10. Chapter 10 #3
Charlie pulled into the garage of their apartment complex. “I’m gonna bet,” he said dryly, definitely not changing the subject, “that you’re gonna call Tuck the moment we get in.”
“Maybe,” Ethan said coyly.
Charlie rolled his eyes. “Don’t even bother pretending. And don’t worry about the noise. I’ll put my noise-canceling headphones in and try to ignore the fact that my baby brother is trying to seduce his . . . whatever Tuck is to you . . . into phone sex in the next room.”
“Not cool,” Ethan retorted.
“That’s supposed to make you feel better,” Charlie pointed out.
Ethan didn’t know how he was supposed to feel about the whole thing. That Charlie had correctly identified that he was going to try to convince Hank to have phone sex tonight, or that they hadn’t yet.
“Sure,” Ethan said.
“Just don’t forget the ice,” Charlie ordered.
“Thanks, Mom,” Ethan said, shooting his brother an annoyed look.
Five minutes later, they were up in the apartment, and Ethan was shutting the door behind him.
He had a brief debate about whether he should strip down now, if that would help convince Hank they should do it, or if he’d want to see a slow striptease after Hank finally agreed that Ethan deserved a really good FaceTime orgasm for his first NHL goal.
Before Ethan could decide, his phone buzzed, Hank calling him first.
Settling down on the bed, Ethan answered. “Hey,” he said.
On the screen, Hank was positioned similarly, leaning back against his pillows, no shirt and his chest flushed, even in the dim light of the room.
Ethan had seen him look exactly like this so many times last spring, and he’d thought, maybe stupidly, maybe optimistically, that he’d be seeing it in person this year.
“How’re you doing?” Hank asked. “You bruised to hell?”
Ethan wanted to make a face. Asking about his bruises wasn’t sexy, unless it was Hank causing them, and he definitely hadn’t.
“Um, probably.”
Hank shot him a look. “Lemme see,” he said.
It wasn’t telling Ethan to strip down slow or to make it hot, but it was still Hank telling Ethan to take his clothes off, and he wasn’t going to pass up that.
He pulled his shirt off, and Hank made a soft sound—concerned and worried and yet Ethan was so primed even that was fucking hot—in the back of his throat.
“Shit, Eth,” Hank said, rubbing a hand along his jaw. “I wish I’d been there.”
“I know,” Ethan said. He’d have to be a lot dumber to not know just how desperately Hank had wanted to stay in New York.
On the team. And with him.
“It’s just . . .” Hank gusted out a long, unsteady breath. “I fucking hate this. You being there, getting your ass kicked—”
“Nope,” Ethan interrupted. He hadn’t gotten his ass kicked. He’d held his own, pretty fucking well, all things considered.
“And me not getting to do a fucking thing about it,” Hank continued like Ethan hadn’t said anything.
“You weren’t going to do anything about it,” Ethan insisted. Hank wasn’t a fighter. Could he hold his own in a scrum? Absolutely. But he wasn’t the type of player always gunning for other guys.
“I sure as fuck would,” Hank muttered. “And why didn’t anyone else?”
“I didn’t want them to,” Ethan protested.
“They should’ve at least put Gabby or Costa on your line,” Hank said, referring to two of the forwards who were bigger, more defensive. And yeah, Ethan had been a little surprised that Gabby hadn’t ended up on his line, but he wasn’t going to draw attention to it, either.
He’d rather get his ass beat every single game for the rest of the season than admit he couldn’t handle it. He was a hockey player, for God’s sake. He could take a hit.
“Well, they didn’t,” Ethan retorted. “And I’m okay, really. It’s just a few bruises.”
“Where’s your ice?” Hank asked, sounding annoyingly just like Charlie.
“Ugh, really?”
“You know better than to let that shit go,” Hank soothed. “Come on. Go get some, and then we’ll chat.”
Ethan shot Hank his very best seductive look through the phone. “I can ice, after.”
Hank’s eyebrows shot up to his hairline. “After?”
“Well, yeah,” Ethan said, trying to sound like a hopefully irresistible combination of confidence and temptation.
But Hank didn’t look seduced; he just looked confused. “After what?”
“Oh come on, you can’t even pretend anymore that you don’t want me—”
“Of course I fucking want you,” Hank said, frowning. “Why would you even say that?”
Ethan mentally declared fuck it and trailed a hand down his chest, detouring to tweak a nipple, and bisecting a few bruises, before settling lower, where his dick was beginning to fill out his jeans.
“What are you doing?” Hank squawked, which shouldn’t have been so damn cute but was, anyway. “Are you trying—wait, what?”
“Are you serious?” Ethan could barely believe it. “I thought we were going to have phone sex! FaceTime sex! I know you want to, you’re all red.”
It was adorable, how Hank went even brighter red at that. “You don’t know that,” he muttered.
But Ethan did. They’d been doing this long enough he’d figured it out, without a shadow of a doubt. And then the way they’d kissed and humped to a really hot orgasm only a few weeks ago had confirmed it, unequivocally.
The only thing he wasn’t sure of was why Hank wasn’t taking full advantage of this. Maybe they couldn’t do this in person, but they could sure as hell do it over the phone.
It wasn’t even that weird; people did this all the time.
“I didn’t think we were pretending anymore,” Ethan said slowly. “I like you. And I know you like me.”
“I do like you,” Hank said. He was totally flushed now, and Ethan would be lying to himself if he said that didn’t turn him on even more. His dick was hard just because he was staring at Hank’s bright pink skin.
Charlie would tell him he was pathetic, and maybe he was right, but was it pathetic if he was in the trenches right now, fighting for what he wanted so fucking bad?
Ethan waved a hand. “Then okay, get naked. Okay. Get more naked.”
It was pathetic how much Ethan loved Hank’s grumpy expression. Like a cat suddenly dunked in a full tub. “That wasn’t why I wanted to talk to you. Why I want to talk to you.”
“Okay. Noted,” Ethan said. “Now, get naked.”
“But . . .”
“But?”
Hank winced. “We’ve never even been on a date. I’ve never even seen you naked in person. I don’t wanna—I mean, I do, I very much do, but it just feels . . . shitty. Like . . . this doesn’t mean what I want it to mean.”
Ethan didn’t know whether to be pissed or touched. He took a second, letting both emotions settle into him. Because yeah, definitely a bit of both. “You want me to know that you’re serious.”
Nodding, Hank said, “I am serious. I was going to talk to you about it, on our date—”
“Oh, is that what we’re calling it now?” Ethan teased, because that was easier to do than tearing his hair out in frustration.
He wanted Hank so goddamned bad, and he couldn’t have him—not in any of the real ways he wanted to have him—but he could have this.
They could have this, except that in typical Hank fashion he’d decided he needed to be noble about it.
See Ethan’s cock in the flesh before he ever saw it on a phone screen.
It was adorable.
It was also infuriating.
Which somehow, also was so arousing that Ethan was circling all the way back around to it being plain fucking hot.
“Yes, it was a date, and it was going to be a date,” Hank said primly. “And it didn’t happen.”
“It kinda happened,” Ethan claimed. “I bought you Chipotle. We ate it together. We had sex. We kissed, twice. I would’ve kissed you more, a lot more, in fact, but—”