Page 44 of Line Change

I start to reach for his discarded shirt. “You’re still talking?”

He catches my wrist. “I was complimenting you.”

“Work on it.”

His gaze drops to the mess across my fingers. He brings my palm to his mouth and licks a slow stripe across the base of my thumb.

My half-hard cock jumps.

“Jesus Christ.”

The grin he gives me is lazy and filthy. He takes his shirt from under my knee, wipes off his stomach, then tosses the damp fabric toward the floor.

We end up sprawled against opposite corners of the couch, both naked and trying to breathe normally. My calf is trapped under one of his thighs, and I leave it there.

Silence was easier in Arizona because I left before it had time to become anything. Here, Fraser’s warm leg is still over mine while his come dries between two of my knuckles.

He reaches for the remote and turns on the television.

A hockey game appears. Third period, less than nine minutes left, one-goal lead. Fraser puts the volume low and settles deeper into the cushions.

“I didn’t think you’d come over,” he says.

“Fuck off. It was a dare.”

His mouth tilts. “Maybe.”

The quiet returns, but the game gives us somewhere else to look. My clothes are right there. Putting them on and going home would keep this from becoming anything more than sex.

“I should probably head out.”

Fraser keeps his eyes on the television. “The game’s almost over. At least stay for that.”

Right. Last time I ran, gave him half an explanation later, then spent the next few weeks alternating between wanting him and yelling at him. Now my actual dick is hanging out in his living room while I announce my departure before the sweat is dry.

I reach toward my jeans.

Fraser moves his leg off mine. “Or don’t. Whatever. It’s your life.”

He says it to the television. His hand closes around the remote, thumb pressing hard into the buttons without changing the channel.

I leave the jeans on the floor and pull the throw blanket off the back of the couch instead. “I’m chilly. Move over.”

Fraser looks at me. “Your clothes are right there.”

“Your apartment has terrible heat.”

His gaze drops to the blanket over my lap. “You’re naked.”

“Hard to miss.”

I spread the blanket over my lap and settle back into the couch. After a second, Fraser pulls the other half over his legs.

The final nine minutes take almost twenty. Neither of us talks when the losing team pulls its goalie. Fraser’s bare thigh stays warm against mine under the blanket.

When the horn sounds, I’m still there.

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