Page 26 of Wood

“Benjamin, don’t be bothering Mr. Vance,” he chides.

I laugh and hold out a hand to shake. “I’m Geoff, Ben’s caddie, and Benjamin is no bother, no worries. Cute kid.”

“Tom Reidy. He has no filter, I’m afraid,” the father says. “Precocious as fu…fudge. Just like his father.”

“No worries at all,” I laugh as he tugs his son away.

“See you later, Geoff and Ben!” the kid calls out as he is dragged away.

I hazard a glance at Ben, who reaches for his own bottle of electrolyte water and takes a long swig, avoiding my eyes.

“You done, Daddy?” I grin.

He points the bottle at me. “Don’t,” he growls.

Oh, I wish.

Connecticut feels like a repeat of Long Island. Beautiful rolling hills, gorgeous trees, tons of fans. Same players, another suite, going over the yardage book together as we eat breakfast together or before dinner, so close I can feel the heat of his arm on the table, his leg brushing mine, his fucking breath on my face as we look over my drawings.

I’m going out of my mind.

On the course, though, I am solid. I know what Ben needs, and I deliver. Rock solid. Force field around him. #GuardDogCaddie or private rooms when I can find them. Walking the greens in the wee hours, marking the yardage books with the info he needs. Reading it over together before heading out to practice on days one and two. Planning strategy in the afternoon. Day off day three while he does PR, fan meets. Tournament days one through four with early nights and earlier mornings. Tight smiles, pats on the shoulders.

He is in the zone, laser focused and if something shakes that, I am there, solid, centering, pulling his focus back on just this hole, just this stroke. Staring into gorgeous brown eyes, breathing with him until he settles.

He makes sure I eat. I protect him. I make sure he knows I am solid. There.

We both go out after dinner to hook up. I have yet to work up the nerve to go further than a blow job, and the guys never want me to reciprocate, always happy to give.

I stare at his ass when he sets his tee. I feel his eyes on mine. But he doesn’t. Fucking. Touch. Me.

I am going out of my fucking mind.

17

BEN

Iknow he is hooking up while we are out here. I’ve seen the messages on the dating app pop up while we are eating dinner. He isn’t lingering to watch TV and wind down, instead leaving the suite as soon as we are done and coming back within a couple of hours, heading straight for the shower then to bed.

To be fair, so am I. Once he has left the suite, I head out to a discreet gay men’s bathhouse where some obliging guy or guys help me out within minutes of my arrival. Once I linger in the common areas watching four men in a daisy chain on the stage, but the group thing no longer holds an appeal. I’m not interested in chatting or exchanging numbers for a repeat.

This is torture.

From what I’ve seen on his phone, he prefers older men, mostly gray-haired, usually in their forties. Hell, maybe I am too young for him? Wouldn’t that just be ironic.

I think of some guy with their hands all over him, with his cock in their mouth, with their cocks in him, and I seethe. My name on his back, my caddie, fucking mine.

I gave my fucking word. Hands off, Ben, hands fucking off.

Perhaps I could just talk to him about it? Like a damned adult? I’ve seen him watching me, looking at my arms like he wants to touch. His blue eyes flicking to my mouth. His eyes seem to beg me to kiss, beg me to touch. Or I’m just reading into this way too much, projecting what I want versus reality.

Even after the club tonight, I’m aching. This urge to be with him is not being tamed by some cute twink sucking me off. I retreat to my room and pour lube onto my hand and stroke. Plush lips, blue eyes, shaggy brown hair I want to yank… I groan. Stroke a bit faster, grip a little harder. That ass that I want to sink my fingers into, pull him into my hips and rock into him, those long legs wrapped around my waist. I flip onto my hands and knees and jerk myself down, thrusting my cock into my fist. In my mind, I am thrusting into his ass. I groan his name as I splatter and I hear the front door of the suite close. Footsteps pause outside my door.

“Ben? You ok?” he asks.

Shit, he heard me. I have to answer. He knows I am not asleep.

“Yeah,” I sigh. “Fine.”