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Mikey and I were dressed in tuxedos, his calloused hand resting on the small of my back as we danced. Then he was working the buttons of my dress shirt open, his lips tipped up in a sly smirk. He spread the fabric wide and pressed his palms flat against my chest, dragging his nails over my nipples, before leaning close and whispering in my ear how long he’d wanted to touch me like this, how he couldn’t stop thinking about it. I dropped to my knees in front of him, pulling the zipper of his pants down⁠—

—and woke up with my hips grinding into the mattress, my sheets twisted around my legs.

I screwed my eyes shut, desperate to hold onto the dream, and flipped onto my back. I shoved my boxers down and wrapped my hand around my dick, stroking hard and fast.

“Fuck,” I bit out as Dream Me nuzzled against Dream Mikey’s stomach, my lips and cheeks rubbing back and forth against the strip of hair above his waistband

His breath caught, his hand coming up to cradle the back of my head. “Suck me, Cal.”

“Yes, god. Fuck. I want to. So bad.”

I thrust into my hand without a shred of finesse while Dream Me swallowed around Mikey’s cock, my lips stretched tight as my nose pressed flush against his belly. I moaned, imagining how good he’d taste, how heavy he’d be on my tongue … imagining myself choking on him.

Saliva pooled in my mouth—both real and imaginary. Pressure built fast at the base of my spine, my gut coiling tight.

“Not yet,” I croaked, pulling my hand away.

I rested my palms flat against the mattress beside my hips, fingers clawing at the sheets while I waited for the feeling to pass.

Once it did, I wrapped my hand around my dick again, letting Dream Mikey’s voice filter back in as he told me how hot I looked on my knees for him, how good I sucked his cock, how wet and perfect my mouth felt.

“Fuuuuuu—” I slammed my free hand over my mouth as my orgasm tore through me, my palm muffling my groans.

A final shudder moved through me, my cock pulsing one last time, a spurt of cum the sliding down over my fist.

The sound of Mikey’s shower turning on from the other side of the wall made my blood run cold. I lay frozen, listening, and trying to remember how loud I’d been before I’d had the presence of mind to clamp my hand over my mouth.

Had he heard me?

There was no version of me that would ever have the courage to ask.

FOURTEEN

MIKEY

Cally and I snuck away from the hotel bar where our teammates were still celebrating a bruising victory against North Carolina to head upstairs to his room to watch TV before calling it a night.

“There’s a replay of that UFC fight Kowalczyk was talking about,” he said, thumbing through the on-screen menu.

“No. Too much testosterone.”

He chuckled. “Says the hockey player.”

I spun to face him, careful not to tweak my back. I’d taken a hard hit from Raleigh’s big D-man with two minutes left in the third, a “Welcome to the big leagues, Porter,” muttered as he skated away.

It was a clean hit, nothing to it really, but my hips were turned the wrong way when I slammed against the boards, and a spot in my lower back seized up almost immediately. I went down to one knee, allowed myself a single second to feel the pain, then got up and kept skating.

“Yeah, but those guys are all hopped up on ‘roids or some bullshit. Bunch of tiny-dicked assholes,” I said, digging my knuckles into the spot.

“Wow, M. Tell me how you really feel.”

M. That was a new one.

“Pretty sure I just did, C.” I tossed him a smirk that said ‘don’t think I didn’t catch that.’

Cally’s face flushed as he turned back to the TV, clicking away from the sports network. “Got it. No UFC.”

We eventually settled on a cheesy supernatural detective drama. Ten minutes in, the brooding lead officer ducked into an alley, arched his spine, and transformed into a snarling werewolf.