Him

by Sarina Bowen

  It’s the result of recent medical tests on Mr. Ryan E. Wesley, Jr. Every STD known to man is listed there, and the word “negative” appears after each one.

  He’s scribbled something at the bottom: I was going to fill this box with purple condoms, but then I had a better idea.

  Annnnd now I’m horny as well as impatient.

  So I commence pacing the room.

  When the email program on my phone pings a few minutes later, I yank it out of my pocket to read the message.

  But it’s not from Wes.

  Dear Coach Canning,

  I can’t believe that I didn’t get to finish the session with you. I’m still not speaking to my father, either. Working with you has been the best summer of my life, and I’m pissed that it ended on a bitter note.

  My team for this year is the Storm Sharks U18. Here’s the link, just in case you were ever curious about my stats. I think they’re about to improve, and it’s all because of you.

  Sincerely,

  John Killfeather, Jr.

  I read the email twice. And then I read it one more time. It doesn’t say a thing about Wes and me, and there aren’t any slurs. Just a kid who wants to play hockey, and knows enough to say thank you to the people who’ve tried to help him.

  Damn, I’m proud of this email. And I feel just a little more optimistic about life than I did five minutes ago.

  I tap out a quick response, because I sure don’t want to forget.

  Killfeather—you are an amazing goalie and it was my pleasure to work with you this summer. Of course I’ll check out your stats as the winter progresses. You’re going to rock this season.

  Sincerely, Jamie Canning

  Then I go back to pacing and worrying about Wes. What if they show him the door, and I’m not even there for him?

  And where in Lake Placid can I get a blood test, like, tomorrow?

  When my phone rings, I jump about a foot, then hurriedly swipe to answer. “Hey babe! You okay? What happened?”

  “Yeah, I’m okay.” His husky voice slides into my ear and wraps around my heart. I can hear that he’s out on the street somewhere, and I wonder what he’ll be able to tell me. “Damn, I wish you were here right now,” he says.

  I brace myself.

  “I’d take you out to this Italian restaurant on Queen Street that the guys love. I’m starving and I want to tell you every word of the trippy conversation I just had.”

  I’m practically dizzy with stress right now. “What kind of conversation?”

  “The good kind,” he assures me.

  My heart rate drops one notch, but I’m still afraid to be hopeful. Because it seems impossible to believe a high-profile NHL team would shrug off Wes’s confession. None of this computes.

  “But… wouldn’t we avoid the places where your team likes to eat?” I ask slowly. “You know that means people will see us, right?”

  “Yeah, but some day soon that’s not going to matter.”

  “Really?” I want a guarantee. I want a notarized document.

  I want a Valium. Or a blowjob. Or both.

  “I’m having a really good day,” Wes whispers.

  My blood pressure drops again. “I’m glad,” I whisper back.

  “I love you,” he adds.

  “I know.”

  Wes laughs in my ear, and the happy sound of it is what convinces me we might be okay.

  40

  Jamie

  On a Friday in mid-August I move in to our apartment. Though “moving in” requires air quotes, because we don’t own much of anything.

  Earlier in the week Wes ordered a couch—a macho leather thing, if I’ve understood the description correctly. It seems his taste runs to “early man cave,” and I can’t say I mind. He also picked up three bar stools for the kitchen island, which means we can put off worrying about an actual table.

  Last night, after round one of our I-missed-you-so-much sexual marathon, Wes made a show of going to the grocery store, but he only came back with chips, dip and beer, which means I need to go back again and buy actual food. I may not have mentioned to him yet that I’m a pretty good cook. Wes seems prepared to survive on take-out, and in Toronto that’s easily done. I’m going to have to acquire some pots and pans and blow his mind one of these days. That sounds like a whole lot of fun, actually.

  Meanwhile, we blew each other’s minds (and other parts) in our new bedroom last night. Then we passed out and slept for nine hours in our brand new king-sized bed.

  Now it’s Saturday, and there’s still plenty to do. This morning, after breakfast at a diner, I drag Wes around Toronto for a few more necessary items. By the time we finally get home, Wes is in a state of agitation. I’m pretty sure I’m going to have to calm him down with a blowjob.

