Page 56 of One Last Try

He dips his hair under the water, runs a hand through it. “But . . . what would you say to maybe a bit of . . . no-strings fun?”

Sensible me should have stopped this discussion right here. Shut it straight down. Mathias is right, one of us will end up broken-hearted, and I’m willing to bet the cost of a new thatch on that one person being me.

But Mathias Jones is standing before me, naked, wet, hot as fuck, and oh, did I mention he’s naked and wet? I couldn’t even recite the definition of sensible right now, let alone apply it to myself.

“Friends with benefits?” I ask. I cringe at how old and uncool I sound, but Mathias nods, then runs his tongue along his bottom lip, and I do not need any further convincing. “We’ll still take things at your pace, okay?”

“Perfect,” he says. “You can ‘comfort’ me after the boos.”

I’m already growing hard at the anticipation of what that could mean. I don’t let myself think about it or doubt it. Don’t ask myself any questions. I don’t even celebrate in my head, because I cannot—will not—jinx this.

“So, do you have any preferred position?” His gaze catches on my thickening cock. “Because I’m vers.”

I turn my face under the water, shake it off. “I am too, but . . . there are certain . . . things that make bottoming kind of impossible for me right now.”

He raises a questioning eyebrow.

“Mate, I’m forty-five, and I’ve done a lot of heavy lifting and shit in my life and . . . I’ve got the rhoids. As in haemor not ster.”

“Oh,” he says. Then,“Ohh.Does it hurt?”

Pretty much every older guy I know who’s played rugby has had them at some point. It’s kind of an inevitability. Still doesn’t make it any less embarrassing to admit.

“Not painful, just uncomfortable sometimes. Itchy.”

“That sucks. I’m sorry,” he says. His brow is furrowed, lips in a stern straight line, and I genuinely think he cares, not simply going through the motions and affecting concern so that I shut the fuck up already. “Well, you know, if yours isn’t so good, I can be your hole.”

I’m choking on shower water. Somehow I’ve breathed it in through all my facial orifices and I’m choking. And then I stupidly let myself cycle through every fantasy I’ve ever had featuring Mathias’s hole, and now I’m getting harder, and I’m still choking.

This is a great day for me.

He slaps me on the back. The sound is wetter, slappier, and echoier because of the water.

“You don’t mince your words, do you?” I say when I can finally breathe normal air.

No doubt my face is beetroot red. My cock is still hard through it all, though. Through the haemorrhoid chat and the naked near-death experience in front of the hottest guy I’ve ever known. The human spirit really is indomitable.

“Blame the ’tism,” he says.

“I keep pressing this water on button, but neither of us has actually washed anything yet.” And still neither of us reach for any products or loofahs.

“You’ve got mud on your belly,” he adds.

He’s right, I have a green-and-brown smear across my stomach and hip from when I tackled him and my T-shirt rode up. Embarrassingly, my dick is still shooting skyward. I rub away the dirt on my side—or attempt to. The grass stain doesn’t budge.

Mathias mirrors my movements, rubbing his hand down his own stomach. His fingers slide and bounce over his neat little collection of muscles, but his motions don’t stop at his hip like mine did. He keeps going, keeps his hand journeying south until he reaches his cock. He palms his balls then moves his fist back up, gripping the base of his shaft. He’s not fully hard, not yet, but it won’t be long until he is.

I tear my gaze up to his face, and he’s watching me intently—brown eyes narrowed, mouth parted, breaths rushing out.

“This is . . . just how I wash?” he says, breathless, but like a question. Like an invitation.

When I glance down again, he’s erect, and holy hell, he’s glorious. It’s the prettiest cock I’ve seen in real life and better than anything I’ve ever witnessed on my decrepit old laptop. He’s long, and thick, and smooth, with fat veins tracking down his dark skin. Like me, he’s uncircumcised, and I have a sudden urge to drop to my knees for him and bury all of it in my throat.

I must have the greediest expression on my face because Mathias says, “Do you want to watch me . . . wash?”

Words fail me. I nod.

“We’re completely alone, right?”

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