Page 20 of Wood

“Aye aye, captain, consider it done.”

“No way,” I gape.

“What?” he replies with a grin and another forkful of pasta. “Didn’t take me for a Picard fan, I gather?”

This young man has to have a flaw somewhere. He has a speck of sauce on his cheek, and I force my fingers not to clear it away, much less lick it. Do. Not. Fucking. Touch.

I’m so fucked. Stewie to the rescue. I move to the couch and flick on the TV.

Nine o’clock and I’m restless. I should be heading to sleep for our early start tomorrow. I was notified of my success and placement for tomorrow’s tee time, eight A.M. I need sleep. Sighing, I slip out of bed and into the bathroom. A warm shower will help soothe my head. An orgasm will flood my body with happy, relaxed chemicals.

I let the water run over my scalp, the wide rain shower head divine. The hotel bath products have a mild, spicy floral scent, and I let it fill my senses. My cock is rising to attention already and I take hold of it, slicking conditioner into my palm and stroking. Pre-cum rolls from my tip, dripping onto the shower floor. I conjure up the memory of my last visit to a club, to the dark-skinned boy who sucked me off so well, his almost-black eyes twinkling up at me from between my legs, clever fingers on me.

Long, slow strokes as I remember the feel of his stubbly lips against mine, nibbling my mouth with the taste of my cum still lingering. His tight curls under my hand as he bobbed up and down, sucking his cheeks in then swallowing me deep.

I stroke and Geoff’s face appears. His bright blue eyes looking up at me, adoring me from between my legs as my fingers grip his shaggy brown hair and I groan, “Geoff,” as I splatter the shower wall.

Dammit.

14

GEOFF

The morning air is crisp this early, dew thick as I trudge around the thirteenth green, the sun just starting to rise. I mark the pin placement for today’s round, noting the slope around it, distance to the tee box, along the key points of the fairway, anything and everything that will help Ben today.

And try not to think about last night. I stood outside the bathroom door and I heard him cum, groaning my name and just about came myself, standing there, hearing him. I wanted to open that bathroom door, beg him to let me help, but I was frozen. I slinked back to my bed and whacked off furiously on all fours muffling my shout into my pillows to make sure he couldn’t hear me as I imagined his cock in my ass, pounding into me from behind, my cum splattering into the dirty t-shirt.

Stop it, you horny fucker. Walk the holes, mark the fucking pins and keep your face solid when we go over this together in an hour. Shoulders and knees touching, heads bent together close to look at my notes. His minty breath ghosting over my mouth as we are so close we could kiss. Fuck, now I am hard. Again. There are cameras fucking everywhere, I can’t adjust myself, just need to focus and will this damned hard-on away.

My arguments from two days ago swirl in my head. He groaned my name. Clearly he wants me? Was it some other Jeff he imagined, moaned to? Probably. Too bad Mom and Dad didn’t name me something unique, like Malachi or Thaddeus. Lots of Jeffs and Geoffs in the world.

How the hell do I get him to touch me, to discard that promise, to let him know I want him to? Focus on the holes.

By the time I get back to our room, I need to be steady. Ben needs me solid, and that’s what I will be. Not the horny man that jerked off twice more just to get to sleep last night.

Ben has breakfast burritos ready for me when I arrive, and I dig in, setting my yardage book on the table for him to start with. He flips through it slowly as I eat, grunting at some of the harder placements.

“They sure like to make the weekend a challenge,” he says wryly. “The slope on this one is like a force field around the pin.” He points to the seventh hole. “We’ll have to aim for the shelf on it.”

Nodding, I keep my eyes on the book and not looking at Ben. I continue that through the rest of the planning, eyes on the book, don’t look at that face I want to grab and kiss the ever living fuck out of. Nope. Look at the fucking book, Geoff.

Finally, we are walking to the first tee box, and I breathe easier. Ben is paired with another veteran today, Chad Bollingsworth, and the chat is mellow, no cutting each other up, just talk of kids, wives, dogs. I tune it out and focus on the course, being that solid support that helps Ben laser in and make the shots. By the time we pause on the fourth hole to refuel, Ben is already one under par with a great birdie on the second hole, to the delight of the gallery.

The morning passes quickly, the play a bit faster with only two golfers per party. These are the better players, only the top sixty out here today, so we don’t have to wait long for greens to clear. Until we get to the seventh hole, and once again, the mean slope of the green has bitten the players ahead of us. One of them throws his putter into the grass in frustration as he misses the putt for the third time.

“Hope he didn’t break it,” Chad quips with a small chuckle.

Ben shakes his head without comment. Bad behavior isn’t officially penalized, but sponsors definitely pay attention. Poor sportsmanship can lose a player a sponsor renewal, and companies will look elsewhere when looking for new players to put their logos on. Sponsors have an image they want advertising their gear, not some swearing asshole. I’ve even seen some logos on caddies, which would be a very cool boost for me.

When the players ahead finally clear the green, Ben steps up and lobs his ball perfectly onto the shelf. Chad grunts and lays his up within a few yards of Ben’s.

“That’s how it’s done,” Chad says, extending a fist for a bump.

The seventh hole gets a par, and we move on. The sun is rising high, and the temperature is climbing, warmer than during the week. We stop for electrolytes, Ben handing me the bright yellow I love.

“Drink,” he demands.

“Bossy,” I mutter behind the bottle, and he chokes a laugh.