Page 86 of Gap Control

"TJ—"

"No, I mean it. All of it. The scars, the bruises, the way you get this little wrinkle between your eyebrows when you're thinking too hard." His thumb brushed the spot he was talking about. "All of it."

I didn't know how to respond to that level of honesty, so I kissed him instead. Slow and deep, trying to show him what I couldn't say—that he made me feel seen in ways I'd never experienced.

I lost track of whose hands were where, only that everywhere I touched, he was soft and hot and alive. His skin was marked up from the game—a purple thumbprint blooming on his thigh and a red streak across his shoulder where someone had gotten overzealous with their stick. I wanted to taste every bruise and claim them not as injuries but as evidence of something hard-won and beautiful.

We rolled, TJ laughing and breathing hard, until I had him flat on his back with his arms pinned above his head. His eyes were wide, sweat shining at his hairline. I bent and bit his shoulder gently, and he shivered.

My hand drifted down below his waist. His cock was hard against the thin cotton of his boxers. He made a noise, desperate and surprised, like maybe he hadn't thought I'd go there so quickly.

I pressed my palm flat against his chest and watched his face go slack, eyes rolling half-closed. "Is this okay?" I muttered, mouth still pressed to his jaw.

"Mason," he grinned, "if you ask me that one more time, I'm going to draw a comic strip about your excessive politeness in bed."

"That's not—"

"Panel one: 'May I touch you here?' Panel two: 'Are you comfortable with this particular—' Panel three: 'Would you like to complete this customer satisfaction survey before we begin—'"

He didn't get to panel four. I yanked his boxers down enough to get my mouth on him, one hand wrapped around the base of his cock so I could feel the throb.

I'd done it before, but never for someone who made me feel like every second mattered. He tasted like skin, salt, and sweat, and when I dragged my tongue up the underside, he lost whatever self-control he pretended to have left.

The noises—sharp, involuntary, like laughter shifting registers—went straight to my core. I made a mental note to get him to do it again, as soon as possible.

TJ's heels drummed against the sheets. His voice wobbled, somewhere between a curse and a plea. I stared down at his face—damn, his flushed eyelids fluttered. He looked wrecked and perfect.

I slowed down, just to see if he'd chase it. He did, hips bucking, fingers tightening. TJ tried to say something—my name, probably, or possibly the entire plot ofThe Princess Bride—but I swallowed his cock and doubled down. He made a helpless, breaking noise.

I wanted to see him let go, for me. His mouth had nothing to say for once, only open vowel sounds and raw noise. He bucked up, and I held him down with a palm across his hipbone, in case he tried to escape.

He came with a shout that would have gotten both of us thrown in the penalty box if a ref heard it. His grip of my hair went from tight to gentle, from "please" to "oh, God, okay, I need a minute."

There was more mess than I bargained for—on my lips, chin, and dripping down my wrist. I didn't care. I leaned up, wiped at my mouth with the back of my hand, and smiled at him.

TJ had his arm thrown over his eyes, breathing like he'd skated a three-minute shift in overtime. He rolled his head to the side, peeking at me through his fingers.

"Holy shit."

"Yeah," I said, voice hoarse and weirdly proud.

He reached for me, still half-dazed, pulling me down until we were nose to nose, chest to chest, the fabric of the sheets twisted between us. He kissed me, slow and almost gentle, his tongue sweeping my lower lip. I let him taste himself there and set thepace. He held the back of my neck, thumb stroking the short hair at my nape, like he wanted to memorize every part of me.

When it was over, we lay tangled in the sheets, TJ's head pillowed on my chest. His hair tickled my collarbone, and he draped his arm across my ribs, possessive and protective.

The room was quiet except for our gradually slowing breaths and the distant hum of traffic outside. Underneath the physical contentment, something new stirred. A restless anxiety that had nothing to do with what we'd just done and everything to do with what it meant.

"This is going to mess me up," I said, mostly to myself.

TJ's eyes were closed. "Yeah," he murmured, voice thick with approaching sleep. "Me too."

He said it like it was a good thing. Like being messed up by this, by us, was exactly what he wanted.

And as I listened to his breathing even out, I decided it was what I wanted, too.

Chapter nineteen

TJ

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