  “That’s three hours of my life I’m never getting back,” he fusses as we walk in. His words echo, because our apartment is still awfully bare.

  The reason for Wes’s bad mood is the fact that shopping took three hours, because we’re just a couple of jocks who don’t know one store from another. We went into four stores before we found one that didn’t look like the Queen of England was planning a visit. That’s where we picked out a rug and coffee table, which we bought. But the place didn’t stock coffee makers, so we had to keep shopping.

  “Good coffee is non-negotiable,” I told him while he grumbled. But after I chose a dual drip/espresso machine with an integrated grinder, I started checking out the towels. That’s when Wes lost it a little bit, and I gave up and brought him home.

  “Oh, the irony,” he moans, kicking off his shoes. “My boyfriend dragged me to a fucking mall.”

  “You’re right,” I say drolly. “That trip was entirely gratuitous. Who needs towels? We can just air dry.”

  Grumpy Wes stomps into the bedroom and I follow him, because it’s one of two functional rooms in our place.

  I set down the coffee maker and watch while he throws off his shirt and climbs onto our giant bed. “Would you please get over here?” he whines. “It’s an emergency.”

  “It’s a good thing you’re so attractive,” I mutter as I ditch my shoes. “I had no idea that stepping into a store turned you into cryin’ Ryan.” I walk over to the bed where a shirtless, ripped man lies waiting for me, his expression burning up with lust.

  “It doesn’t usually,” he mumbles. “But we have a situation.” He grabs my hand and tugs.

  I climb onto his body, leaning down to tongue his nipple, and he moans. “What kind of situation?” I ask between licks.

  He lets out a shaky breath. “I thought it would be fun to wear a plug out to breakfast today. That way you could fuck me when we got home…”

  My eyes snap up to his. “Seriously?”

  He nods, his expression miserable. “But then you said, ‘Let’s just look at a couple of rugs.’ And that was, like, hours ago. Every time I walk across another store, this thing massages my prostate. If you don’t fuck me in the next five minutes I’m going to explode.”

  I’m speechless. But my dick has plenty to say. I’m already hard at the idea of Wes being prepped and ready for me. I drop my mouth onto his and he moans again. My tongue glides across his piercing and we’re off to the horny dog races.

  We kiss as if there’s a meteor heading straight for the Toronto metropolitan area. Wes’s eager hands roam my ass while I suck on his tongue. His eagerness is like a drug, and I want hit after hit. I can feel how hard he is, even through all of our clothes. He wants me to fuck him, and he’s all primed and ready?

  “Mmm,” I moan into his mouth. Sexiest fucking thing I ever heard.

  That’s when the doorbell rings.

  “Hold that thought,” I say, pushing up on one arm.

  “Nooooo!” Wes lifts both his legs to trap me in them. “No.” Kiss. “No.” Kiss. “Don’t even think about it.”

  Pinning his hands to the quilt is easy, because he’s horny to the point of distraction. “Stop it, baby. It’s the couch deliv
ery. We’re paying seventy-five bucks for them to show up on a Saturday.”

  “I hate you,” he says, but he releases me.

  “I can tell,” I argue, squeezing his hard dick as I climb off him. He moans one more time, cursing me, the sofa and also the universe.

  I close the bedroom door for Wes’s privacy and for my own sanity. I use the intercom to buzz down to the front desk, and I ask the doorman to send the sofa up on the freight elevator. Then I adjust myself and try to think about boring stuff to deflate the tent I’m pitching in my shorts.

  But there is no boring stuff. I start my job next week, and I can’t freaking wait. Meanwhile, I get to explore this gorgeous city where I’m living with the man whose company I’ve craved since I was thirteen. And moving in together isn’t even scary. If you tally up all the weeks we’d spent at camp over the years, we’ve actually lived together for more than a year already.

  There’s a whole lot of sex involved now, of course. Everything is different, and yet it’s exactly the same. And it’s a whole lot of fun.

