Page 69 of King of the Crease

We break apart just long enough to laugh—breathless, disbelieving—and then he reaches in the tight space between us and grabs my cock. His hand is lightly damp and slicks up my shaft. It takes all of my willpower not to come right away.

“Wait. This feels different from last time,” Nick says. Never something a guy wants to hear.

“W–what?”

He looks under the covers. “Did you trim?”

“Yeah, I thought…” I’m immediately weighed down in regret. “I know guys like that.”

“Not this guy.” He rests his forehead against mine. “Tomorrow, I want you to take your trimmer, and throw it in the fucking garbage.”

He strokes my cock, making me see stars.

“Deal.”

I grab his erection, thick and pulsing in my hand. We stroke each other, Nick so close to me I can feel his heart vibrate in his chest, and God, he has to feel mine. It’s like we’re both afraid if we slow down the moment might get scared and bolt.

Soon it’s just the quiet creak of my bed against the old floorboards.

Nick’s perfect hair is mussed, lips pink and swollen, looking at me like I’m something precious. Me. The funny best friend. A guy who owns too many flannel shirts and sticks his hands into toilets for a living.

“You okay?” I ask, because I always ask. “Are you drunk? Am I taking advantage of you?”

“Only in a good way.” He cups my cheek. “Hank, I solemnly swear on the Bible”—he gives my cock a squeeze—“that I am of sound mind. Please proceed accordingly.”

“You’re not giving up that accent, are you?”

His one hand digs into my back pulling me closer, tighter. You’d need the jaws of life to pull us apart.

I kiss him again. Slower this time. I let myself feel it—the way his hands slide up my back, the way he exhales when I press my forehead to his, the way my heart feels too big for my chest.

He grips both our cocks in his hand and strokes them as one. I wrap him in a bear hug and pull him flush against me. If he wants us close, you can’t get any closer.

Your teddy bear is here.

Our bodies are warm and shivering, and it feels intimate in a way that has nothing to do with skin.

I kiss along his jaw, his cheek, his mouth again. He laughs softly, fingers curling into my shoulder like he’s grounding himself. He strokes us faster.

“Wait.” I pull apart for a second and spit into his hand. “Was getting a little rough.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be.” I tip his chin to look up at me, to let him know he couldn’t hurt me if he tried. Nothing about this is less than perfect.

“Holy shit,” I cry out as he jerks us with his slicked-up hand. I can’t help rutting against his dick, my body craving him. The mattress squeaks accordingly, and the noise of my shaking bed gets my engine revved even more.

“This is happening,” he murmurs.

“Yeah,” I say, voice rough. “It is.”

I pull back just enough to look at him. Really look. This man who makes my chest feel steady and unsteady all at once.

Something inside me settles.

I’m falling. Not tripping. Not slipping.

Choosing.