Chapter 12
DECEMBER
I put the water glass in the sink and then took it out again.
It was clean. I'd washed it this morning and left it on the counter to dry, the way I always did. There was no reason to move it, no reason to open the cabinet and slide it onto the shelf next to the others, arranging them by size the way my father had always insisted.
I did it anyway.
Wonton watched me from the back of the couch, his green eyes tracking my movements as I straightened the pillow beside him. The pillow didn't need straightening. I straightened it twice more.
We'd used his truck three times now, parked out in the scrubland where nobody went. The truck was controlled. The truck didn't have my training schedules on the refrigerator, or my cat watching from the couch, or my competition footage queued on the TV.
But tonight I'd texted my address instead of the usual coordinates. December was too cold for the truck.
Except I'd cleaned the bathroom this morning. I'd changed the sheets. I'd closed the laptop that usually sat open on my coffee table, the one with dozens of tabs of my own competition footage that I watched on loop, looking for flaws.
Wonton meowed and jumped down to wind between my ankles. I fed him because it gave me something to do with my hands. The dry food clattered into his bowl, and he ignored me, the way he always did when he'd already gotten what he wanted.
The buzzer sounded.
I pressed the button to let Red into the building and stood there with my hand still on the intercom. Forty-five seconds for the elevator. I counted in my head because counting was safe, because counting meant I wasn't thinking about what it meant that I'd invited him here.
The knock came at fifty-two seconds.
I opened the door. Red stood in the hallway with his cheeks flushed from the cold, his jacket still zipped.
I stepped back to let him in.
Then I pinned him against the door.
My mouth found his before he could look around, my hands already under his jacket. If I kept him busy, he wouldn't notice the training schedule or the closed laptop. This could still be just bodies, just friction, just something I could walk away from when the season ended.
"What's your cat's name?" Red asked against my mouth.
I bit his lower lip hard enough to sting. "Wonton."
"That's cute." His jacket hit the floor, and I got my hands under his shirt, finding the warm skin beneath. He shivered but kept talking. "How long have you had him?"
"Three years." I pulled his shirt up, and he lifted his arms to help. I thought that would be the end of it.
"Did you adopt him or—"
I bit down on his collarbone, not hard enough to mark but enough to make him gasp.
"—or was he a stray?"
"Shelter." I dragged my tongue up his throat. "Stop talking."
"Make me."
I dropped to my knees.
His belt took too long, and I yanked his jeans open, shoving them down his thighs along with his boxers. He was already hard, flushed dark and leaking from the tip, and I wrapped my hand around the base and stroked once just to watch his stomach muscles jump.
"Joel—"
I licked a slow stripe up the underside, base to tip, and his breath stuttered. I did it again, tasting salt and skin, and his hands found my hair but didn't pull.
I took the head into my mouth and sucked, my tongue working the slit, and the sound he made went straight to my cock.
I sucked him deeper, relaxing my throat, and his hips jerked forward before he could stop himself.
I grabbed his hip with my free hand and held him still, held him exactly where I wanted him while I set a rhythm that had his thighs shaking within a minute.
"Fuck, that's—" His head fell back against the door. "Your mouth, Jesus Christ—"
I pulled off just enough to speak, my lips brushing the head. "Still want to talk about my cat?"
"What cat?"
I swallowed him down again, all the way this time, my nose pressed against his stomach and my throat working around him. He made a choked sound and his grip tightened in my hair, finally pulling the way I wanted. I moaned around him, and the vibration made his whole body shudder.
I pulled back slow, dragging my tongue along the underside, then sank down again. I found a rhythm that was just fast enough to keep him on edge, just slow enough to drive him crazy. His breathing had gone ragged, punctuated by small desperate sounds every time I took him deep.
"I'm gonna—" His hand tugged at my hair, trying to pull me off. "Joel, I'm close, you have to—"
I didn't pull off. I sucked harder, worked the base with my hand, and looked up at him through my lashes. His face was flushed, his mouth open, his eyes barely focused.
"Is that your schedule on your fridge?"
I pulled back, my hand still wrapped around him, spit and pre-cum slicking my fingers. "Are you serious right now?"
"It looks really detailed." He was breathless, trembling, his cock twitching in my grip. "Is it color-coded?"
