised an eyebrow again.

“Okay, I reacted like total shit. Ran off like a complete asshole,” Brody retorted.

“It was a big thing.”

“Not just for me,” Brody pointed out dryly.

“We’re all gonna react to the news that we’re not always what we thought we were differently,” Dean drawled. “So, yeah, no, you didn’t. But it’s alright. I just thought . . .you wouldn’t want to do it again. Then you were so insistent on being friends . . .”

“That’s a lot of words for you,” Brody teased.

Dean shot him a look that seared him all the way to his toes.

“I don’t want there to be any more confusion. I liked it. I liked it then. I liked it tonight. I’d do it some more, if you wanted.”

“And you want to, too?” Brody asked, hating how insecure he sounded.

Dean shook his head, a glimmer of a smile emerging on his face. “Pretty boy, I thought it was plenty obvious what I wanted.”

“Alright, then,” Brody said, smiling, because it turned out he couldn’t hide his delight at this—or his incredulity. They’d been dancing around each other these last few weeks, when they could’ve been doing this.

Whatever this was.

Maybe they couldn’t put a name on it—maybe Brody couldn’t put a name on it, yet—but he knew he wanted to keep doing it.

Wasn’t sure he could stop doing it.

“Anytime you want me, you just gotta say,” Dean said, and Brody could appreciate how both of them were making an effort to avoid the same kind of misunderstanding that had plagued them these last few weeks.

“And what about you?” Brody slid closer and didn’t stop himself from doing what he wanted, which was to put his hands back on that amazing body. Right onto those broad shoulders, curling his fingertips into the muscle there.

Dean laughed. “Oh, you don’t gotta worry about me.”

“No?”

“Trust me, I’m gonna be bothering you,” Dean said lightly, leaning down and brushing a quick, reassuring kiss across his lips.

“Good,” Brody said, nodding. “And you know what else? I didn’t tell you we were gonna be friends just because I wanted . . .” You. This. “Uh . . .” He gestured between them.

“You’re not that kind of guy, Faulkner. Never imagined you were. Don’t worry. I get it. Friends with benefits?”

Brody hadn’t known what label he wanted to put on it, but he supposed that worked as well as any other. And Dean had been the one to suggest it.

“Works for me,” Brody said. “You ever done this before?”

Dean shot him another of those disbelieving looks, and he’d just come, so it shouldn’t have heated him up the way it did.

“You know I haven’t,” Dean said.

“No, I mean . . .like a casual friendly hookup,” Brody said. He’d never imagined he was good at this, but he was worse than he’d expected.

“No, not really. But we’ll figure it out.” Dean paused, his loose grip around Brody’s waist tightening. “But no more bullshit, okay? I don’t do drama.”

It was a warning. Brody knew it.

“No worries. I’ve definitely worked through my gay freakout,” Brody said lightly.

“Well, next time, text me and we’ll do it together.”

“Oh my God, you made another joke .”

Dean rolled his eyes, but he was smiling, eyes crinkling at the corners.

“I do that, sometimes.”

Brody reached up and patted him on the cheek. “I’m sure you do, big guy.”

“I . . .I,” Dean stuttered a bit, and oh hey , here was a little of that awkwardness. But instead of letting it turn him off, Brody was only amused and enchanted.

“Use your words. I know you can, now,” Brody teased.

“I’ve got to do some homework, still,” Dean admitted. “I want to hang out, but . . .” He shrugged.

“I get it. Me too. I just came in here because I was thinking about you in the shower—”

“Hey, guess what, I was thinking about you in the shower.” Dean grinned.

Brody made a face. “Don’t even tease me like that. I was sure that was what you were doing, and I got . . .well, hot thinking about it.”

“Was pretty hot. Hot enough that I was ready to go again, just now.”

Brody laughed. He hadn’t been entirely sure, but yes , they could have this easy friendship that they’d been building and indulge in that undeniable heat between them.

“Too bad that shower’s too small for the both of us,” Brody said.

“Yeah,” Dean agreed.

Brody knew this was his cue to disentangle himself from Dean’s body. But it was so big and warm and he didn’t want to let go.

