“While I was texting you about the moons of Jupiter.”
“…yes.”
My pulse is doing something erratic. Something that has nothing to do with embarrassment and everything to do with the mental image that’s crystallizing with alarming clarity: Oliver, in this bed, sheets twisted around his legs, phone propped on the pillow with my messages glowing on the screen, his hand between his thighs guiding this exact piece of green silicone into his body.
“Were you thinking about me?”
Oliver drops his hands from his face. His green eyes lock onto mine, and the embarrassment is still there, but underneath it is something rawer. Something honest.
“I only ever think about you when I use it,” he says. “It’s only ever been you, Ryan. Before we started dating, during, every single time. You’re the only person in my head.”
The room feels smaller. The air feels thicker. I look down at the dildo in my hand, turning it over once, feeling the weight and the smooth give of the silicone. Then I set it carefully back in the box, replace the lid, and place the box on the closet floor.
“So you’re a bottom,” I say.
Oliver lets out a breath that sounds like it’s been trapped in his lungs for a decade. He moves to sit on the edge of the bed, his hands gripping his knees. “I’ve topped a few times. Guys I hooked up with during my freshman and sophomore years. It was fine. Good, even.” He pauses, choosing his words. “But it’s not what I prefer.”
The frankness of his words sends a jolt through my entire nervous system. Oliver Jacoby—six feet of muscle, captain of the hockey team, the guy who carries himself with confidence—likes to be on the receiving end.
“I didn’t expect that,” I admit.
“Most people don’t.” A self-conscious laugh escapes him. “Big guy, hockey player—everyone assumes I’m a top. And I can be. But when I close my eyes and think about you?” His voice drops. “I think about you on top of me. Inside me. Every time.”
I cross the room and sit beside him on the bed. Our knees touch. “I don’t know which I prefer yet,” I say. “I don’t even have a frame of reference.”
Oliver’s hand finds mine, and his thumb traces familiar circles on the back of my knuckles. “That’s okay. We have all the time in the world for you to figure out what you like. What feels good. What doesn’t. There’s no rush, and there’s no wrong answer.” He squeezes my hand. “We’ll try things. You’ll tell me what works. I’ll tell you what works. And whatever we end up being—whether you’re a top, a bottom, both, neither, whatever—it’ll be perfect because it’s us.”
The earnestness in his voice cracks something open inside me. This giant, beautiful man is sitting here telling me he wants me to fuck him, and simultaneously assuring me that there’s no pressure to do anything I’m not ready for. The tenderness and the desire coexist in him without contradiction.
I want to give him something. Right now. Tonight.
“Lie back,” I say.
Oliver blinks. “What?”
“Lie back. On the bed.”
He searches my face, looking for uncertainty, for hesitation. He won’t find any. Whatever nervousness has lived inside me for the past twenty years has been replaced by something far more powerful: the need to make this man feel as wanted as he’s made me feel.
Oliver lies back against the pillows. His black hair fans slightly against the white fabric, and his green eyes track my every movement. His chest rises and falls with breaths that are coming faster than normal.
I climb onto the bed beside him, then swing one leg over so I’m straddling his thighs. The position puts me above him, looking down, and the shift in dynamic is intoxicating. Oliver’smassive hands come up to rest on my slim hips, steadying me, and his pupils are blown wide.
“Ryan, you don’t have to…”
“I know I don’t have to.” I place both hands flat on his chest, feeling the hard muscle beneath the cotton of his shirt, feeling his heart slamming against his ribs. “Iwantto.”
I start at his mouth. I kiss him languidly, taking my time the way he always takes his time with me. His lips part, and I lick into his mouth, tasting cheese puffs and something sweeter. He groans low in his throat, and the sound vibrates through my palms where they rest on his chest.
Then I move lower.
I press my lips to his jaw. The stubble there is rough against my mouth, and I drag my lips along the line of it until I reach the spot just below his ear. Oliver’s breath hitches. I file that away. I kiss down the side of his neck, finding the pulse point where his heart beats wildly, and I press my tongue flat against it.
“Fuck,” Oliver whispers. His thick fingers tighten on my hips.
I push his shirt up. He takes the hint and yanks it over his head, tossing it somewhere behind him, and suddenly I’m confronted with the full reality of Oliver Jacoby’s bare chest. I’ve seen him shirtless before—the naked sprint, the beach, those times at the Hockey House when clothing seemed optional—but never from this angle. Never with permission to touch.
His chest is broad and defined, with a dusting of dark hair between his pecs that trails down the center of his stomach in a narrowing line. His abs flex with each breath. His shoulders are massive, the kind of shoulders that could carry the world and have the energy left over to bench-press it.
