Later was reasonable, and I accepted it.
Another joke arrived somewhere in the middle of things, fully formed as always, and genuinely funny, but I couldn't say it. Not with Pratt's fingers—I let it go.
He said my name once, low.
I said his back.
We'd gotten to the climb gradually, the way everything happened with Pratt. He didn't make sudden movements. He moved directly, with power in the thrusts.
I'd stopped tracking anything except the pressure of his weight and the speed of his hips. He was slow at first, then faster. The rhythm was still balanced, but he was working harder as I threw my head back.
He dug his thumbs into my hips and held on. I felt it all the way up my spine. He wrapped one hand around my cock and began stroking.
I got there first, which I interpreted as a home-ice advantage.
He followed, and then his entire weight collapsed against me, his breath brisk and uneven against my neck. I put my hand on the back of his head.
He lifted his head and looked at me with the biggest smile I'd ever seen on Pratt's face. His hair stuck out in three different directions.
"Hi," I said.
He looked at me.
"Sorry, I don't know why I said that."
"I do," he said, and put his head back down.
Afterward, we lay without moving, Pratt's arm across my chest. I stared at the ceiling and thought, "Huh."
It wasn't meant to diminish anything. It was the only word that seemed to fit the size of what had just happened.
Pratt's thumb moved against my ribs. He wasn't asleep yet.
I thought about Bryan, and it wasn't the sharp sideways thing it had been for three years. It was quieter.
He would have had something to say about this precise moment. It would be the voice of someone who'd known me long enough to cut straight to the thing.
You're still in his bed, Sul.
I know.
He didn't leave.
I know.
Pratt shifted slightly, resettling. He moved his hand forward to wrap around my far side and pull me closer. His breathing stayed slow and even.
I had come close to not having this. Another month at that pace I was moving, and I'd have found a reason to keep thingsat the temperature where I could end it cleanly. Pratt probably would have considered me temporary, and we'd have become next-door neighbors who once had a fling.
The thought arrived without panic. It was a blunt fact I could examine.
Two games left in the regular season. To the analysts and however many people packed into the arena or watched from their couches, Pratt was the last line. He was the wall, the reason the Ironhawks were still worth watching in April.
To me, he was the guy who had organized my nightstand while I was in the shower and considered it unremarkable.
It was exactly what I wanted.
