Page 59 of Gap Control

"You okay?" I asked.

"Yeah, recalibrating."

I stepped behind him. My right hand brushed his lower back and then slid lower, cupping an ass cheek.

He let out a breath I didn't know he'd been holding.

"You can tell me to stop," I said.

He leaned his head back against my shoulder. "Don't want to."

His hoodie was soft under my fingers as I tugged it upward, and he raised his arms. I pulled it up and let it fall to the floor, along with the T-shirt underneath.

He touched my chest, flat palm against my sternum, then slid it upward to my collar. "Take yours off, too. I don't want to be the only one playing skins in here."

I chuckled. "Okay."

I pulled off my shirt and dropped it beside his. We stood chest to chest, skin to skin, heat rising between us in slow, steady waves.

His hand slid up the back of my neck, into my hair. I leaned in.

The kiss this time wasn't exploratory. It was full-body. His hands were everywhere—slow, then not, like he couldn't decide whether to memorize me or hold on tight in case I slipped away.

When we moved toward the bed, he didn't let go. His knees hit the edge, and he laughed into my mouth.

"Sorry," he whispered.

"For what?"

"I'm about to make this awkward."

"You already did," I said. "You flinched at the flowers."

He groaned. "You're never gonna let that go, are you?"

I rolled my eyes and tugged him down beside me. The mattress took our combined weight with a light creak, and then it began—elbows and calves tangling, his knees bracketing my hips, and his hands flat against my ribs.

His hands trembled. "You're shaking," I said.

"Yeah, well, I have a high metabolism and I've been downing coffee for the past twelve hours." He paused. Also, I'm so into you, it's not even funny."

"I can tell."

His hands went lower, fingertips sliding neatly past my waistband, teasing just above the button fly like he was drawing a boundary but very much hoping I'd let him cross it. "You know what I always thought was underrated?" He pitched the words in a conspiratorial tone.. "Handjobs. Bear with me. No one ever wants to admit they're great, but I've always thought—if you're actually present? If you're into it? They're basically poetry for dumb horny people."

I bit back a laugh. "Is that so?"

"Yeah." He was grinning, big and reckless and a little bit hopeful. "You get all the improvisation, all the—y'know, feedback loop, without the pressure of a grand finale. It's just two guys seeing what works. It's honest."

I cupped the back of his neck and nuzzled his hairline. "You want me to write you some poetry, TJ?"

A low, delighted grunt escaped him. "I'll grade you on a curve."

Our first time beyond kisses probably should have been awkward. This was different. It was the kind of honesty that didn't need to survive outside our private space, so I let myself lean into it.

I let my hands wander, learning the unfamiliar angles of TJ's waist and the thin, dark stripe of happy trail dipping below his waistband. His skin was hot to the touch, and he shivered when my fingers skimmed the button of his jeans.

"Permission to improvise?" I asked.

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