“Because I’m not done with you yet.” Leo’s fingers traced idle patterns on Dawson’s stomach. “Give me ten minutes.”
“Take your time.”
Leo snorted. Dawson stared at the ceiling. The house was quiet around them, and for the first time all night, his hands were still.
“Tell me something,” Leo said.
“Like what?”
“Anything. Something nobody knows.”
Dawson thought about it. His thumb traced circles on Leo’s shoulder.
“When I was sixteen, I drove Wyatt’s truck into a ditch on County Road K. Middle of February. Told him I hit black ice.”
“Did you?”
“No. I was looking at a guy walking into the gas station.”
Leo’s fingers stilled. Then resumed. “How long have you known?”
“I think I always knew.” He didn’t admit that he’d gotten his first hard-on the summer before when Wyatt and his buddies were wrestling around in the backyard. He’d wanted to be the one pinned under Jeff Riemsma, wanted Jeff to pin his hands above his head and fuck him into submission. “What about you?”
“Tyler Posey fromTeen Wolf. I saw a picture once where he was biting his bottom lip and I wanted to be that lip.” Dawson wasshocked by that admission. He’d have thought it would’ve been a teammate or something.
They lay there. The bedroom was dark except for the light from the hallway, a warm strip across the carpet and the foot of the bed. Outside, the wind pushed through the trees in the yard. November. Dawson could feel the cold pressing against the window, and inside, Leo’s body against his was the warmest thing in the house.
Leo’s hand drifted lower. His fingers traced the line of Dawson’s hip, circled his navel, and dropped below it. Dawson’s stomach tightened.
“Already?” Dawson said.
“I’m an athlete. Recovery time is a professional skill.” Leo’s palm slid down, found him half-hard, and wrapped around him. “Besides. I want to return the favor.”
Dawson’s breath caught. Leo’s hand moved, deliberate, and Dawson felt himself thicken in Leo’s grip. Leo shifted, propping himself up on one elbow, watching Dawson’s face the way Dawson had watched his. The heat was building again, slower this time, lazier, and Leo leaned down and found the line of Dawson’s jaw with his lips, his neck, the spot below his ear where Dawson’s pulse was climbing.
“Leo—”
Headlights swept the bedroom wall. Dawson went rigid, every muscle locked, the light tracking across the ceiling in the arc of a truck turning into the driveway. The sound of tires on gravel cut through the house like a gunshot.
Leo’s hand stopped. “What?—”
Dawson leaped off the bed without a second though. His body decided for him, thirty-six years of training taking over, the panic overriding everything else in the room. He grabbed his jeans from the floor and pulled them on. Found his shirt. His hands were shaking so hard he put it on backward and didn’t fix it.
“Dawson.” Leo sat up. “Hey. Who?—”
“Ethan.” The word came out flat. Dead. “Get dressed.”
“Okay. It’s okay. We’ll just?—”
“Get dressed.” Dawson’s voice cut across the room.He wasn’t looking at Leo. He was looking at the hallway, already calculating. The front door, the living room, what Ethan would see when he walked in. The plates from dinner were in the rack. Two plates. Two glasses. Leo’s shoes by the door. Leo’s jacket on the hook.
A truck door slammed.
Dawson reached for Leo’s shirt on the floor and shoved it at him. Leo took it but didn’t put it on. He watched Dawson with an expression that shifted from confusion to clarity. The worst kind, the kind that meant he understood exactly what was happening.
“Dawson, relax. It’s just Ethan. I’ll come out. We’ll hang out. It’s not?—”
“You can’t be in here.” Dawson grabbed Leo’s arm and pulled him off the bed. The motion was rough, harder than he meant, forceful enough that Leo stumbled, and Dawson shoved him toward the bedroom door. Not a push. A shove. His palm flat onLeo’s bare chest, putting distance between them with the same hands that had been inside Leo earilier.
