Page 82 of Kitty Season
A laugh huffs out of me, “Bro, you literally called me princess this morning.”
“Wha … pfft … Dude! You were lying in bed with one of Quinny’s face masks on while she gave you a pedicure. What the hell else am I supposed to call you?”
I tug at my tee, adjusting my non-existent collar. “Maybe try Daddy, next time.” That quells his vibrating rage, and gets his eyes on me. They’re wide, and focused on my lips. He is so easy to ruffle. I fucking love it.
“You’d like that, would you?”
“I think you know I would.”
“Hmm, hmm.” A throat clears and shit. Right. DanandChris, ‘cause Chris is here too. They’re not standing anymore but sitting at the sideways table, Chris sipping from my drink. “So, I gather things have impaled … sorryimprovedbetween you two?”
“Could say that.” Brady, now the color of Classy Cory’s wine, and busy avoiding all eye contact while apologetically dragging the table and rest of the chairs back into place. “Skip, this is Chris and Dan. All-round assholes. Former housemates and teammates.”
“And for that, we offer our deepest thanks to Coach, and our sincerest sympathies to you.” Brady’s brows narrow, Chris takes the hint, and moves on. “So, big guy. Is this one—” he points at me, smirking— “still blinding everyone else with his morning light, and eating his disgusting porridge like a good boy?”
I am still eating my porridge. Every damn day. But just in secret. If Brady sees he’ll get on one of his,food is our body’s fuel and medicinecrap, and I’m just not ready to ditch my chicken nuggets and pizza. So I go for distraction.
“So, how are the Bulldogs going in the finals … Oh, wait. That’s right. You lost your gun center and didn’t make it.” It’s obvious, but it works. We’re back to chirping about hockey.
“You ready for Ohio? Mahomes will be back for the St Louis game, and he’s telling anyone who’ll listen that the pretty boy with the nose ring took a dive.”
“The fuck I did. Maybe I should smash him head first into the boards and see if it helps change his mind.”
On hearing this, Brady’s bottom lip drops into a pout. Not cute. At all. “No, you won’t do that. We need you on the ice, not watching from the locker rooms. Besides, he wouldn’t learn a thing. No brain, no pain.” The lamest burn I’ve heard since kindergarten earns a high five from Chris and Dan, and the sulkis gone. Shame really. I’m not sure what it says about me that I so enjoy him being all moody and sour, that I want to heckle the shit out of him to earn a frown, but I do.
Damn, just thinking about it has me chubbing up. Again.
I wonder if Quinn’s home yet.
Guilt over never seeing my ex-roomies, and the desire to see Brady sober up from his whole one drink, is all that keeps me at the bar for another hour. The longest of my life. With every word that’s said, all I can think of is getting him home, naked and spread out beside an equally naked Quinn, so I can taste every inch of them with my tongue.
Our dorm roomis lit only by a sliver of crescent moon, the door still swinging shut, and I’ve got Brady up against the wall, my thigh between his parted legs as he ruts against me.
“Quinn’s not home,” he pants, hands busy undoing the buttons on my jeans. “Should we wait?—”
After one last suck, I relinquish the mouthful of neck my teeth have sunk into, and pull back. “Nope. No way. We’ve talked about this, Skip and agreed. She’s cool. It’s cool.”
“So you’re saying we’re cool?” he jokes, eyes catching the light and twinkling. As cute as he looks, pure reflex has me slap the back of his head with an open palm.
“Shut up, and do me, smart ass.”
“I’m not sure hitting me is the best way to seduce me.”
“Okay, well how about this?” I slide my hand under his tee, running my fingers over the peaks and valleys of his skin. He melts, smooth and soft as butter, his whiny moans are almost whimpers, and I think if I don’t have him soon I might die.
I’m nervous though, which is stupid. I’ve had his dick in my mouth, and in my ass on several occasions, but Quinn has always been there. How will he react when it’s just me? How will I?
There’s only one way to know.
Without speaking, I work my way up, over his ribs, not stopping until I’ve slipped his tee over his head, then follow the same path down his back, caressing the muscle covering every inch of him. When I reach the dimples just above his ass, I groan at the way he ruts against me. Not only is the boy a tasty treat, he can move. The way those hips are rolling borders on hypnotic. As too is the lust-drunk sheen to his eyes. The crystal blue waters darken like a storm approaching.
Tearing my gaze from his, I kiss my way across his collarbone, slip both hands under his waistband, ghost over the smooth skin of his ass before parting his cheeks. In the calloused tips of my fingers, I feel the moment he registers my intent. “Relax, baby,” I whisper right before I press a kiss into the juncture of his neck and shoulder. “If you’ll let me, I want to fuck you. Would that be okay?”
“Yes. Please, Troye, yes.”
For the last couple of weeks, longer if I’m honest, there’s been one consistent, nagging, throbbing thing on my mind.
I want Troye to fuck me.
