Page 42 of Wedge

Thank Christ.

“Can I touch you?” I ask, my forehead against his. “Touch your cock?”

His head nods frantically against mine, and I slide my right hand into his trunks, finding his cock almost out the top of them already.

“Oh, shit!” he cries out, and I cover his mouth with mine as I stroke. I marvel at how thick he is. The hot steel of another cock in my hand, long and straining in my fist as I stroke, gripping him just tight enough. He thrusts helplessly into my fist, water not being the best lube, but I’m not stopping now. I’ll apologize to Ben later.

“Oh. God. Stephen,” he pants into my mouth, and I suck his lips and muffle his noises, his whining climbing in pitch as his body starts to shudder.

“Can I suck you? Cum in my mouth?”

He nods again. I hoist him up onto the seat of the tub and envelop the head of his cock in my mouth. Whimpers escape as his cock grows in my fist, throbbing as he gasps, and I feel him pulsing, releasing a stream of cum onto my tongue as his body shakes. “Oh, fuck!” he whisper-screams. “Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck. Oh, my god!”

I swallow quickly, registering my first taste, but I keep hold of his cock as he comes down, just holding, not moving. I move my lips to his shoulder, his neck, his jaw. Peppering kisses until I return to his mouth. I ease him back onto my lap in the hot water. He finally opens his eyes and stares at me.

“Okay?” I ask, moving my free hand to his jaw, running wet fingertips over his puffy lips, then kissing those lips again, unable to resist. “Should I let go now?” His cock is still somewhat full, jerking occasionally in my grip.

He shakes his head, so I keep my hand wrapped around him. He collapses forward onto my chest, resting his head on my shoulder and bringing his arms around my neck.

My cock throbs against his ass, but I ignore it. He must have felt it, though, as he lifts his head to stare at me again.

“You need to cum, too,” he murmurs.

“It can wait,” I assure him. “Time after dinner. Stay at my place tonight?”

He nods and snuggles into me again. His cock is definitely softening now, but I don’t let go.

Steam lifts off the surface of the hot water in slow ghosts and vanishes into the pines. Somewhere down the hill, a maintenance cart hums back toward the barn, and then even that fades. I stare up into the darkening sky, at the stars beginning to appear. One, then five, then too many to count.

“Dinner in forty minutes,” I say into his ear, kissing the side of his head. It’s bristly where it’s shaved, and I brush it with my own bristly cheek. New sensation. He nods. It’s another five minutes before we move. I regret his cock slipping from my hand.

The locker room is warm and empty, mirrors clouded with steam. An unhurried shower with a lot of kissing later, we wander upstairs to the clubhouse dining area, shoulders brushing, hair still damp, wearing matching borrowed navy polos. Adrian’s hawk has gone soft at the edges, and I don’t say a word about it.

The dining room glows amber, candles on every table, the tall windows gone black with night. Half the tables are empty. Ben chin-lifts our way as we appear and grins when we slide into a booth, both of us across from him. My foot tangles around Adrian’s, and I leave it there.

Ben leans back, arms draped over the booth, taking his time with it. “So this is a thing now?” he asks, finger gesturing between us.

Neither of us answers right away, which is answer enough. Adrian’s ears go red beside me.

“Define ’a thing,’” I say instead, reaching for the water glass already at my spot like it’s the most natural motion in the world.

“You two. Matching polos. Sitting on the same side of the booth like a couple of teenagers at a diner.” Ben’s grin doesn’t budge. “I’ve known you fifteen years, Stephen. You don’t do ’a thing.’”

“They’re your loaner polos, Ben. Stock another color.” I take a sip of water. “And yeah. Things change.”

“Clearly.” He lets it go easier than I expected him to, just a last look between the two of us, something almost fond underneath the teasing, before he pulls a folder out of his bag and sets it on the table like the subject’s closed. It isn’t, not really, but I’ll take the reprieve. I’m sure I’ll catch grief later, out of Adrian’s hearing, about the cradle-robber comment I made months ago.

“Twelfth place,” he says, tapping the folder. “Not bad for a guy playing on knees held together with duct tape and stubbornness.”

“Hey. They’re good knees,” Adrian objects.

“They’re just like my knees, so I’d know.” Ben flips the folder open anyway, and just like that, we’re in business mode. The easy warmth from a minute ago folds into something more focused. “Second Stage is about six weeks out. Questions are where and how we use the time until then.”

“Which sites are in play?” I ask.

“A handful we can request based on where you finished. I’ve got my data guy, Jake Benson, pulling data on all of them: green speeds, altitude, who’s historically scored well where. We’ll want you somewhere that plays to your strengths instead of penalizing what’s still shaky, but there’s no guarantee the tour gives us our first pick.” Ben looks at Adrian directly now. “I want you to work with a swing coach. I don’t want you walking into Second Stage on the same short game that bailed you out all week. It worked. It won’t always.”

Adrian nods, jaw tight in the way he gets when he’s taking something seriously instead of deflecting it. “Okay.”