Him

by Sarina Bowen

  Licking my lips, I bend down and swipe my tongue over the little slit at his tip. He teased me before, and now it’s time for some payback. I’m going to worship every inch of Jamie Canning’s cock. I’m going to torment him with my tongue until he can’t remember a time when my mouth wasn’t on his dick bringing him pleasure. I’m going to—

  Jamie comes the second I wrap my lips around him.

  Yup, he fucking comes, and I don’t know whether to laugh or groan as he starts to shake with release. In the end I do neither—I suck him all the way down to the base, drawing a strangled cry from his lips as I swallow the salty drops that shoot down my throat.

  When he finally goes still, I raise my head with a sigh. “Really, dude? That was like two seconds. You have the stamina of a pre-teen.”

  His shoulders tremble as he rolls over on his side in hysterics. “I guess you’ve still got it,” he chokes out between laughs.

  Climbing up the mattress, I ease in behind him, yanking his big body toward me. He stiffens for a second, then relaxes, his taut ass nestling against my groin, his back flush to my chest.

  I wrap an arm around his waist. If I’m honest, I wanted this as much as the blowjob—the right to just touch him. To lean on him, skin to skin.

  But he’s silent. Too silent, probably. “Jamie,” I murmur in his ear, before planting a kiss on his shoulder. “Are you going to freak out now?”

  The pause before he speaks cuts me in half. “Do you want me to?” There’s humor in his voice.

  “No.” It’s my turn to pause. “Do you want me to go back to my bed?”

  He snuggles even closer, plastering himself to my body like a warm blanket. “No.” He sighs in contentment. “Night, Wes.”

  A lump rises in my throat. “Night, Canning.”

  17

  Jamie

  Wes isn’t beside me when I open my eyes the next morning. I roll over and study the room. His bed is empty. It doesn’t look like it’s been slept in, and I don’t remember him climbing out of mine during the night. What I do remember is waking up at six in the morning to find Wes’s arm wrapped tightly around me. Then I’d fallen back asleep, so he must’ve left some point after that.

  Probably makes me a jerk, but I’m relieved. I’m not sure what I would have said if I woke up to find us snuggling.

  According to the alarm clock on the end table, it’s almost eleven-thirty. Dining hall stops serving breakfast at eleven. I’d slept right through it, but that’s okay. It’s our day off, so I’m not needed at the rink.

  On the other hand, it’s our day off. That means hours and hours of free time. Time I’ll probably be spending with Wes. Who I hooked up with last night.

  I don’t feel any different, though. I fooled around with a guy yesterday—shouldn’t I feel different?

  Feel gay, you mean?

  A laugh bubbles in my throat. Does one feel gay?

  And damn it, I’m bewildered to discover I’m rocking a boner, and it’s more than just a case of morning wood. It’s Wes-wood, a result of thinking about us messing around.

  I…think I might want to do it again. And how screwed up is that? I’d been fully prepared to view last night as a chemistry experiment. A test. I hadn’t expected to ace the damn thing.

  The door suddenly swings open and Wes trudges inside, red-faced and breathing hard. He’s in running gear, the front of his sleeveless shirt drenched in sweat. He peels it off his muscular chest and throws it aside.

  “It’s fucking hot out there,” he mumbles without glancing my way.

  Oh shit. He’s going to make it awkward. He can’t even look me in the eye.

  “Why didn’t you wake me?” I ask. “I would’ve come running with you.”

  He shrugs. “Figured I’d let you sleep in.” He kicks off his shoes and socks, then strips out of his shorts.

  Now he’s naked. And I’m even harder.

  He’s still averting his gaze, so he has no idea I’m admiring his lean, sculpted muscles and the black ink winding around his heavy biceps. I realize this is the first time I’ve seen him naked in the light of day, and his skin gleams in the sunlight peeking through the curtains. He’s all muscle. All man.

  And all those questions I’d asked myself last night—Am I really attracted to him? Would I like it if we hooked up? Am I totally crazy?—I know the answers to them now. Yes, yes, and maybe.

  But I didn’t expect to wake up with more questions.