But a hookup would let him go. Especially because he said he had homework, still.

So he did, moving away, hating how his pulse eventually returned to normal. Detouring to the fridge, even though he wasn’t particularly hungry or thirsty, figuring it would be a good cover.

It was. Dean righted his clothes and then leaned against the counter.

“We’re home on Saturday,” he said. “Wes invited me to a party and I told him I’d pass, but maybe you’d want to go.”

Brody almost asked, with you? But that would make it sound like a date, when really it was just two bros hanging out. Two bros who’d probably be hooking up after.

“Sure,” he said instead. “Our game’s Saturday afternoon, same as yours, yeah? So sure, I’m free. Might as well.”

Dean gave a sharp nod. “Sounds good,” he said and then gestured towards his room. “I better get going or I’m not gonna want to study at all.”

Brody grinned. “Better do it then.”

“You’re really coming tonight?” Wes asked as he flopped down in the big chair in the football common room.

Their game was in six hours, and even though the team had done their walkthrough the night before, the coaches always wanted their players at the facility long before warmups started.

Some of the guys did homework. Others played the games in the common room—foosball and pool and half a dozen pinball machines against the back wall.

In an hour or so they’d have their team meal, and Coach would give them one last pregame speech before they headed to the locker room to get dressed for warmups.

“I said I was,” Dean said.

He hadn’t seen Brody yesterday—he’d had classes and then a game of his own—but when he’d texted him asking him if he was still coming after his second game of the weekend, Brody had sent him a thumbs-up emoji.

“Yeah, but you’ve been impossible to pin down lately. Even more impossible than normal,” Wes said.

“Don’t know what you mean,” Dean said, but he knew. Even before a few nights ago in the kitchen, he and Brody had been spending a lot of time together. Studying. Working out. Hanging out.

You’re friends. That’s allowed.

’Course he’s also a friend you desperately want to kiss.

“No, you wouldn’t.” Wes chuckled. “But seriously, man, what is going on?”

Dean knew he should be able to tell his other friend, his other friend who also happened to be queer, too, about Brody. But he hadn’t, yet. Didn’t know how to even begin.

If he did, it would probably make things easier, because Wes was always harassing him about being such a lone wolf.

Of course, if he did tell Wes, he’d probably make more of it than there was. Assume they were going somewhere other than the bedroom.

Dean was a realist; maybe Brody had made it past his gay freakout, but they were headed in two very different directions. Dean would, God willing, get drafted to the NFL and Brody would have to decide between the science shit he loved so much and a pro career in hockey.

There wasn’t a future here, no matter how Wes might want to dress it up.

“Nothing much,” Dean said. He didn’t like lying to his friend, but he wasn’t sure what else he could say. But naturally, that didn’t really stop him in the end. Brody’s name was in his mouth before he could even help himself. “Been hanging out with Brody some.”

“Your roommate Brody? Hockey player Brody?”

Dean nodded.

“And that’s good? You like him?”

“Why wouldn’t it be? He’s a good guy. A friend.”

Wes smacked a hand across his heart and exclaimed, “Oh my God, so you can make friends.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “We’re friends, aren’t we?”

“Yes, but I had to practically badger you into it,” Wes said.

And yeah, that was probably true. Two years ago, Dean could admit that he’d been even worse about it, insistent on being painfully focused to the exclusion of just about everything else.

“So did Brody,” Dean said. Though it wasn’t like he’d put up much of a fight, either. He’d liked Brody almost from the very beginning. Even before he’d really begun to let go of his resentment of their very different childhoods.

“I’m glad he did.” Wes paused. “You shouldn’t be alone so goddamn much.”

“If I’m alone, it’s ’cause I chose to be,” Dean reminded him. “Not everyone has got to be some social butterfly.”

“No, but there’s a happy medium, too. You know that. And I’m glad you’re finally doing something about it. So you’re bringing Brody to the party. That’s good.”

“Not bringing him,” Dean retorted, and he knew the moment the words were out of his mouth that he’d gotten too defensive. That he’d exposed something he hadn’t been ready to share.

