Page 36 of Wedge

“Back nine,” he says, once I’ve finished and tossed the peel, nodding toward the tenth tee. “Let’s finish it.”

Thirteen is the one that tests me. Long par five, water flashing white in the sun and guarding the green, two-hundred-twenty yards to the green for my second shot if I go for it.

“Your call,” Stephen says, waiting. “Go for it or lay up?”

Steamboat flashes through my head. How fast confidence turned to collapse there. “Lay up. Wedge and a two-putt. Par.”

“Good call.”

I wedge it inside ten feet and roll in the birdie instead. Two under now. I get another double-pat on my shoulder.

The next three hold consistent pars, pressure climbing as the board fills in around us. On seventeen, my hands start to shake. The tee shot has to drop into a rock amphitheater, red walls throwing the heat back at us, and the wind is swirling.

“Same swing,” Stephen says, low. “Easy. Pick the flag. Forget it exists.”

I breathe, pick the flag, forget it exists. Two putts, par.

Eighteen is a brutal uphill finisher. Folks on the deck of the clubhouse cheer for one of the golfers ahead of us, a thin ripple of applause in the heat.

I let loose a bomb down the fairway, hit my approach, and then miss the birdie putt by one fucking inch, the ball refusing to go in despite my prayers for an earthquake, and I tap in for par instead. It doesn’t sting. Not with the card I’m signing.

Two under. Best round I’ve ever played with something this real on the line.

Stephen doesn’t hold back once I walk off the green, just pulls me into a hug in front of everyone, solid and unbothered. A few sunburned spectators clap politely under the clubhouse deck, and he ignores every one of them.

“Two under,” he says into my ear, voice rough. “You beautiful, boring golfer. Goddamn, Adrian. I’m so proud of you.”

I hold on for a few moments longer than strictly necessary. His aftershave and sweat fills my senses, and I sink my face into his neck, breathing him in. My cock fills. I don’t release him. My hands fist into his polo, pulling him tighter. I feel his cock against my gut. Hard. Hot.

“You did so good,” he murmurs into my ear, his breath raising goosebumps down my back and arms. “Three more, just like this.”

He takes us to another steakhouse, insisting I get the biggest one on the menu. It’s dark and cool inside after all that glare, leather booths and low amber light, the AC blasting on my sun-tight skin. I let him have his caretaking thing, as he obviously loves it when I do.

The standings post while we work through monster baked potatoes. I placed eighteenth. Stephen grins and steals my fucking bread rolls. I steal his. His knees rest against mine. He steals my fries. I steal his. He holds my knees with his. I let him. He smells so fucking good. I eat as much as I can, which is more each time he takes me to one of these places, like my stomach is expanding to accept more food.

We flop onto his mattress with a groan. He puts something on the TV that I’m not even watching. I’m exhausted and so fucking full, sleepy.

I don’t move to my own mattress.

I fall asleep with his scent in my face.

The room is gray with early light when I wake, the AC just shuddering off, leaving a thick quiet behind it. I’m plastered to his back, my hard-on wedged into his ass. My arm is wrapped around his waist and his fingers are entwined with mine, holding me tightly to him.

For a moment, I’m frozen. He feels so fucking good against me, that broad muscular back and I can feel his lats under my biceps, his forearm along mine. But my hard-on is against his ass. I must jerk or make a noise, and I feel his deep inhalation against me as he awakens, his back pressing harder against my chest. I swear I can feel my damned nipples perk up. What is that? I try to pull my arm away, and his fingers tighten, keeping me in place.

“Mm,” he mumbles, snuffling into his pillow. “Morning. Time is it?” Then he wiggles his ass against me. Actually, fucking wiggles in tighter. He can’t be fully awake. I tug my arm again with a bit more force, and he releases my fingers with a grunt, letting me escape. Hustling into the bathroom, I turn on the shower full blast, ripping off last night’s clothes and shoving myself under the still-cold stream.

Jesus, fuck. He felt so fucking good. Why the hell did I invade his space, to the point of shoving my raging morning wood between his ass cheeks like I wanted to fuck him?

Oh, shit, I should not have allowed that thought to surface. There is no way this hard-on is going away at this rate. I pump some conditioner into my hand and wrap it around my cock, then stroke furiously until I cum, harder than I ever have before, stream after stream, wave after wave, and my vision blurs as I brace on a forearm against the shower wall. I belatedly realize I haven’t been quiet about it, either, gasping and grunting. Fuck, fuck, fuck. He’ll fucking know. He has to. He’s not deaf.

When I can breathe normally, I quickly soap myself down, not bothering to wash my hair, as it’s just going under my golf cap. I wrap my towel around my waist and brace myself to open the door and face him.

The room is empty. I see a notepad by the TV. “Getting coffee and burritos, back in ten.”

Embarrassment delayed. I get dressed in my Ben-sponsored gear and settle into the small desk chair right as Stephen walks in, balancing to-go cups in one hand and a bag in the other. His smile is ordinary. There’s no smirk, no accusations, just his usual warm smile. I guess we are ignoring this morning, then. Fine by me.

“See the text from Ben?” he asks as he sets our breakfast on the desk. I shake my head.