  When I let the delivery guys in, there are three of them. “Where do you want it?” they ask.

  “Anywhere over here,” I indicate the living room. “We’re going to have to move it when our rug comes, so it doesn’t matter where.”

  “Nice place,” the man in charge remarks, cracking his gum. His guys set the sofa in the middle of the space. It’s wrapped in a lot of plastic, so I hope it’s the one Wes ordered.

  “Thanks.” I sign for the sofa.

  After they troop out, I close and lock the door, then walk over to the sofa and run a hand along the length of it. “Hey, Wesley!” I call loud enough for him to hear me behind the bedroom door. “Getcha ass out here!”

  “No!” he counters.

  I tug my shirt off. Then I drop my shorts. “I’m naked!”

  That does it. He throws open the bedroom door and speed-walks down the hallway, nude, carrying a bottle of lube. By the time he reaches me, I’m sitting spread-eagled on the back of the sofa like a porn star, stroking myself.

  Wes spares the couch a single glance. “Dude, my couch is wearing a condom.”

  I grab his hips and pull him close to me. “I noticed that,” I say, kissing his jaw. “That’s because it knows I’m about to bend you over it.”

  Wes groans. “Promises, promises.” He slips a hand between our bodies and cups it over my hand. We stroke each other while our kisses grow deeper and hotter.

  I reach around his body and cup his ass. When my hand finds the toy lodged there, I groan into his mouth.

  “Do it,” he pants.

  Everything begins to happen very fast. With a firm grasp, I remove the toy, while Wes slicks up my dick. He yanks me off the sofa’s back and braces himself against it. “Go,” he orders.

  I come up behind him and grip his hips, the head of my cock sliding between his taut ass cheeks. Just like the other night, I’m floored by the sensation of being skin to skin. There’s no barrier between my throbbing dick and his tight ass, and when I drive deep on the first stroke, we both groan with abandon.

  “Fuck me,” he demands when I go still.

  But I’m too busy savoring the incredible feeling of being inside him without a condom. I roll my hips and he growls like a grumpy bear.

  “I swear to God, Canning, if you don’t move, I’m gonna—”

  I pull out, then slam right back in. He makes a choked sound, his entire body trembling.

  “You’re gonna what?” I ask mockingly.

  Rather than answer, he just moans again. Low, agonized. Shit, he’s desperate for it. I guess I would be too if I’d walked around all day with a plug rubbing on my prostate.

  I smooth my hand down his strong back, then lean in and plant a kiss between his shoulder blades as I withdraw again. “I like you like this,” I murmur. “That sexy ass in the air. Having you at my mercy. Hearing you beg.”

  He blows out a breath. “You’re a sadist.”

  Laughing, I quicken the pace. Three, four frantic thrusts before I slow down again, which draws a strangled groan from his lips.

  “You need to learn some patience,” I tell him. But shit, I’m teasing myself as much as I’m teasing him. My balls are so tight they hurt, already tingling with the telltale signs of impending release.

  “Screw patience,” he grumbles. “Wanna come.”

  “Sulking ain’t helping your cause, dude.”

  “No? How about this then?” He pushes his ass back against me and starts fucking my cock, fast and greedy.

  Holy hell. There’s no way I can hold back now. It’s too good. I’m too horny.

  My fingers dig into his hips as I slam into him, each deep thrust sending me closer and closer to the edge. Our breathing grows labored as our bodies slap together, but I need more. I need… I plant my hands on his chest and tug him up so his back is plastered to me. The new angle makes him cry out in pleasure, and then he twists his head toward me and our lips meet in a scorching kiss that fogs my brain.

  We’re joined in every way possible. My cock inside him, our tongues fused together, his powerful body straining against mine.

  I reach around him and grip his erection, slowing the movement of my hips. I jerk him in long, lazy strokes that match the languid thrusts of my cock.

  “I don’t come until you do,” I whisper. Then I slip my tongue in his mouth and suck on his tongue ring, and that’s all it takes for him to shoot all over my hand.

