8. Chapter 8 #3
This definitely felt like something they’d stumbled into, without really even intending to, carried away by the addictive intensity of their kisses.
Hank hesitated, wondering if he should stop them, if he should say something, but then Ethan gasped out, “God, please,” and Hank would do just about anything to make him sound like that again.
Grinding down onto Ethan’s lap, he swallowed the next sound and the next, their mouths moving together hot and wild. Slick and messy.
Hank couldn’t remember the last time he’d dry humped to an orgasm; wasn’t sure he’d ever done it, even in juniors, and yet, this was going to sweep him away, without much intention to it at all.
The angle wasn’t even all that good, awkward almost, and yet none of that mattered.
All that mattered was that it was Ethan writhing and moaning underneath him, Hank’s hands in his hair putting him exactly where he wanted him.
He was so close he could practically taste it, and then he felt Ethan go still and shudder, and that was all it took to tip Hank right over the edge.
Pleasure spiraled through him, leaving him wet and satisfied in his boxer briefs.
Vaguely, Hank thought he should apologize.
Maybe even feel a little bit ashamed at how entirely they’d gotten carried away.
They hadn’t even made it to a bed. Instead, they’d rubbed off on each other like two teenagers right here on Barney’s sofa.
But when Hank pulled back, aware even if he had no fucking clue what he should say in this situation, that he should say something, Ethan was smiling. Big and wide. Happy and pleased. Like he should be looking all the time, right after he’d had sex with Hank.
How could Hank possibly apologize after that?
It wasn’t happening.
“So uh, yeah, that . . .” Hank still didn’t know what he should say, though.
Ethan just laughed. In a way that made Hank feel like he was laughing right along with Hank, not at him, even though Hank hadn’t even made a nervous chuckle.
“Kind of inevitable, don’t you think?” Ethan finally said.
And that was exactly right, exactly what Hank had been searching for; a thought he hadn’t been able to put his words to.
“Yeah,” Hank agreed, and he couldn’t help it then. He smiled. Kissed Ethan right through it, even though they were both grinning.
“This is gonna go to our graves, though,” Ethan said, when he pulled back again. He dusted a whole string of kisses down Hank’s jawline. “Charlie’d kill me if he knew we did this on his couch.”
Yeah. Hank didn’t relish the idea of Charlie ever finding out about this, either.
He’d probably forgive Ethan because Ethan was his beloved youngest brother. On the other hand, Hank was just the random d-man hanging around aforementioned youngest brother, who couldn’t even fucking make it on the roster.
That thought was a whole bucketful of icy cold water dumped on his head.
Shit. Shit.
Ethan stroked up and down his back. The touch still pinged all his nerves, and if he hadn’t just come, he probably would’ve gotten hard again, just from the feel of it. The proprietary way Ethan touched him, even though they hadn’t actually had a conversation about what any of this meant.
“What is it?” he asked.
Hank tried to pick his words carefully. He wasn’t good at this—at pairing them up appropriately with his emotions and his thoughts—and the last thing he wanted was to fuck this up, now. Not when it was so good. Not when he wanted to do it again.
But that was the whole fucking problem.
He wasn’t going to be able to do it again. Not anytime soon, probably.
“I hate that I’m leaving.”
“In general or because of this?” Ethan asked, gesturing between them, the look in his eyes adorably impudent.
“You’re trouble, aren’t you?” It was easy to keep teasing. To keep things light, instead of letting himself fall into the pit of frustration that he kept eyeing from a distance.
“Only been told that my whole life,” Ethan said smugly, like he was proud of it. Like when Hank said it, it was totally different than when his brothers or sister gave him shit.
“Well, I like it,” Hank admitted. “And both, actually. I’m pissed I’m going back to Syracuse because I didn’t want to, not this year, and pissed because you’re going to be sticking around here.”
Not that Ethan probably didn’t know, already, but it was satisfying to see that smile bloom across Ethan’s face again.
Ethan shifted a little. “I know.” He hesitated. “Do you wanna go clean up? Maybe order some food?”
Yeah, he probably should get up. But it was so cozy and nice like this, even with his messy boxers, and the moment he got up, reality would start intruding into their bubble.
Everything would change, and not necessarily for the better.
But Hank had always been a pragmatist and meeting Ethan Barnes hadn’t changed him that much.
“Yeah, we should,” he admitted. He slid off Ethan’s lap, grimacing a little at the way his underwear was currently sticking to his skin. He stretched out, his back popping, and even then, it was hard to look anywhere but at Ethan, still slumped against the sofa.