Wes smiled slow and easy. “No?”

“He’s . . .” Dean considered continuing pretending otherwise, but maybe this was inevitable. And maybe he could use a little advice. He felt out of his depth, with this thing with Brody. Technical knowledge he could glean from an internet search, but it was so much more than that.

“He’s what?” Wes was still smiling, knowingly.

“He’s a good guy, that’s all. A nice guy.”

“Attractive, too.”

“I noticed that.”

Wes raised an eyebrow. “Oh, you did?”

Dean told himself firmly not to flush bright fucking red. “I called him pretty boy, from the beginning.”

“You got a crush,” Wes guessed. “I don’t want it to seem like I’m dissuading you from having one, because it’s a fucking amazing thing that you’re finally looking at anybody and thinking about more than just your future, but based on a few things Ramsey’s mentioned, he’s not gonna swing that way.”

“Well, about that,” Dean said and then hesitated again. Not that he thought Wes was gonna go around talking out his ass about Brody’s sexual preferences, but it wasn’t his place to say.

“Oh, he does ,” Wes said. And it was him guessing, not Dean admitting it, so he nodded.

“But it’s not . . .not common knowledge.”

“About you either,” Wes pointed out. “Not that I didn’t think if the right guy caught your eye, you wouldn’t do anything about it. You’re remarkably free from that kind of angst. But the catching your eye part was going to be toughest part of that whole thing.”

Brody caught it alright.

“Yeah,” Dean agreed. Because it was true.

“So you’re what . . .dating now?”

“No, no,” Dean said hurriedly. He should have led with that. “Just . . .just friends. Friends and hooking up. And it’s good so don’t try to convince me to overthink it.”

Wes shot him a fond look. “Like anyone could get you to overthink anything if you didn’t want to.”

“You’re not bothered by that?”

“By you being friends with benefits with the hockey player? Why would I be?”

“I don’t know. Maybe you’d want me to be like . . .madly in love with him, or something,” Dean muttered.

Wes just laughed. “No, I’m thrilled you’re doing just this . Something you’ve picked for yourself.”

“Sometimes I think Brody picked me ,” Dean said. After all, he’d been the one to suggest the initial experiment on the couch. Of course, Dean could have not been interested. Could have said no. But he’d thought, what the hell and then what the hell, again.

“Well, he’s got good taste,” Wes said approvingly. “Anything you need to know? Google and lube are your friends, but then you’re not stupid.”

“Figured those.” Dean could hear how gruff his voice had gotten. He was already thinking about it. About everything he and Brody had done. Everything they hadn’t. Things they’d need that lube for. He cleared his throat.

“No questions, then?”

“Well, uh . . .” Dean had thought he could ask about this easier than he could, but in the end, it turned out this was more nerve-wracking than he’d imagined.

“Just ask me, Dean. I promise. No judging.” Wes shot him a quicksilver smile. “Not like you haven’t learned more about me and Marcus than you ever wanted to know.”

“That’s true,” Dean retorted. He’d even walked in on them more than once.

“Well, there’s nothing stopping you, then,” he said.

Nothing except his pride.

“How do you . . .you know . . . decide who’s gonna do . . .” Dean trailed off, not sure if he hated himself more for asking this or Wes for convincing him to ask in the first place.

“Oh come on, I’m dying of anticipation here,” Wes said. “I’m practically begging you to ask me now.”

“How do you decide who . . .uh . . .does the butt stuff?”

Dean couldn’t help his face from flaming bright red when Wes threw his head back and laughed and laughed and laughed.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, but you should see your face ,” Wes said, still cackling.

Dean nearly got up and left. It hadn’t been easy for him to ask, and Wes finding his question hilarious had been almost the last straw. This was why he hadn’t wanted to talk about it.

But Wes knew him—knew him better than anybody, probably—and right before he hefted himself out of the chair, Wes leaned over and put a hand on his arm and his expression softened from hilarity to empathy.

“I shouldn’t have laughed, I’m sorry,” Wes repeated, but this time he genuinely looked like he regretted it. “I just wasn’t expecting that or for you to say it like that.”

