Page 36 of Keep

“Get those off me, then.”

Hank reached for Chad’s jeans, undid the button, and knelt as he pulled them down. Chad’s cock met him at eye level—half-hard, unencumbered by underwear.

“Oh,” Hank breathed.

“I’d love to tell you I planned that,” Chad said, “but I haven’t done laundry this week.”

Hank barely heard him. He leaned forward and took Chad into his mouth.

The taste was different from his own—salt and skin and something warmer underneath. Chad’s fingers slid into his hair, combing through it, and the combination of that touch and the weight on his tongue was a thing he wanted to study for the rest of his life. He took Chad deeper, compensating for inexperience with the kind of focused determination that had gotten him through law school, through campaigns, through every impossible thing he’d ever attempted.

“Oh, that’s good, Hank.”

The praise hit him square in the chest. He wanted to be good at this. Wanted it more than he’d wanted any committee appointment, any endorsement, any vote.

“You taste incredible. Like vanilla and coffee.”

Chad laughed. “That’s the milkshake.”

“You’re ruining my moment.”

“Maybe White Russian is our code word now.”

“Code word for⁠—”

“Guess.”

Hank chuckled against Chad’s skin, then went lower—nuzzling the inside of his thigh with the rough grain of his beard. Chad’s hips lifted. Hank went lower still, found Chad’s entrance, worked it with his tongue—cautious at first, then with more confidence as Chad’s breathing changed.

He’d thought about this. Late at night, alone, when his defenses dropped and his mind wandered to places he’d spent decades fencing off. But the thinking and the doing were different countries. The intimacy of it. The trust it required. The raw fact of tasting another man like this and wanting more, not less.

He pressed closer, cupped Chad’s ass in both hands, and gave himself over to it.

“Wow,” Chad said eventually, his voice strained. “Ease up a little. I need⁠—”

Hank moved up to Chad’s cock, not ready to stop touching him.

“That’s good, but you’re going to make me come.”

Hank looked up, face flushed, beard wet. “I want you to come. I want you to feel what I⁠—”

“I want something else first.” Chad glanced down. “And judging by what’s happening south of your border, so do you.”

Hank followed his gaze. Fully hard again, a strand of precome hanging from the tip. He hadn’t noticed. He’d been so absorbed in Chad’s body that his own had proceeded without authorization.

“How do you want me?” Chad asked.

“On your hands and knees.” No hesitation. The image had lived in him since that first night at BJ’s, watching Chad lean across the bar.

Chad reached for the nightstand. “Where’s this lube?”

Hank opened the drawer and pulled out the CVS bag. Still crinkled from yesterday’s trip—exact cash, bored clerk who hadn’t looked twice, his hands shaking then as they were shaking now.

Chad peered inside. His face went through a quick, wonderful sequence—surprise, delight, something softer.

“Condoms and lube.” He held up the bottle of Astroglide in one hand, the box of Trojans in the other, like exhibits in a very intimate trial. “Very presumptuous, Mr. Fortner.”

“Hopeful.” Hank’s voice cracked on the word. “Definitely hopeful.”