“You’re stroking my dick!” I cried. “You could be half as hot and it would make no difference.”
“Ah, so youdothink I’m hot.”
“Oh my god,” I groaned. “What do you want me to say?”
“I want you to be honest,” he murmured against my temple as he went on rubbing his palm slowly up and down the front of my shorts. “I want you to tell me whether the sight of me shirtless excites you.”
I turned my face away, closing my eyes as though that would save me from his questing hand. “Fine, yes,” I said. “But the sight of lots of men shirtless excites me, this is not new.”
“Are you trying to make me take the towel off too?”
“No! I’m not trying to do anything, you just left the fan on and—” My explanation ended in a groan as he slipped his hand beneath the elastic of my shorts, finding skin. Half wishing I had put on underwear and half glad I had not, I tilted my head back against the shower door as his fingers closed around my cock. Gentle but sure, he stroked me a few times then squeezed, my breath hitching.
Miles let out a small groan that vibrated deep in his throat. “Fuck, you’re hard.”
“And whose fault is that?” I growled back through gritted teeth.
“Well, if it’s mine then I should do something about it.” He pulled his hand free only to drop to his knees on the powder-blue tiles, shaking the tangle of damp, wavy hair back from his face.
“What are you doing?”
He looked up, an errant curl stuck to his brow. “What does it look like I’m doing?”
It looked like he was kneeling in front of me. Looked like he’d gripped the waistband of my shorts. Like he was going to suck me off. But since there was no way that was happening, I just shook my head, dazed, as he freed my rock-hard erection – an erection around which he once again wrapped his fingers.
“Miles,” I said as he stroked me slowly. “You really don’t—”
A gasp swallowed my objection as he swallowed my cock, sliding smoothly down my shaft right to the base before pulling as smoothly back – mere seconds of sensation that utterly short-circuited my brain.
“What were you saying?” he asked, looking up again. “I really don’t . . .?” He went on stroking me, the sight of even just his hand there making my legs unsteady. Miles tilted his head. “Do you want me to stop?”
“No,” I laughed, the sound slightly manic.
His breath brushed my skin. “Oh good, because I probably wasn’t going to.”
Kneeling before me in only a towel, Miles took me inside his mouth again, the moan that emerged from my lips as my dick hit the back of his throat one of the most pathetic sounds I had ever made. He didn’t seem to mind, working up a slow rhythm of full slides, the wet clicks of his mouth taking on a faint echo in the tiny bathroom.
God, he was beautiful, all long limbs and lean muscle and grace, his damp hair dark like it was on court when sweat turned it brown. I wanted to curl my fingers into it but didn’t dare, because he wasn’t mine to touch – no one was; that the lonely truth about being The Gay Player on tour. I was acceptable while I was sexlessand unthreatening, while I was just an object of curiosity with whom anyone could have their ten-second gay panic, but the moment I wanted, lusted, needed, I was dangerous. And so I kept my hands away and let him dictate terms, let him grab my arse and suck my dick and it really didn’t feel like I was losing. Not while I could see my cock stretching the top of Miles Callahan’s throat.
Just watching him was enough to send me over the edge all too soon, but as I started to tense, my fingers and toes curling and every breath coming fast, Miles stopped. He let my dick slide from his mouth and looked up, his lips pink and wet and his eyes dancing. “How’re you doing up there?”
“How am I—? You—I—fuck.” I released a shaky breath, half laugh, half agony. I’d been so close and he knew it. I wanted to push my cock back into his mouth and he knew that too. To keep from the impulse, I stroked myself, only for Miles to grab my hand and pin it to the glass behind me.
“No cheating,” he murmured, and keeping his hand splayed over mine, once more slid his lips over the head of my cock. After the cool air, his mouth was all the hotter and I hissed out a string of barely intelligible curses as he eased back into his slow rhythm with the resolve of one who could play baseline rallies all day.
Beside the sink, his phone vibrated. It was probably Tina calling to check he was on his way to the damn stylist, but Miles ignored it, sliding the circle of his lips along my shaft and drawing me back toward my thwarted climax.
With his phone ringing, I was sure he would finish me off this time, but again he got me close and stopped. I breathed out a frustrated groan and tilted my head back against the shower screen. “I hate you,” I said, and managed a glancing touch of my cock before he once again pushed my hand away.
“No. Cheating.”
My groan became a laugh and I nodded toward the sink. “Your phone is ringing.”
“I know. Ignore it.”
“It’s probably Tina.”
“And she can wait. I’m busy. Unless,” he looked up at me, dark eyes holding an amused challenge, “you want me to stop?”
