If I touched him now, I'd fall apart. I needed the distance.
"Touch yourself."
His breath caught. "What?"
"You heard me. You flew across the country to see me. So show me what you wanted."
His hand moved to his cock, then stopped. "I'm not going to—"
"Yes, you are. You've been texting me for seven months. Drunk at 2 AM, telling me you couldn't stop thinking about me. Now I'm here and I'm watching and you're going to show me exactly what you thought about."
His jaw tightened. But his hand wrapped around his cock and he started stroking, and the soft, desperate sound that came out of him hit me like a fist to the sternum.
"Slower."
He slowed down. His fist moved up the length of him, the head of his cock disappearing into his grip and emerging again, slick and flushed. My own cock was straining against my jeans, throbbing every time his thumb dragged over his slit.
"Is this what you thought about? When you were texting me at 2 AM? When you were drunk and telling me you couldn't breathe without me?"
His hand stuttered. His eyes were wet when they met mine.
"Keep going."
He kept going. His hips were starting to roll, fucking up into his own fist.
"You said you missed me. You said you didn't know how to do this without me." My voice cracked on the last word, and I hated it. "But you did it anyway, didn't you? Went back to your team and your playoffs and you did just fine."
"That's not—" His voice broke. "That's not true. I wasn't fine. I was never fine."
"You looked pretty happy on TV. Lifting that Cup. Smiling for the cameras."
"I was thinking about you." His hand slowed but didn't stop. "The whole time. When they handed it to me, I—" He broke off, his hips jerking. "I was thinking about you."
"Faster. And spread your legs. I want to see everything."
He spread his thighs wider, his hand moving faster on his cock. His balls were drawing up, his stomach slick with pre-cum. I pressed the heel of my palm against my own erection, just enough pressure to take the edge off, and his eyes tracked the movement.
"You won a Cup without me."
"It didn't mean anything."
"Bullshit."
"It didn't." His head dropped back against the pillow, his hand still moving. "I won and all I could think—" A moan cut through his words. "You weren't there. I couldn't call you."
"Stop."
His hand froze. A sound came out of him, desperate and broken.
"Joel. Please."
"Please what?"
"Please let me come."
"Not yet."
The ring had been catching the light this whole time, silver and diamonds flashing every time his fist moved.