It had been so hot, but next time—whenever the next time was happening—they were definitely going to make it to a bed.
“Shower’s through there.” Ethan gestured down the hallway. “And feel free to rummage through my room—it’s the pretty fucking sparse one—if you need clean clothes.”
This was always the awkward part of sex.
The aftermath, when everyone had gotten off and then the logistics mattered.
Usually Hank was pretty good at smoothing that over, at thinking of these things ahead of time, but then, he hadn’t come over tonight with the intent of grinding to a hot, messy orgasm with Ethan.
Hank nodded and took off.
He had just finished in the bathroom when there was a knock. After he opened it, Ethan was standing there, still looking relatively relaxed. Not like he was freaking out at all, like Hank was. Not because of the sex or the sex-with-a-guy part, but the whole everything of it.
“You good?” Ethan asked.
“Yeah.”
“I ordered some Chipotle, it’ll be here in a few,” Ethan said. He’d changed into a pair of loose sweats and an old Portland U T-shirt. “You need any other clothes or are you good?”
Hank had cleaned up the worst of the mess, and even though he’d been tempted to rummage around in Ethan’s closet and maybe even go back to Syracuse with an actual physical souvenir of tonight, in the end, he hadn’t bothered.
Just tugged his jeans back up, sans underwear, shoving the ruined pair in his pocket.
“Nope, I’m all set,” Hank said.
Ethan slid him a look under his lashes as they headed back to the kitchen, but he didn’t make a comment about how Hank was probably free balling it, now.
Maybe Ethan didn’t think that was hot. But Hank wasn’t convinced he didn’t, because of the subtle little glances he kept shooting him as they leaned against one of Charlie’s clean kitchen counters and drank Charlie’s beer that Ethan had grabbed them from the fridge.
Still, he didn’t say anything. Kept the conversation light and simple.
“As soon as Charlie found out I was going out tonight, he headed right up to Max’s,” Ethan said, absently picking at the paper label on his bottle. “He probably won’t be home til late, or early, honestly.”
“He stays up there?” Hank couldn’t help the way his eyebrows went right up to his hairline. That seemed . . . not very just friends, honestly. Especially when Charlie had a perfectly fine bed a few floors down.
“Sometimes, yeah,” Ethan said. “And don’t ask me if they’re fucking. If they were, I think we’d know.”
“You probably would,” Hank had to agree.
“Right. You get it. But no, not even that. All that yearning would definitely shift, for sure, but there’s more. Charlie’s always having me do shit on his phone when he’s driving and I see their texts. They’re depressingly platonic.”
Hank wondered if Ethan would have categorized their texts as “depressingly platonic.”
“You read his texts?”
“No, man, they come in all the time. They’re like addicted to talking to each other. You’d think they’d get enough of each other.”
Hank cleared his throat. He didn’t think he could probably ever talk to Ethan enough that it would be enough. Not when they’d spent all this time only talking. Being separated by so many thousands of miles.
When he headed to Syracuse tomorrow morning, at least they’d be closer—hundreds instead of thousands—but that didn’t mean it would suck less.
“Though,” Ethan continued, suddenly shooting him a dimpled grin, “maybe I do get it, a little. ’Cause I’m not sure I’d ever want to stop texting you, either.”
Even though he’d drunk at least half this beer, Hank’s mouth went dry. Tongue suddenly thick and clumsy. “Yeah.”
He wanted to put the bottle in his hands down and pull Ethan into his arms again. Kiss him again. Say without words everything he was feeling. Everything he was thinking. That would be a lot fucking easier.
But he didn’t know if he should. Ethan wouldn’t push him away, that much was obvious, but if he did, what would this be?
Ethan had ordered Chipotle, and it was hardly the cute little Italian place with its candlelight and house Chianti that Dom had recommended.
But it would mean something. Maybe even more than it already did.
Hank wanted that—wanted that so bad he felt kind of sick about it—but he also didn’t want to do it right before he left.
But also not doing it, that sucked too.
He’d just about decided that he didn’t care if this was the shittiest half-assed date ever, he was going to kiss Ethan again, because they clearly both wanted it, when a noise interrupted them.
“Shit,” Ethan said, and sure enough, unlike what Ethan had just declared, Charlie walked right into his kitchen.
He stopped, looking from Ethan to Hank, a Chipotle bag in his hand. “What’s going on?” he asked. “I thought you were going out?”
Hank internally cursed his fair complexion as he flushed. Caught fucking red-handed.