Page 91 of Breakaway
"I just started."
"I'm giving a preliminary rating. The final is pending." He pulls out his phone and types something. "The spreadsheet is back, by the way."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. Gwen didn't suggest that one. That was me. I missed it."
We eat at the counter because the table has his laptop and a stack of papers from what looks like a Gwen assignment.
"Eight-point-one," he says. "For the whole meal. The rice is carrying it. The chicken needs work."
"The chicken is fine."
"The chicken is a seven-four. The lime saves it from a seven-flat."
"You're being generous."
"I am being accurate. Generosity is an eight-five."
After dinner the apartment settles. Mouse retires to her spot on the couch arm. The dishes are done and drying in the rack and the kitchen smells like lime and chicken and the counter is wiped clean.
"Shower," he says. He is still carrying the game in his shoulders, the way ice time sits in the body for hours after the final horn. "Come with me."
"Yeah."
The bathroom is small and clean. White tile. A towel folded on the rack that was not folded two weeks ago. He turns the water on and pulls his shirt over his head and I see his ribs again, the ridge under the skin where the weight has not come back yet. I put my hand on his side. My thumb finds the bone. He breathes in and holds it and I hold my hand there and say nothing because nothing is what the moment needs.
He hooks his thumbs in the waistband of his sweats and pushes them down his hips. No hesitation. Steps out of them and stands in front of me in the bathroom light and his cock is already thickening against his thigh. I pull my own shirt off. His eyes track my chest, my stomach, the ink on my arm. He watches me push my sweats down and his gaze drops and stays and his mouth parts.
"Fuck," he says softly. "I missed you. I missed this." His hand comes out and his fingers trace the line of muscle above my hip,light, deliberate, following the cut down to where it meets my thigh. "All of this."
He steps under the water. I follow him in and pull him in for a kiss, our tongues tangling together. The spray is hot and the steam fills the room and his hair goes dark and flat against his forehead and he turns to face me. Water running down his chest, pooling in the hollow of his collarbones, streaming over his stomach. His cock is hard now, flushed dark. I run my hands over his chest. I have not touched him this way since Aruba and my whole body is tight with it.
His hand finds me first. His fingers wrap around my cock and the grip is firm and sure and the first stroke pulls a groan out of me. He does it again, slow, his thumb dragging over the head on every pass, smearing the slick that is already leaking from me. His eyes stay on mine. He knows what he is doing. He has always known what he is doing with his hands.
I reach between us and take him in my fist. He is hard and hot and thick in my grip and his breath catches when I squeeze. I stroke him once, slow, root to tip, and his hips push forward into my hand. The water is running between us, making everything slick, and the sound of my hand on his cock is obscene in the small tiled room and I want more of it.
"Like that," he says. His voice has dropped, low and rough and stripped. "Don't stop."
"I'm not stopping."
I pull him closer with my free hand on the back of his neck. His forehead comes to rest against my shoulder and his breathing goes ragged against my skin. I can feel his mouth open, his teeth grazing my collarbone, and his hand tightens on my cock and speeds up and I match him. His hips are working now, fucking into my fist, and the wet slide of it and the heat of him against me and the sounds he is making against my neck are pulling everything in my body toward a single point.
"Fuck, Wes." His voice cracks. His free hand grabs my hip, nails digging in, pulling me closer so our cocks are pressed together in the tight space between our bodies. I shift my grip and take us both in my hand, his cock against mine, slick with precome, and he groans against my throat and the sound vibrates through my chest.
"God." He bites down on my shoulder. Not hard. Hard enough. "Your hands. I think about your hands every fucking night."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. In this shower. Alone. Thinking about your hands."
I tighten my grip and stroke us together, and he shudders. His hand covers mine, adjusting the pressure, and we work each other in the tight heat between our bodies. His back is against the tile, water pouring over us, and his cock is leaking against mine. I can feel every ridge and vein of him in my palm.
"Wes." He lifts his head and looks at me. The water on his face. His pupils blown wide and his lips swollen and his jaw tight. "I'm close. I want to watch you."
"Then watch."
His eyes hold mine. His hips stutter and I feel his cock pulse hard against mine. He comes in my hand with a groan that fills the bathroom, hot and thick between us, his mouth open against my jaw, his whole body shaking. The feel of it, his cock throbbing against mine, his come slick between my fingers, tips me over. I follow him with my face in his wet hair and his name in my mouth, quiet, just his name.
