“True, but I know how much not getting laid sucks.”
Wolfe doesn’t release my face but doesn’t speak for a long moment. “Do you want to?”
“I mean, I’d love to get laid, but I do not fuck near as much as you do, so I’m good.”
He narrows his eyes, half rolling into me, big hand sliding over my tee and around to the middle of my back, bringing us face to face. “Bull shit.”
“Are you kidding? There aren’t as many gay men in all of Manhattan as there are puck bunnies who would sell their soulsto be with you. It’s pure numbers!” I laugh, unable to help myself.
He makes a sound in the back of his throat. “Fuck off. Not my fault there are way more women than gay men!”
“I never said it was your fault, just facts, which makes it much easier for me to go without than you. Are you sure you can handle it?” I give him just a hint of attitude.
“I’ve been handling it. Sure, I might have already jacked myself raw, but this is the longest I’ve gone without getting laid since I was a virgin!” He’s all proud of himself, which is cuter than it should be, but I’m focused on one part of his statement.
“Raw?” I glance between us, unable to help myself.
“I don’t want to talk about it or filling my need to be touched with my own hand.” Wolfe turns his head away from me but keeps a hold of my shirt, preventing me from leaving.
I hate that he feels like he has to hold on to me, but I guess I deserve it.
“I’m here.”
“We’ll see,” he throws back.
I visibly wince, and he softens. “I promise I won’t go back.” As much as it will kill me. I don’t want him to be hurting. At least until after the wedding, and then we can break up or whatever, and he can enjoy all the new puck bunnies in whatever city he ends up drafted to. At least I won’t have to watch.
“Thank you.” More tension bleeds out of his body. “I’m going to order a flesh light or something. My poor dick can’t handle all the abuse.”
I’m half hard before I can think of anything else or even try to stop it. I’m so glad my hips are not pressed into him; it would be exceedingly obvious in these sweatpants. “Do you need to, like, get a massage with a happy ending?” I say, only half joking.
His mouth drops open, and he looks offended.
I’m not sure which part did it, so I wait for him to speak.
“And you’re worried people will find out about me being gay but not about sleeping with sex workers?”
“Straight people would probably be a lot more okay with the sex worker part than the gay part, let’s be honest, but I guess you have a point.”
“I do. And I just couldn’t get off like that.”
“There’s nothing wrong with sex work.” I feel a lecture coming on if he has anything bad to say.
But he goes a direction I wasn’t expecting. “I know, but I can’t get into it if the person isn’t into me. I want it to be mutual, not one-sided. That’s what I get off on. I like making people feel good.”
My cock is fully bricked, and the images in my head are so wrong. “We love a giver in bed,” I say, barely keeping the lust out of my voice.
“I’ve never had any complaints.” He winks, and he has no right to be that sexy.
“I bet you haven’t. Especially with what you’re packing.”
A full grin curls over his mouth. “I have had a few people worried it wouldn’t fit, but with the right prep…”
My cock aches. He has to know what he’s doing, right? I feel like I’m losing my mind. I dig my nails into my palm to keep some grip on reality. “Christ. That’s more than I needed to know.”
“I can’t help it! I’m horny as fuck, and you’ve been depriving me of cuddles for fucking weeks.” He acts all hurt, like I’ve wronged him.
“So this is my fault?” I ask, kinda seeing it but not willing to take full blame so easily.