  I slide out of bed and notice he’s making an even greater effort not to look at me now. Because…yep, I’m naked, too. We’d fallen asleep naked. In each other’s arms.

  His back is to me as he stalks over to the dresser.

  “Wes,” I say quietly.

  He doesn’t react. He grabs a pair of blue gym shorts from the top drawer and tugs them up to his hips.

  “Wes.”

  His shoulders tense. Very slowly, he turns around, and his gray eyes focus on my face. There’s an unspoken question flickering there—what now?

  Fuck if I know.

  What I do know? I’m not equipped to have this conversation right now. Not until I’ve given it some thought and figured out what I want from this. From him.

  So I put on a careless tone and ask, “What are we doing today?”

  He’s silent for a beat. I can tell he expected me to go all chick on him and demand we talk about last night. I can also tell he’s relieved I decided to choose the dude route and ignore it.

  His lips quirk slightly. “Well, we need to get some food in you and then hike over to the soccer field. The kids came back from the fishing hole already because nothing was biting except the mosquitoes. So Pat’s organizing a game.”

  And just like that, we’re cool again. Sure, we’re pretending we didn’t blow the shit out of each other last night, but for now, I’m happy to pretend. I’m not ready to deal with this yet.

  I wrinkle my forehead. “For the kids?”

  “Nope, the coaches. But a bunch of the boys are already there taking bets on which team will win.”

  “There are teams already?” How long had I been asleep?

  Wes grins again. “Pat’s calling it boys versus men. Him and the older coaches against us young’uns.”

  “Sweet.” I’m not a soccer enthusiast, but any sort of competition gets my adrenaline going.

  “PS—losers have to perform a song for the campers in the dining hall tonight,” Wes says.

  I narrow my eyes. “Which song?”

  “Winners’ choice.” He snickers.

  “Just out of curiosity—who came up with these stakes?”

  My best friend blinks with the utmost innocence.

  That’s what I thought.

  “You know if we lose, Pat’s gonna make us sing Mariah Carey or some shit,” I grumble as I look for my shorts.

  “Which is why we’re not going to lose,” he says cheerfully.

  * * *

  We stop at the bakery in town so I can grab a coffee and something to eat, and I scarf down two banana muffins as we head to the soccer field. It’s another gorgeous day and the tourists are out in droves, bustling down the sidewalk and filling the outdoor patios we pass on our way.

  Two chicks stop in their tracks as Wes and I walk by. They’re in their early twenties, both blond, both incredibly attractive. One girl is wearing a top that’s cut so low her tits are practically hanging out of it, and a spark of heat ignites my groin. Shi-it. That rack is spectacular.

  Wes winks at them and keeps walking. I match his strides, trying not to glance over my shoulder to see if the girls are watching us.

  Okay, just one peek. I flick my chin back for a quick look, which causes one of the girls to nudge her friend.

  Whoops.

  “See something you like?” Wes asks.

  I feel a slap of discomfort that wouldn’t have been there twenty-four hours ago. “Just thinking things over,” I mumble.

  “I’ll bet.” His voice is low.

  We don
’t speak of it anymore, because I don’t need to involve Wes in my confusion. But I’m pretty sure that my dick is an equal-opportunity player. Because I love women. I love how soft they are and the way they smell and how they feel in my arms. I love fucking them and going down on them, and I’m never faking it.

  Last night, I wasn’t faking it, either. And now I have no idea what it all means.

  Wes nudges me, then points at a street sign we’re passing. Cummings Road.

  “Like that joke has never been made before. Now who’s the pre-teen?”

  He stiffens for a beat, as if he didn’t expect me to make a reference to last night. Then he snorts. “Let’s play some soccer, Canning.”

  Indeed.

  First, Pat gathers everyone around. You can’t ask a bunch of highly competitive athletes to play a friendly game of soccer without going over a few rules first. There will be two twenty-minute periods. And will the offsides rule count? Yes it will. Is slide tackling legal? No. “Because I will fucking kill anyone who injures himself,” Pat adds.

  Good to know.

