“More than okay.”
He reached between us and wrapped his hand around both of us, stroking slowly.
The contrast was obscene. His pale, elegant fingers—a skater’s hands, delicate but deceptively strong—wrapped around our stiff, leaking cocks. His slighter frame bracketing my bulk. The lean lines of him against the broad planes of me. He looked almost fragile like this but I knew better. I’d felt the iron in his thighs, the coiled power in his core. He was lithe where I was compact, graceful where I was solid, and somehow we fit together like we’d been designed for this.
“Fuck,” I breathed. “Théo—”
“Shh.” He kissed my shoulder, my collarbone, the hollow of my throat. “Let me take care of you.”
He set a rhythm that was slow and deliberate, designed to drive me out of my mind. Every stroke sent heat rolling up my spine, pooling low in my belly. The friction was perfect—his cock hot and hard against mine, his grip just tight enough to make my toes curl. I watched his hand work us both, mesmerized by the slide of pale fingers over flushed, swollen flesh. The way his thumb swept over the heads on every upstroke, smearing the wetness that was leaking from us both.
My hands roamed his body—his back, his ass, his thighs—touching every part of him I could reach.
“You feel so good,” I told him. “So perfect.” I gripped his hip, pulling him closer, feeling the jut of bone beneath my fingers. “Missed you so much. This week lasted forever. Couldn’t stop thinking about you. About this.”
His breath hitched. His hand moved faster. I needed more slip. I tilted his chin up with one finger, held his gaze, and spat directly onto our joined cocks where his fist was wrapped around us.
Théo made a sound like I’d punched the air out of him.
“Oh fuck—” His voice cracked, his hips jerking forward involuntarily. “Derek, that’s—”
I watched the spit slide down over his knuckles, slicking his grip. He started stroking again—faster now, wetter, the obscene sound of it filling the room.
“That’s it, baby. Just like that.” I was babbling now, the words spilling out without thought. “You’re so beautiful. Can’t believe you’re mine. Can’t believe I get to have you like this.”
“Derek—” His voice broke on my name. “I’m close—”
“Me too. Come with me. Come on, baby, let go—”
He kept stroking us, our breaths ragged, and then his hips jerked and he came with a cry, spilling hot over his fist and ontomy stomach. The sight of him—flushed and trembling, his head thrown back, his lips parted, pale throat exposed—pushed me over the edge. I followed him with a groan, adding to the mess between us.
He collapsed against my chest, careful to avoid my injured face, his breath coming in ragged gasps. I wrapped my arms around him and held on.
We lay there for a long moment, sticky and sweaty and utterly content.
“Best distraction ever,” I murmured against his hair.
“I aim to please.” His voice was drowsy, muffled against my chest.
“You definitely hit the goal.”
He snorted. “Did you just make a hockey joke?”
“You love it.”
He was quiet for a moment, tracing lazy patterns on my chest with his fingertip. Then, so soft I almost missed it, “Yeah. I kind of do.”
I smiled into his hair.
My face still hurt. But right now, with Théo warm and pliant in my arms, I couldn’t bring myself to care.
37. Théo
“Mom wants to come for a visit.”
I nearly dropped the wooden spatula I was using to stir the pot of chili I was making. The words landed in my stomach like a stone, sending ripples of anxiety through my whole body.
I loved my mom. I did. But all her hovering made me feel like I was a kid again. Incapable of taking care of myself. Of making my own decisions. Every phone call was a gentle interrogation:Are you eating enough? Are you sleeping? Have you talked to your therapist?
