Defenseman No. 9 - Xavier Neal Page 0,18
pretty sure he wouldn’t soberly.
Without alcohol in his system, these lines wouldn’t be drawn in the sand, but in cement.
“I can also give you a better, closer shot right fucking now.”
There isn’t time to step away or stop my stare from falling – not that I want to.
Crash rises to the next step, freeing his lower half from the watery covers, and flashes me something my wildest dream could never compare to. The smooth canvas isn’t any type of surprise considering how much he hates hair on himself that’s not directly on his head, but the hardness greeting me certainly is. It’s only slightly shorter than mine – maybe by half an inch – yet matches in thickness. There’s the smallest curve to it as if daring the onlooker to drop to their knees to suck it straight. My own shaft swells to the point of pain from the sight alone and having it, literally, within hand’s reach has me panting in desperation to just take what it is I feel has always been mine.
But I would never just take something.
I need consent.
Fuck, I want his consent.
Crash arrogantly smirks at my reaction. “Amazing shit, right?”
“Perfection.”
“Tell me some shit I don’t know.”
Fuck, his confidence only makes him that much sexier.
Crash playfully winks prior to sinking back into the water. “Your turn, boo. Show me what you keep tucked away in your boring fucking sweats.”
“These are shorts.”
“They’re in the same clothing category, which is only meant to be worn for working out.”
“Easy for your bite-size ballerina ass to say,” I grumble during the removal of my t-shirt. “You don’t have to special order your shit. You don’t have to have shit that stretches and hope for the best that you look normal in it instead of like King Kong tucked into something he stole from Baby Gap on his way to climb The Empire State Building.”
“You sound like you hate your size.”
“I don’t exactly love it.”
“I do.”
His statement abruptly halts me from tugging my shorts lower.
“You’re big and built and burly, and it’s like having a fucking bear wrapped around me when we hug, but instead of being scared, the only way I feel is safe.” I watch his grin glow in the light of the moon. “I never fucking feel that protected anywhere else, Hugo.”
Pride pushes my shoulders back and my chin a little higher.
“Sizes and styles should be thought of like dancing. It’s not about the way you look to the outside world, but the way you feel on the inside. If you like how you feel in your workout clothes it’s one thing, but if you only wear that shit because you’re concerned about what the rest of the world will think if you wear something else, fuck that. And, fuck them. Just be you. Those of us that give a shit about you will never ask you to be anything else.”
My voice is soft. Almost broken. “You always make shit sound so easy, Crash.”
“And, you always make shit sound so difficult, Hugo.”
What’s ironic is, in general, my life is much simpler and his much more complicated.
“Drop the pants, boo,” he returns to teasing, “or I will start singing again. From the beginning…”
I swiftly lift up a hand to insist I’m gonna finish stripping.
Rather than watch him, watch me, I devote all my attention to peeling off my bottoms and boxers not wanting to embarrass myself during the process by accidentally tripping or slipping or tumbling over into the water. Unlike Crash, who carelessly left his clothing wherever it fell, I place mine together in a neat pile nearby the edge of the water before braving the action of making eye contact again.
To my surprise, his gaze shamelessly continues to linger at my crotch. “Huh. So, there’s like…nothing small about you?”
“N-n-nope.”
My stutter successfully sends his stare to mine.
Stupid fucking speech impediment.
It always ruins everything.
Crash hums, wets his lips, and allows another taunting smile to appear. “I can’t believe people let you put that shit inside of them.”
The comment causes me to cock a crooked grin.
“Pretty sure that’s assault.”
Small chortles bounce my shoulders as I join him in the water.
“Do you have to have a license to carry around that concealed weapon?”
“You trying to make me blush?”
“Is it working?”
“Doesn’t it always?”
Crash villainously chuckles while kicking himself onto his back. “Your dick may be bigger, but I’m still a better swimmer.”
“You can barely float.”
“I’m a fucking mermaid!”
“You’re a fucking hippo.”
“Rude.” Crash kicks himself further away from me, splashing a wave my