Page 60 of Gap Control

"You're the artist. Paint your masterpiece."

We both sounded like dorks. I wanted to tell him so. Instead, I popped the button and tugged the zipper down.

"Are you—wait, you're really going to—" He cut himself off with a gasp when I slipped my hand beneath the waistband, palm cool against his warm cock.

He was half hard already, the anticipation. I curled my fingers around his shaft, fascinated by how his breath caught. He hid his face in my neck, grazing my jaw with his teeth.

I stroked him, slow and easy, nothing elaborate. I squeezed a little tighter, got a laugh out of him, then switched it up—faster, then slower, thumb rubbing at the head in a rhythm I knew from years of being my own best company.

"Oh my god," he muttered, clutching my shoulders. "You are—fuck, you are way too good at this, it's unfair."

I shrugged. "Some of us respect the craft."

He fisted the sheet at my side. "Is this, like, a hockey thing? Did you bench-press your way into being ambidextrous?"

"You want to see what I can do with my left hand?" I teased.

"Don't you dare—" His hips twitched as I changed angles, wrist rolling just enough to make him gasp. I let myself get lost inmy effort, noting the little feedback cues: how he bit his lip, the sharp shiver every time I squeezed near the base, and how his whole body went rigid then loose, like he was fighting the urge to just let go.

He raised his head and kissed me again, sloppy, urgent, hands in my hair now, tugging just enough to make sure I stayed right there.

"Jesus," he whispered, "you could make a killing in the pros with hands like that."

"I'm a fast learner," I trailed my lips down his neck and across his collarbone, feeling him shudder at every light scrape of teeth.

TJ never shut up, not even now. As I jerked him with two fingers braced against the base, thumb circling under the head, he kept up a running thread of half-muttered, half-shouted commentary. "You—fuck, Mason, wait, that's—how did you even—" He panted, then snorted. "Is this your backup plan if hockey doesn't work out? Because I'd support that, honestly."

I pressed my palm flat, squeezed gently, and whispered into the space behind his ear, "You'd support me professionally?"

He bucked, trying not to laugh. "I'd invest. I'd do the whole pitch onShark Tank. I'd—oh, my god—" His voice cracked and the rest trailed off into something that wasn't really words, only desperate, breathless noise that made my cock stiffen.

I liked seeing him like this—loose, uninhibited, all the slack and easy cool he wore everywhere else replaced with raw, honest need. I wanted to see how far I could push it.

I slowed down momentarily to see whether he'd notice. He did. "Nope," he moaned, voice muffled by the pillow he'd pulled over his face, "don't you dare slow down, I'll rat you out to every guy on the team." His hips twitched upward to chase my hand. I picked up the pace, stroking him with smooth, practiced pulls along the length, twisting my wrist at the top to show off.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck, oh—" He clapped a hand over his face. "Sorry if I say your name. Or, like, the Lord's. I'm not really in control."

He wasn't. He babbled. He told me I was an asshole and a menace. And—direct quote—"if you don't kiss me right now I'm gonna die, actually die and haunt this apartment forever." So I did.

I couldn't remember the last time I was this into it. Not the act, the person. The TJ-ness of TJ and how everything about him was immediate and unfiltered, every reaction a live wire. I wanted to take my time, draw it out until he begged, but he was getting close; he tensed all over, jaw clenched, hands locked around my forearm like it was a lifeline.

He groaned, "You're—shit, you're gonna make me—" and then he did, no warning, just a ragged intake of breath and a spasmodic jerk of his hips against my hand. He spilled cum across my fingers, the sheets, and his belly, making a mess of everything.

For a second, the only sound was his ragged panting and the creak of the bed as he let himself collapse back onto the mattress, arm flung across his face. I wiped my hand on the inside of his thigh, then buried my face in his neck, waiting for TJ's world to reboot.

He made a wounded noise, then giggled. "You—fuck, you're—" He tried to talk, but it came out as breathless, hiccuping laughter. "You ruined me," he managed.

I couldn't help it. The sight of him—wrecked, cock still twitching against his thigh, chest heaving—shoved my own brain into a brownout.

My jeans were slung around my knees. I ground my hips forward against the bare skin of his abs, feeling every groove of hard-earned muscle slick against the head of my dick. He noticed immediately, and his expression—still goofy and post-orgasmic, but hungry again—made me want to show off a little, just for him.

"Go on." His voice was hoarse. "You earned it."

I hooked a hand behind his knee and pulled him open, pressing forward so my cock dragged along the warm, sticky mess on his stomach. He wrapped his legs around my waist like he was trying to keep me attached to the planet, and kept kissing me.

We were stuck together, chest to chest, dick to abs, his cum hot and slippery between us. It was the friction that did me in—nothing fancy, just the solid line of his body, ridges of his stomach, and the sticky heat. I jerked myself off, rutting against him, and the second my breath hitched and I tried to bite back a groan, he grinned, grabbed my ass, and pulled me tighter.

"C'mon, Mason, show me."

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