Defenseman No. 9 - Xavier Neal Page 0,48

off on the flat out “I love you, I’ve always loved you, I always wanna love you, so be with me forever” ones. Crash isn’t exactly a commitment phobe, but he’s close enough that I need to skate lightly.

Quietly maneuvering around our clothes that I had to talk myself out of picking up and putting into the laundry hamper before lights out, I make my way to my en suite bathroom to take a leak, the timetable of today already traipsing through my thoughts.

The need to stay on schedule clashes with the want to simply get back in bed with Crash and forget the world. As usual, discipline wins in dictation of my actions, and I drag myself over to the glass shower after I’m finished.

My hand has successfully started the water when Crash’s sleepy voice coos, “Share?”

I redirect my stare to where he’s using one hand to rub his eye and the other his cock.

Fuck.

I could definitely spend the rest of my life looking at him.

Like this.

Every fucking morning.

Seeing him stroking what I should be stroking instead, instantly rearranges a few things on my mental schedule. I eagerly nod and grumble, “Lube.”

Crash dozily drifts back the direction he came while I slide inside to the hot water. It takes him longer than I like to grab it, a rubber, and pee, too; however, the instant he’s pressed against me, moaning underneath the water that’s drenching us both, I forget the fact we were ever really apart.

I take full advantage of him holding the needed items for shower sex by pouring body wash on his chest and slowly rubbing it in to make suds. He remains completely still, eyes slitted, breath shaky. Tender squeezes are given to the back and sides of his neck. I lovingly caress the lengths of his arms. I create tantalizing circles around his cock, ensuring not to touch it, and the taunting receives very audible grunts of discontent. My slippery digits pull on his nipples to replace the unhappy noises with more favorable ones. Tiny gasps of my name are given during each tug along with matching tremors. The nubs harden under the sexual terror of my fingertips, making my mouth jealous, leaving me with no choice but to taste them. After rinsing away the soap, I swirl my tongue around in the exact same circles, yet instead of using my fingers to pull in unpredictable intervals, I use my teeth.

Crash’s groans appear to be in agony, prompting my stare to launch up to his in question. He takes a deep breath. Swallows. Shakes his head and admits, “You keep that shit up, and I’m gonna fucking come before you’re even inside.”

I smile against the skin prior to taking another swipe. “Is that a bad thing?”

“It’s an embarrassing fucking thing,” my best friend huffs. My whirls switch to the right nipple to deliver the same treatment the left received, prompting him to plead, “Would you just fuck me already?” Another nip is executed, and he heedlessly moans, “Please, boo.”

I’m not entirely sure whether it’s the nickname or the tone or the combination that has me fulfilling his request. I deliver one last, long lick, pull away, and playfully state, “Fine. But only because I’m on a tight schedule.”

Crash flashes me a grin of approval I can’t deny adoring.

Both objects are shoved towards me, but I only take the lube. “Face the wall.” There’s obvious reluctance that’s met by a firm ass grab. “Now.”

He happily spins swiftly on his heels nearly slipping in the process. I assist in properly situating his frame by helping him plant both hands on the wet tile so that he’s secured in such a way that the water will constantly be pouring down his back.

“Open.”

Enthusiastically, Crash follows the single instruction by separating his feet and sticking his ass out for better access.

God, I could write stanzas about how perfect he is and run out of paper and ink long before I was anywhere near finished.

Coating my fingers in the liquid is immediately proceeded by me stepping closer to spread the solution along his crack. The initial contact causes him to moan and me to drop my mouth near his ear. I run small, firm circles around the territory I tattooed my name on three times last night and ask, “Sore?”

His head leans into the hot breath that’s grazing the area on a happy sigh. “You could say that.”

“Too…,” my middle finger lightly pushes against the resisting muscle, “sore?”

He greedily moans at