  We’re playing five on five, and I’m in the goal, of course. I can see Killfeather over on the side, watching me with a grin on his face. He’s not a bad kid when he forgets to be stressed out.

  I’m not stressed, either. I’m bored to tears, because Wes and the other guys are giving ’em hell at the other end of the field. We’re up 1-0 by the time I have to make my first save. A soccer net is a lot bigger than a hockey goal, so saving the net seems more haphazard. But I stop Pat’s shot in my hands and my team cheers.

  I set the ball down on the line, back up and kick it downfield. Before it reaches Wes, he gives me a little smile, then traps the ball with his chest. It drops to the ground between his muscular legs and then he’s off running, controlling the ball, masculine beauty in motion.

  Suddenly I’m thinking about sex again. In the middle of a game.

  That’s never happened before.

  The next time the ball threatens our goal, things don’t go so well. Our defense falls apart when Pat is able to deke my teammate Georgie, leaving the most senior coach unguarded. The old man promptly fires a flying saucer right at me.

  I leap, but it sails past my thumb and into the corner of the net.

  Wes makes an ornery noise, and I can see he’s about to lay into Georgie for leaving us wide open.

  Meanwhile, Killfeather and the rest are watching. I walk over to Wes and put a hand on his shoulder. “Hey,” I say, holding my hand up for a high five. “We’ll get the next one.”

  Wes is a quick study, so it’s no surprise to me that he catches on. He smacks my hand. “Yeah, man.” Then? He reaches around behind me and gives my ass a quick squeeze.

  Holy…!

  I can’t help that my eyes dart around, checking everyone’s face for a reaction. But there isn’t one, because nobody saw. And even if they had, it’s such a Wes move that nobody would think twice about it.

  But I do. Because even if I’m not freaking out about what we did last night, I don’t want anyone else to know.

  If Wes was a girl, I wouldn’t care, though.

  And why is that, exactly? my conscience wonders. It’s a good question, and not one that I’m prepared to answer. And anyway, there are ten more minutes of soccer to play.

  We hold at 1-1 until there are only two minutes remaining. Then Wes gets lucky with Georgie’s corner kick, heading the ball into the top of the net. And we’ve won. I collapse on the grass and yell for Killfeather to bring me a bottle of water.

  He does, but he pours some of it on my face before handing me the rest.

  “You are such a punk,” I complain, and he laughs.

  The walk home takes longer than it should, because the coaches are sweaty and tired. “So who do you room with?” I ask Killfeather.

  “Oh, with Davies.”

  “Really? How’s that working out?”

  “It’s all right,” he says. “He’s not bad when he’s not on the ice.”

  I file that away to think about later. And I let my eyes linger on Wes. His gait is so familiar to me. The way he carries his shoulders hasn’t changed in the nine years I’ve known him. The way his hamstrings tighten with each step is as familiar as my own hand.

  There’s a warm feeling in my belly when I look at him. And it’s not just sexual. It’s…comfortable. Like we’re close even when he’s twenty yards ahead. I wear a consciousness of him like a second skin.

  Okay, that sounds a little creepy. A little too Silence of the Lambs. Sunshine and sexual confusion have gone to my head.

  Just before he reaches the dormitory, I see Wes answer his phone. And when I arrive in our room a minute or so behind him, he’s frowning out the window while he talks.

  “What if I don’t want to do an interview?” he asks. His tone is recklessly belligerent if he’s talking to a PR person. Careful, I feel like saying.

  “This isn’t a good idea. Why set me up just to lie?” There’s a pause on Wes’s end. He kicks off his shoes with more force than is necessary, and they fly with an angry thunk into the desk we never use. “Dad, if I tell them there’s a girlfriend, they’re going to ask her name. And then what would you have me say?”

  Ah. The conversation makes more sense now. Wes never got along with his father. Every phone call home had always ended with Wes red-faced and irritated. The one time I met Wesley Sr., I found him to be awfully arrogant and demanding for someone who sits at a desk all day.

  The fact that Mr. Wesley isn’t happy about his son’s sexuality comes as no surprise to me at all.

