Page 71 of Wedge

“Okay, Carter. Okay.” He shakes his head, grinning. “Guess I better catch up.”

He does, mostly, a birdie on sixteen keeping pace. I close with two more. A wedge to three feet on seventeen and a twenty-footer on eighteen that Stephen reads right-to-left and slow. I sign for a five-under sixty-seven, right on the heels of the worst hour of my life. Jeremy signs for sixty-eight beside me, grinning despite it.

“Good round, man,” he says, shaking my hand again, something a little more genuine in it than the nervous handshake from this morning. “See you tomorrow.”

“Yeah. See you tomorrow.”

He glances toward Stephen once more before he heads off toward the scoring tent, quick, almost involuntary. Eyes linger on his shoulders, then flick down to his butt, looking quickly away when Stephen turns to us. Something in his expression is easy enough to read now that I’ve seen it twice.

Stephen catches it too. Gives me the smallest, most private smile once Jeremy’s out of earshot, like he knows exactly what that look was and finds it more amusing than anything.

“What,” I say.

“Nothing.” He slings the bag over his shoulder, still smiling. “Ten under total. You’re in the top five.”

“Top five?”

“Top five.” He pulls me into a hug, right there on the practice green, tight enough that I feel it in my ribs. “After everything. After last night. You did that.”

“We did that,” I correct, and he doesn’t argue, just holds on tighter.

A text comes through from Reyes not long after the round posts:

Coach

Heard the news. Rough start, but you pulled it out well today. Let me know if you want to talk. Good luck tomorrow.

Short, no lecture, no analysis, just the kind of message that trusts I already know what I need. And that’s something.

We eat a slow dinner in the clubhouse, the windows going dark over the marsh, neither of us saying much. Back in the room, I stand in the shower for a long, long time, the mirror fogging over, letting the water flow over me in the way that only hotel showers can. Stephen slips in and silently kisses my shoulder, then soaps me down, turning me to rinse off my back. He kisses me slow and deep, then pulls back and fills his palm with shampoo, and I’m treated to a decadent head massage that makes me fall forward onto his chest, letting him do whatever he wants. He tilts my chin up to rinse the suds, then repeats with conditioner, running it through the long strands on the top of my head.

Spinning us so his back is in the stream, he presses me against the back wall. I shiver as the wet tiles hit my back, then I shiver for a whole different reason as he drops to a knee and sucks my cock into his mouth. I was hard the moment he slid into the shower. He licks my pre-cum then slurps me down into his throat. One hand pulls my balls while the other crawls up my torso to flick my nipples. Back and forth between them, each tug of his fingers shooting sparks down to my cock until I’m thrusting up into his mouth, holding his shoulders in a grip so tight I am probably leaving marks.

I think he’s going to pull off as he usually does, but he stays, kneeling before me, sucking hard, bobbing perfectly, and I feel the base of my cock start to pulse.

“Stephen,” I gasp. “Gonna cum. Oh, fuck, gonna cum.”

He hums in approval, but doesn’t stop.

“Fuck! God!” I scream as my load shoots down his throat. He swallows around me and I shoot again, my knees starting to give out on me. A third pulse and I’m definitely sliding down the wall, his mouth still wrapped around me, until my ass hits his knee that he put there just for me.

“Oh, fuck,” I whimper, sinking my head onto his back, my legs splayed open so he can keep sucking, softly now as I twitch. He doesn’t release me until my cock is flaccid, limp, just like the rest of me. He wraps his arms around me and straightens, flicking off the water and grabbing a fluffy towel to dry me off.

“I can do it,” I object unconvincingly, and he lightly slaps my hands away.

“Please let me? I need to take care of you,” he growls.

I let him.

My body done, he wraps me up in a dry towel and picks me up, carrying me to the bed where he lays me down and crawls in next to me. I think it’s been days since he came, and I really should take care of him, but he’s tucking me against him tightly, and I can’t make myself move. So very tired and so fucking wrung out.

I’ll take care of him. Later.

I wake plastered against his back, dick hard and nestled in the cleft of his ass. My arm is wrapped around his torso, his fingers entwined with mine, keeping me around him. He isn’t sleeping, but isn’t restless, just awake. I check the time; just past eleven. I only slept for a couple of hours.

“Feels good,” he says, wiggling a little, pressing his ass back against me. “Want to?”

I groan against his back. It feels wrong somehow. Like I would be punishing him for something. I’m so fucked up from yesterday. Definitely need to talk to my therapist.