Defenseman No. 9 - Xavier Neal Page 0,72

know you’re gonna love it.”

“It’s from you, baby. Of course, I am.”

His hand shakes at me in dismissal. “No, get that weak shit out of here. I want a real legit reaction. If you hate it, show me you hate it. You know…sneer. Gag. Ask for a receipt. Whatever. But if you love it – which you will – you should know I do accept blow jobs as thank yous.”

Jealousy has me, thoughtlessly, growling at his retort.

“From you, Boo. Just. From. You.”

I shift a bit in my seat, swallow any lingering worry, and set the bag on the table to rifle through it. Glittery tissue paper is placed piece by piece on the table, something that makes Crash antsy by the loud sighs he keeps expelling. Eventually, I get to the frame inside, and pull it out expecting to see a picture of him or us yet am struck silent by something much more surprising.

“It’s taken fucking two years to finally find it, but I found it,” Crash joyfully expresses at the same time I carefully place the object in my lap. “Couple of the higher ups at the publishing house that owns the rights to his work held one of their company retreats at one of my dad’s resorts and when I found out, I knew…I just fucking knew I had to see what I could make happen. They helped put me in contact with various options over the years – in exchange for discounted rates at Dad’s resort, which he was totally fine with, but none of ‘em had ever felt right. Like they were all real, verified signatures, but they weren’t the right one. I mean I know you, ya know? I know which poems move you. Which moves mean more. And, when I came across that one, I just…I knew, Hugo, that it was the one you had to have.”

My voice is barely more than air as I gently tap the frame. “Th-th-this had to cost a fucking f-f-fortune.”

“Who fucking cares?” Crash callously shrugs. “You have something so fucking special to you in your hands right now. I know you’ll treasure it for a fucking lifetime, Boo. That’s worth every penny and email and obnoxious lunch I had to sit through to get this to you.”

Tears threaten to overwhelm my stare forcing it down to the signed and framed “Hug O’ War” poem by Shel Silverstein.

It is, without question, one of my favorites – if not my absolute favorite – by him.

The meaning.

The tone.

The take.

The longing to be picked for a game where I’m chosen because of love rather than my enormous size.

Being worthy of love regardless of my size.

“Th-th-this is um…” the words attempt to seep free, “um…”

“A winner, right?!”

I shift my bleary eyes to his and nod.

He is a winner.

My winner.

Fuck, why can’t I find the courage to say that right now?

Why can’t I find the courage to say all the emotional shit I should when I should?

“You ready for present number two?”

Poorly clearing the tears still stuck in my throat, I croak, “I-I-I wasn’t r-r-ready for p-p-present one.”

“Oh, don’t worry, Boo.” He stands and pulls the coffee table a good distance away from me. “This one will be more fun than thoughtful.”

A curious expression crawls onto my face prior to it being wiped completely away when he removes the expensive object from my grip.

Once it’s placed securely on the stand below the mounted flat screen, he taps a button on his phone and music leaks through the apartment speakers. I helplessly smile at what I can guess is coming, extend my arms along the back of the couch, and willingly watch him work his way into the space he just cleared to the song “So Anxious” by Ginuwine.

Unlike earlier in the evening, where almost all of the moves had feminine overtones to them, he unleashes his other side. The one that has won breakdancing contests. The side that acknowledges that his body is that of a male who has a chiseled chest. A male that has teeth cracking abs. A male that has a dangerous dick dangling between his thighs in his current sweats.

I love all sides of him.

I love even more when he embraces them.

Crash’s fit frame pops and locks to the slow R&B melody. He moves in a hypnotic pattern, enslaving my stare with each beat brushed and encouraging my cock to bump along to the rhythm. His hands toy with my sanity when they touch his nipples. His knees hitting