  In front of me, Wes hunches his shoulders. Without thinking too hard about it, I step forward and put both hands there, squeezing the muscle between his neck and shoulders. I dig my thumbs into his traps and push.

  At first he goes rigid. Then he makes an effort to relax. And when he shoots me a little glance over his shoulder, it’s grateful.

  “I gotta go,” Wes is saying, his voice still grumpy. “I’ll think about it. But don’t you dare schedule anything without my permission.”

  He ends the call and drops the phone on the desk. Then he drops his head and leans into my touch. “Thanks, man,” he says gruffly.

  “What does he want from you?” I work my hands up onto the back of his neck. Would I have touched him this way yesterday? Maybe? Probably not. But it isn’t sexual. He feels good under my hands, though. Warm and alive.

  Wes groans. “He’s got a buddy at Sports Illustrated. You know him—he’s got a buddy everywhere. My dad came out of the womb with business cards in his hands. He’s convinced the guy to interview me about my rookie season. Like—following the ups and downs.”

  I’m horrified. “That’s a terrible idea.” In the first place, rookie seasons are wildly unpredictable. Wes could end up as a healthy scratch for two dozen games before suddenly seeing tons of play. And who wants the pressure of speaking to a reporter all the damn time? “You don’t want to be that rookie on the team—the one a reporter follows around all fucking day.”

  Wes sighs, his back rising and falling under my hands. “You think?”

  I feel a rush of…something for him. Solidarity. Affection. Maybe it doesn’t need a title. But I wish his father hadn’t meddled. “What are you going to do?”

  “Lie,” he says, his tone flat. “I’ll tell him I spoke to the Panthers’ PR team, and they vetoed the idea.”

  “Will he believe you?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Yeah,” I say quietly. “Because you don’t want to piss off Sports Illustrated before you’ve even sharpened your skates in Toronto.”

  Wes makes a frustrated sound as I work my hands down his spine. “My fucking father, sticking his nose where it doesn’t belong again. He thinks he’s helping, too. He wants his buddy to write an all-American-kid kind of story. Apple fucking pie and all that. Like if it’s printed in a magazine, he can make it true.”

  Wes turns around suddenly, interrupting th
e killer massage I’d been giving him. I’m oddly disappointed. I enjoyed having my hands on him. I know he enjoyed it too, but his expression is shuttered again, just like it was this morning.

  I open my mouth. Then close it. Nope, I’m still not ready to have this conversation.

  Neither is he, apparently. “Let’s grab some lunch,” he suggests.

  I hesitate, then shake my head. “You go ahead. I think I’ll take a nap for a bit. I’m…tired after that game.”

  It’s a lame-ass excuse, and I know he sees right through me. But he just nods. “Yeah. Sure. I’ll catch up with you later.”

  A moment later, he’s gone.

  18

  Wes

  I don’t end up grabbing lunch. Instead, I walk around aimlessly for almost an hour, then plant my ass on a park bench and do some people-watching.

  Canning is freaking out. I don’t need to be a mind reader to know that. But fuck, I wish I could read his mind. I want to know just how badly I screwed up our friendship again.

  Or had I? I don’t even fucking know. A part of me assumes that yes, I’ve lost him again. But another part keeps saying, dude, he just gave you a MASSAGE. That means we’re still friends, right? Except…do friends really give each other back rubs? The one time I had a kink in my neck and asked Cassel to knead it out for me, he nearly bust a gut laughing.

  And speaking of Cassel, there are two text messages from him on my phone, both from earlier in the week. I’ve been too busy settling back into the Lake Placid routine to answer him.

  I type a quick response: Camp’s good. Some real talent here. How’s ur sis? Make friends with any lobsters? I chuckle to myself. Cassel’s spending the summer with his older sister in Maine, busing tables at her seafood restaurant.

  He responds faster than I expect: All good here. Sis says hi.

  There’s a long delay, and then a second message pops up: Broke up with Em.

  Sitting there on the bench, I let out a whoop of joy. About fucking time. This is too important for texts, so I pull up his number and call him.