23. 23

23

Ant Decker

It’s almost dark by the time we get to his house. It’s twilight and pouring down rain. This is Seattle, so of course it’s fucking raining. Sheets of water splatter the windshield and vanish as the wipers do their job at top speed. The glass is clear for a second, two smooth, arched clearings framing a wet, foggy picture of Thickwood Drive before quickly being drenched again. The wipers sing their repetitive song as I wait for McGuire to get out of the car.

He put his hand on the stick as soon as we got in the car when we left the restaurant, forcing me to place my hand over his every time I changed gears. I told him to stop being cute, but he point-blank ignored me.

The car is in neutral now, but for some reason, my hand is still on his.

I’m going to move it any minute now. I will. You’ll see.

He looks down at our hands and then turns to face me. Our height difference forces him to look up at me through a thick forest of lashes as his cheeks pinken. It makes him look sweet. “Are you going to walk me to my door and kiss me goodnight?”

My headlights are casting a soft glow in the front of my car. It’s dim, so I can’t tell if he really is blushing or if it just looks like he is. Either way, he looks vulnerable and so fucking sexy I can’t feel my face.

I think five or ten things at once. None of them are intelligent. Thoughts come at me so fast and jumbled I can’t quite manage to catch one and follow it from start to end.

“'Kay,” I say eventually.

I follow him through his front gate, latching it behind me and watching his arms and legs move as he walks. His gait is slow and graceful, yet he covers ground quickly. He turns on me as soon as we’re hidden from view, taking me by the hand and pulling me behind the cover of an overgrown rhododendron. The leaves are big and whippy. Fat drops of rain hit them and bounce off them, splashing us, soaking us more than we would be if we were standing in the open. I turn my back on the water-spitting plant and take Robbie by the waist, guiding him so he’s shielded by my body. I’m not sure if he notices. His eyes are cast down, gaze fixed intently on my mouth. I’ve seen him look like this before. It usually happens when he’s on the ice. When he has a stick in his hands and he’s chasing the puck like his life depends on it. It’s like that, but slower. Softer. A gentler look with the same passion behind it.

“Thanks for my sofas,” he says with a dazzling smile that makes me lightheaded. “And for the hot chocolate…” He raises his hand and traces his thumb along my bottom lip. It makes me feel lightheaded too. “I had a great time…” He finds the new scar and draws a line up and down it. “It was the best first date I’ve ever been on.”

I mean to tell him it wasn’t a date. I do. I mean to say it aloud.

I’m just not sure if I do.

It’s pouring. Sheets of icy water run down my neck and face and make me shiver. The wind picks up and blasts through the rhododendron, unleashing a spray that drenches my back and legs.

I don’t feel it.

Robbie’s eyes have slid closed. His lashes are glistening as droplets of rain run down his face. He’s leaning in, moving closer.

So am I.

I keep my eyes open as long as I can. I watch his beautiful face approaching until his features go hazy. His lips dust mine and he sighs softly into my mouth. His tongue slides between my lips, looking for mine and finding it easily. It’s right there, waiting for him. He rubs his tongue against my tongue, and maybe it’s the terrible weather, maybe it’s because it’s wet and freezing and I’ve gone numb, but whatever the reason, I can’t feel a damn thing other than the warmth of his lips on mine. His tongue in my mouth. His body pressed against mine, hard and wanting.

It’s the kind of kiss that starts off soft and slow, but really, it’s a match dragged over sandpaper. Red phosphorous turns white and ignites. There’s a clash of bodies. A battle of mouths and tongues. A hard, grunting thing is born. A thing that exists outside of us. A hungry thing punctuated only by the sound of our breathing.

When he pulls away, my hands are in his hair and I’m gaping, open-mouthed, as I fight for air. He’s fisting my jacket, pulling at it, tearing at it, without the presence of mind to unzip it first.

“Come inside, Ant. I need you. Please come in. I’ll let you do whatever you want with me if you come in.”

Maybe men exist who could turn down an offer like that, men with self-discipline or even a smidgeon of restraint. I’m not one of them.

We kick off our shoes and drop our soaking jackets on the floor where we stand. I pull off my sweater and T-shirt as well, and McGuire squats right there in the hallway. He sinks so low he’s practically sitting on his heels as he struggles with my belt and zipper. His hair is in his face, wet and dripping. Still wild and wavy. His lips and cheeks are pink from the cold. Or from the way I kissed him.

I push my jeans and boxers down, peeling the waistband away from my body to free my erection. McGuire sees it and smiles at it like it’s something he’s fond of. Something that brings him comfort. Something that brings him relief. He places his hands on his knees and opens his mouth.

I slot my cock into it, giving him just enough time to get it nice and wet, before taking the back of his head in my hands and starting to fuck. The sensation is euphoric. A hot bath after a long day. A bolt of electricity travels up my spine the second his tongue makes contact with me. I’m transported to a world of my own. A nice place. A wonderful, wonderful place. A place with no problems.

I’m so far gone that it takes a second for me to realize he’s tapping my thigh. I pull out quickly, brain thick and reeling, struggling to make sense of the fact I’m out of his body.

“Waz wrong?” I slur .

“I want you to fuck me, Ant,” he whines. “I need it. Like last time, please.”

“Oh, baby, I am going to fuck you. I’m going to fuck you in both ends. I’m going to put a nut in your throat and another one in your belly. But this one”—I stroke my dick calmly—“this one is going to be quick, so it’s going here.” His nose flares and he nods his consent. “Open your mouth,” I say, and he does. “Are you going to be a good girl?” He nods again, but this time he does it with my cock thrust deep in his throat. “You’re going to swallow everything I give you, right?”

The groan that leaks out of him comes from low down. Under his sternum. Under his bones. It’s a long, rumbling sound that makes my entire body vibrate.

My orgasm is sudden and violent. Pure pleasure hitting me from all angles. It throws my head back and arches my spine, pulling and tearing, slicing every ounce of pleasure out of me before cutting my strings and leaving me sagging against the wall.

As soon as I find my balance, I get back on my feet, zipping my jeans and pulling McGuire up as well. He moves woodenly, raising his arms above his head robotically as I drag his top off. His jeans are next to go. Belt, then button. Zipper, then a puddle of denim at his feet. He steps out of them and starts moving toward the stairs, but I stop him, grabbing his ass, lifting him off his feet, and plonking him roughly on the entrance table.

“Whoa,” he says. The shock of being manhandled gives most people pause. It makes Robbie McGuire flash a set of pearly white teeth.

He looks unbelievable sitting there, naked ass on timber, legs parted slightly, chest smooth and heaving.

His travel bag from our last away game lies on the floor near the entrance table. I nudge it with my foot. “Where’s the lube?”

“Side pocket. Black bag.”

I rummage around and find no fewer than three brands of lube. I have a question knocking around somewhere about that, but I’m having some trouble dragging it up to the surface. I select the brand I like best and toss the rest back into his bag before closing the distance between us.