“How else am I supposed to say it?” Dean demanded.

Wes shook his head. “It was fine. It was perfect. I’m just saying—you don’t usually talk about sex.”

“I’m not usually having sex,” Dean retorted.

“Exactly. But I’m glad you are. I’m glad you’re exploring this part of you, and without shame, too. That’s a big thing. I . . .uh . . .truth be told, there isn’t a right answer. It’s what you two decide together. Maybe it’s one of you, maybe it’s both of you, maybe it’s none of you.”

“None?”

“What have you done so far?” Wes asked.

Dean’s face went bright red again. “Uh. Barely anything. Honestly. We both get so worked up just from kissing we just . . .”

Wes’ expression softened even further. “I’m happy for you, you know that?”

“It’s not . . .it’s not like that,” Dean stuttered. But he was thinking, even though he’d been the one to label it, telling Brody that they were going to be friends with benefits, that it was already more than that for him.

He didn’t let people in close. But he’d let Brody in.

And it definitely wasn’t a platonic thing, because Brody made him sweat like nobody else had, ever.

Still, it made sense to try to keep it casual. In two years, he’d be drafted, and Brody would be doing something brilliant. Science or hockey, it didn’t matter which, ’cause he was good at both.

They’d probably end up on opposite sides of the country, and well, Dean already knew it was better to not get too attached.

“But it could be like that,” Wes said softly, earnestly.

Dean shrugged. “I don’t know. I like the guy, as a friend. As . . .as . . .as more, I guess. But you know the situation. Better than most.”

“Yeah,” Wes agreed. “You know how guilty I feel, making Marcus wait around on me, his future being determined by my future.”

“But he chose that,” Dean reminded him.

“Yeah, and neither of you are choosing that, I get it. And you shouldn’t. But this is still a real good thing, Dean. I can still be happy you have it.”

It was not very hard to agree. “Yeah, me too,” he said.

“About the butt stuff—”

“Oh my God,” Dean interrupted.

“I mean it. It can be one of you or both of you or none of you. You like what you’ve done so far?”

Dean could only nod, helplessly. They’d barely touched each other yet. Never even made it to a bed. And yet even the thought of Brody had him in a chokehold.

“Then, keep doing whatever feels good. There’s no obligation to ever go there. Not if you don’t want to. I’m going to make a suggestion that you’re going to veto—”

“Then don’t make it,” Dean inserted before he could continue.

“No, ’cause if you’re not gonna talk nuts and bolts . . .” Wes paused, chuckling under his breath. “Then this really isn’t a bad idea. Watch some porn. Decide what you like. What you don’t like. And then talk about it with him.”

“I’m really not sure I can,” Dean said. Not like he didn’t occasionally watch porn now, but he’d never watched it with the primary aim of discovering what he wanted to do.

“Oh come on, you can watch regular porn, you can watch gay porn,” Wes teased.

“That isn’t the problem.” Dean wasn’t going to admit he’d already done it once, in the week after his first hookup with Brody. When he’d thought Brody wouldn’t be willing to do it again, and he’d been going out of his mind with how much he needed some kind of relief.

He’d gotten thirty seconds into the video—they’d still only been kissing and petting, nobody had even touched anybody’s dick yet—and he’d blown his load.

It had been embarrassing, and also illuminating.

“Then what’s the problem?”

He couldn’t say, I want so many things, so badly, I can’t even get to the good stuff .

“I . . .” Dean found himself flustered now. Just talking about it. By thinking about it. “I’ll try it.”

Wes raised an eyebrow. “I guess this was always inevitable,” he conceded.

“What was inevitable?”

“When you finally found someone you wanted enough to have sex with, I could’ve guessed you’d become obsessed with it. The way the rest of us are.”

“I’m not—”

But this time Wes didn’t let him finish. “You are, and it’s alright. It’s a perfectly human thing. As long as it doesn’t distract you on the field.”

“Do you really think I’d let that happen?” Dean asked dryly.

“No way,” Wes agreed with a smile.