Defenseman No. 9 - Xavier Neal Page 0,47

me in two. Squeezes and works my shaft while my ass squeezes and works his. We smash together. Smash into the mattress. Force the mattress to smash into the meticulously organized nightstands. The knocking sounds become the applauding I wish my sheet-anchored hands could be doing. His hips ruthlessly rock and hypnotize me into succumbing to their harshness. They slay my senses to sway along to the ball-bruising rhythm that won’t let me catch my fucking breath. Through a hooded stare, I study the way his attention is as devoted to me as his dick. Not once does he look away like fucking me brings him some sort of sick shame. There’s no flicker of regret or squinting as though picturing me in a wig or with the makeup I’m not wearing. Hugo’s hungry gaze only seems to grow hungrier while watching my chest heave and body shake. From the way he stares at the sweat caking my skin, it’s easy to decipher he believes what he’s seeing…what he’s helping create is a privilege.

That being with me is a privilege.

A beautiful one.

Overwhelmed by the new emotions and incessant luscious jerking, stopping myself from coming first is a hopeless feat. My mouth lowers to make the announcement; however, it’s too late. Hot ropes shoot sloppily across his chest on a choked moan causing him to hiss at the unexpected contact. His thrusting suddenly falters, and I feel the heavenly swelling of his orgasm hitting. The sweetest stutter of my name seeps free, and it damn near sends tears to my eyes. Curses of praise appear afterwards at the same time his frame folds forward contorting me in ways most guys can’t be. More groans escape us both upon our mouths reconnecting, and for the first time ever, I don’t feel dirty or discarded, despite the fact that we’re done fucking.

Is that just because it’s our first time, or will it be like this every time?

Is it wrong to wish for the latter?

Is it so fucking wrong to want someone to look you in the eyes and say your name, so you know they know it’s you they’re really with?

Is it really too much to ask for, or is it something I should’ve been asking for all along?

Chapter 9

I almost didn’t go to sleep at all.

I wish I could say it was due to nerves about the first volunteer game of the season today or because I couldn’t get one of those poems I heard out of my head.

It’d even be nice to blame my best friend for kicking me repeatedly in the calves like he’s somersaulting in the fucking Olympics.

Truthfully…I was afraid for most of the night that if I closed my eyes, the next time I opened them, I would find out that the last twenty hours were all some stress-induced dream I conjured up to deal with my pent up emotions. I was afraid that the guy next to me wouldn’t be the guy next to me but some stupid mistake I had tried to find solace in out of desperation. I was afraid I’d shut them, and Crash would sneak out like some dirty little secret I swore I’d take to my grave. For the first time in my entire life, I finally understood that old saying about wanting to be awake because that shit is better than anything you’d find in your dreams. Which Crash, without a doubt, is. He’s everything I’ve ever wanted.

He’s every poem I’ve ever loved.

Every recipe I’ve ever refused to share.

And, like those recipes, I won’t be sharing him.

I need to make that shit known, though.

After all, communication is key to not fucking this all up.

Again.

I just hope I can get better at dictating what needs to be dictated between us.

Instinct indicates that shit’s going to require practice.

Carefully, I lift Crash’s arms off me to slide out of the bed he’s haphazardly sprawled across. With the way he’s sleeping – three pillows in his possession – you’d never know this was his first time in it.

No.

You’d swear he was home.

Hm.

I guess, in a way, he finally is.

This bed, this apartment, my life is where he belongs.

Where he’s always belonged.

And, now that I have him, where he’ll always be.

Again…communication must occur for that to become a fact.

And consent.

He has to be willing to be in my world.

He has to be willing to keep letting me into his.

Instinct also tells me that’s a long series of conversations we will also be having and to hold