North’s breath hitches. His hand, large and calloused from years of gripping a football, hovers over my cock. It stays there. Suspended. His eyes are wide, locked on mine. The cocksure grin has been replaced by something I’ve never seen on him before. A flicker of uncertainty.
His phone dings. An intrusive, cheerful sound. Staci. Or one of the dozens of others. I couldn’t care less.
“You’ve been obsessing over my dick all day,” I say, my voice lower than I’ve ever heard it. “Getting me laid. Setting me up with strangers. But you’re the one who couldn’t stop looking. Not yesterday. Not this morning. Not right now.”
His gaze drops to where my hand is still holding his wrist. To my erection, jutting from the opening in my jeans.
“Gav…” he starts, but the word trails off into nothing. His Adam’s apple bobs.
“Just… do it,” I whisper. “Touch it.”
Then he grips me—full on, like he’s making a catch. The contact is a lightning strike. Electricity surges from the base of my spine up to the crown of my head. A choked gasp escapes me. My cock jumps in his grip, a surge of precum wetting the tip.
“Jesus,” he breathes, stroking me once, slowly, from base to head. His thumb smears the wetness around. “That’s…”
He’s looking down, fascinated. The bed shifts as he moves closer, knees pressing against my thigh. His other arm is still slung around my shoulders, holding me, a band of pure muscle. His breath is a warm puff against my cheek.
I reach over, my own hand trembling, and slide it up the hard plane of his thigh. He flinches, just a little, then relaxes. I feel the muscles bunch under my palm as I move higher, my fingers tracing the waistband of his athletic shorts. There, I dip my fingers beneath the elastic, finding hot skin and coarse hair.
North’s fist tightens on me, a reflex. A low groan rumbles in his chest. He starts stroking me in earnest now, finding a rhythm. Long, measured pulls. It’s so much better than my own hand. The rough calluses on his palm drag against me in the most delicious way. I push my hips up, seeking more, and he gives it to me.
“You’re so fucking big,” he murmurs, the words almost lost in the sound of his quickening breath. “So hard.”
My fingers find what they’re looking for. He’s hard, too, pushing against the fabric of his shorts. He gasps as my thumb circles the head, feeling the slickness there. I hook my fingers around him and pull him free. His cock is warm in my hand, the skin soft as velvet over the rigid steel beneath.
“You too,” I manage to say. “Fuck, North.”
We’re a mirror image, our hands on each other, our hips starting to move in a clumsy rhythm. His arm tightens around my shoulders, pulling me flush against him. My cheek presses against his chest. I feel the frantic thud of his heart through the thin fabric of his shirt. The scent of sandalwood and sweat fills my senses.
“Shit,” he pants. “Shit, Gav. I can’t believe we’re doing this.”
“Me either.”
“Why does it feel so good?”
“I don’t know.”
“You’re so warm.”
“I know, I?—”
“And smooth. And hard. Fuck, you’re so hard.”
“Your hand is so big.”
“You like that?”
“Y-yeah.”
“You’ve got a fucking cannon, Gav. Goddamn. How could I not stare at that thing? How could anybody not stare at that thing?”
He speeds up his strokes. I follow suit, tightening my grip and twisting my wrist, feeling the pulse of his heartbeat through his cock. He groans and thrusts his hips desperately into my fist. Then he presses a kiss to the top of my head, a brush of lips against my hair so fleeting I think I might have imagined it.
We both moan as our cocks bump together, the heads catching and dragging. Precum flows freely. Our hands are slick with it. I squeeze my eyes shut and lose myself in the sensation. All of it. The warmth, the throbbing weight in my palm, the musk of his sweat, the wet sounds our movements make.
I need to kiss him.That’s the thought that flashes through my head. Kiss him. Now. I need to feel his mouth. Feel the rasp of his stubble against my skin.
I pull away, just a little, and look up at him.
