“I already do, baby.” And then I’m channeling my inner vacuum cleaner again, and Noah is groaning, and then my mouth does get very, very wet. I swallow all his cum. I mean, I’ve done kegs. This is way better.
I collapse next to him, and he starts to crawl toward my nether regions.
“You don’t have to do that,” I say.
“Want to,” he grumbles, grabbing hold of my cock. “Wanted to for a long time.”
His cheeks pinken, like he’s disclosed too much, and something in me melts.
I tangle my fingers in his hair. “I didn’t know.”
“I mean because we’re married. It’s convenient.”
Convenient.
The word thunders through me, and tangles into my soul. But this makes sense. We’re together for this year. Why shouldn’t we be fuck buddies? It’s only practical. This is nothing more than two horny friends living in close quartersdoing horny things together. It’s pure bro logic, and there’s no reason an ache should be spreading through my body as if I’ve taken a puck to my solar plexus.
I force my body to relax.
Then his mouth is on my cock, and my thoughts disappear with every lick and stroke and suck.
So I’m not an inexperienced guy. I’ve had blowjobs before. You could call me a connoisseur. I know the different techniques. Personally, I’m fond of the teasing method, which is why I selected that one to give to Noah.
Noah doesn’t do that. He’s in the swallow-as-much-as-possible camp, and I have to say, it’s totally working for me.
He doesn’t go all the way to the base, and to be fair, few people have managed that. They were experts, since I don’t think they developed their expertise in much else—no doubt, a tragedy for science and technology, because by God, did they master blowjob techniques, but I’m digging Noah.
Because no one has seemed to enjoy the process quite as much as him. My heart swells, and my cock swells, and in the next moment I’m exploding right between those succulent lips. Noah’s green eyes widen, and his dark eyebrows leap upward, but he swallows valiantly, holding my hands when I try to pull my dick out of his mouth.
Noah laughs. “That was it?”
I elbow him.
“Just saying, the Stanley Cup technique worked.”
“I’m never going to look at one without blushingnow,” I mumble.
I pull Noah into my arms, and he burrows his head into my chest, and I stroke his head and gaze happily at the ceiling until we both nap again.
Then because we’re super professional hockey pros, and fitness is life, we go for a run. We run around Boston’s harbor, past crowds of happy tourists. Sunlight glints on the ocean.
“We should go to P-Town,” I say. “Or Salem.”
“Whatever you want,” Noah says.
“I want to show you all of Massachusetts.”
“My favorite part is the part you’re in.” His tone is earnest, and my heart patters.
Sometimes his words astound me. I want to kiss him right now, but instead I press on, conscious of the people around us. If he were a woman, I would have kissed him, and my happiness dims, before I remember we’re almost at my apartment. I’m soon sprinting through the crowd and selfie-takers, joy jolting through me.
Noah’s shoulder brushes against mine as I enter. “I like this marriage thing.”
I smile, but my lips don’t move all the way up, as I remember that this is all pretend, all for convenience. In one year, this will be over.
“It sure is convenient,” I say.
Noah nods, but looks away, and we’re quiet when we reach my apartment building.