The laugh caught in my throat before I could stop it. I turned it into a cough and glared up at him.
He grinned down at me, unrepentant. His fingers brushed through my hair, gentle in a way that didn't match the situation, gentle in a way that made something twist in my chest.
I took him back into my mouth without warning, all the way down, and his head cracked against the door. His hands scrambled for my hair, my shoulders, anything to hold on to, and when I swallowed around him, his hips jerked forward, pushing deeper into my throat. I let him.
I pulled off slowly, a string of spit connecting my lips to his cock, and looked up at him. "Any more questions?"
His chest was heaving. His mouth had gone slack, his eyes dark and unfocused.
"What’s your favorite color?"
Red. I closed my eyes and bit my lip to keep from blurting it out. Red was the color of blood. Of his jersey. Of the freckles on his shoulders, of his stupid hair. But if I told him that, I’d never survive what followed.
I stood up, caught his mouth with mine, let him taste himself on my tongue.
He groaned into the kiss and his hands went to my waist, fumbling with my pants, but I grabbed his wrists and walked him backward toward the bedroom.
When Wonton appeared at our feet, Red actually tried to stop and greet him.
"Hey, buddy—"
I bit his earlobe. "If you pet my cat right now, I swear to God."
Red laughed and let me shove him through the bedroom door.
He was still smiling when I pushed him onto the bed, still smiling when I stripped off my own clothes and climbed over him, still smiling when I pinned his wrists above his head and rolled my hips down against his.
The friction made us both groan. His cock was still wet from my mouth, sliding hot and slick against mine, and I did it again just to watch his smile falter into something needier.
Red wasn't cooperating.
He kept watching me, studying my face like I was something he was trying to understand.
When I let go of his wrists to reach for the lube in the nightstand, he didn't grab me or pull me closer.
He ran his hands down my arms, slow and curious, tracing the muscle like he was memorizing the shape of me.
"You're so fucking hot," he said, sounding almost awed. “I can’t believe…”
I got the lube open and slicked my fingers. "Shut up and let me fuck you."
"What’s the rush?" He was still watching me, still touching me like I was something worth being careful with. "Maybe I wanted to talk first."
"I don't want to talk." I reached between his legs and circled his hole, not pressing in yet, just teasing. His breath caught. "I want this."
"Then take it."
I pressed one finger inside him and his body opened for me, hot and tight around the first knuckle. I worked it deeper, slowly, watching his face for any sign of discomfort. There was none. Just his lips parting, his eyes going half-lidded, his hips tilting up to take more.
"Another," he said.
I added a second finger, and he groaned, his hands fisting in the sheets beside his head.
I worked him open slowly because rushing would hurt him, but I couldn't help curling my fingers and preening a little when I found his prostate.
His back arched off the bed and his cock jerked against his stomach, leaving a wet streak on his skin.
"There," he gasped. "Right there, fuck—"
I did it again, and his whole body shuddered. His hands came up to my shoulders and then higher, his fingers threading through my hair, and he pulled me down into a kiss that was messier than before, more desperate.
I added a third finger and swallowed his moan, felt his body stretch and then relax around me. He was ready, more than ready, his hole clenching around my fingers like he was trying to pull me deeper.
"Not so chatty now, are you?" I pulled my fingers out, and he whined at the loss, actually whined, and the sound made my cock throb. I grabbed a condom from the drawer, rolled it on, and slicked myself with more lube than I needed. "Turn over."
He rolled onto his stomach without hesitation, and the trust in that gesture made something catch in my chest. I ran my hand down his spine, over the curve of his ass, and he pushed back into my touch like he couldn't help it.
I lined myself up and pressed in slow, just the head at first, and his whole body went taut beneath me. He was so tight, so hot, his body gripping me like it never wanted to let go.
"Breathe," I said.
He let out a shaky breath, and I sank deeper until I was fully seated inside him. I held still, my hands braced on either side of his head, giving him time to adjust. His face was turned to the side on the pillow, his lips parted, his eyes closed.
"Fuck." His voice was barely a whisper. "Fuck, Sparkles."
I pulled out slow and pushed back in, and the sound he made was worth every second of waiting. I did it again, finding a rhythm, and his hands clawed at the sheets while his body rocked back to meet each thrust.
"Harder," he said.