  Wes gasps for air. His ass ripples around my cock, squeezing me so hard it triggers an orgasm I feel in the tips of my fingers and the soles of my feet. I give in to it, my arms wrapped around my boyfriend’s strong chest as I come inside him.

  We’re both unsteady on our feet, so I pull out and tug him onto the couch. He collapses beside me, his dark hair tickling my chin as we lie there recovering from yet another round of spectacular sex. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to how good the sex is.

  Wes suddenly laughs. “Thank God for the couch condom.”

  “Wha…” I grin when I realize what he means. “The bareback thing is kinda messy, huh?”

  “Messy’s fun.” His breath heats my shoulder. “But once the plastic comes off, we should probably lay down a towel or something if we’re going to fuck on this couch.”

  “If?” The way we go at it, there won’t be a single surface in this apartment we haven’t fucked on.

  He chuckles again, then releases a contented sigh and nestles even closer.

  * * *

  As it happens, snuggling on a plastic-wrapped couch is not that comfortable.

  So we have a quick shower together, then lie down on the bed. We’re wet, of course, and our hair is dripping.

  “I’m beginning to see your point about towels,” Wes says as I kiss a drop of water off his shoulder.

  “Now he gets it,” I sigh, and then hunt for more drops on his taut skin. I lick the barbell in his eyebrow, and the slightly metallic taste makes me shiver. I love having my own personal bad boy in bed with me.

  Wes strokes a lazy hand up and down my back, and it’s divine. “We need towels, and a plug for you. So you can walk a mile in my horny shoes.”

  “That was so hot, though,” I concede. “Damn.”

  He runs a hand through my wet hair. “Glad you liked it. I wanted to make it easier for you.”

  “What?” There’s something serious in his tone, so I stop kissing him everywhere to look him in the eye. “Easier?”

  But he looks away. “You know. Easier. When you were with women, it didn’t take them half a fucking hour to prepare for sex.”

  A chuckle rises in my throat, but I choke it back because his expression is so serious. “How many women have you fucked, Wes?”

  Sheepish, he holds up one finger.

  I’m startled for a second, until I remember the summer we were sixteen, when Wes had shown up at camp and admitted to losing his virginity. Getting the dirty details out of him, however, had been like
pulling teeth. Now I know why.

  “Right, one. And you were both too inexperienced to know what you were doing.” I shrug. “Plenty of women need a lot of warm-up time. So I have to call a technical foul here just on rules alone. But also—that’s just not the point. We have a lot of quick and dirty times. That’s what blowjobs are for.”

  He gives me a weak grin. “Sure. But…”

  “But what?”

  “Well, I’ll never be able give you everything you like.”

  Ah. “Dude, stop. I’m not pining for pussy.” That sounded much funnier coming out of my mouth than I’d expected it to, so we both laugh. “I’m serious, though. I enjoyed women, but I was never in love with one.” Every time I say it, it seems more obvious. And every time I say it, Wes’s face goes soft. “Can you promise me you won’t worry about this? Because there’s no way I can prove it to you, except by having lots of sex with you.”

  “That works.” His cocky smile is back, and I’m happy to see it.

  “Good.” I roll over and fit myself against him. “In a little while I have to check my Facebook page.”

  “Why?”

  My stomach tightens just thinking about it. “Tomorrow is Sunday dinner, right? So I outed myself to them today.”

  “On Facebook?” he yelps.

  I reach back and give his ass a pinch. “Give me a little credit? My family has a private group. It’s just the kids, their spouses and my parents. I didn’t even tell them your last name.”

  He goes very quiet behind me, but his hand traces lazy circles on my back. “Are you worried?” he finally asks.

  That’s a fair question. “Not really. They won’t freak about the fact that you’re a dude. But they might be like, ‘Why didn’t you tell us? Is this why you quit the NHL? And why did you leave the country?’ I don’t like to be grilled.”

  “When did you post it?”

  “This morning before we went out for breakfast. So, like, five hours ago. It’s one o’clock in Cali right now. They’ve probably seen it.”