Page 52
After dinner we cleared the table together and consolidated the leftovers. He washed while I dried, our elbows bumping at the sink.
As Trier rinsed the sink and turned off the water, I heard Peaches eating in the corner of the kitchen. Trier leaned back against the counter and watched me finish with the towel.
I took the towel off my shoulder, hung it on its bar, and reached for a belt loop of his jeans.
He came easily when I pulled, one hand already sliding up my back, and we kissed against the counter.
“Bedroom,” Trier said against my mouth.
“I think I can find it,” I said. “I’ve been there once already.”
We left the kitchen light on for Peaches and shut the bedroom door most of the way. Trier pulled his shirt off and dropped it on the bench, and I stopped partway through my own buttons to look.
He was broad through the chest, with a scattering of dark hair that narrowed down his stomach and disappeared beneath the open button of his jeans. A pale scar crossed one collarbone. Just below his ribs, on his left side, was a small tattoo of an airplane, complete with a dotted flight path.
I touched his skin beside it. “This needs explaining.”
“My brother and I got them when he was eighteen, and I was twenty. His idea.”
“What was yours?”
“Leaving before we got tattoos.”
I laughed and rested my hand against his side. His skin was warm. I had known his face for eleven years. Now there was a small inked plane I wanted the whole story of, and a scar I hadn’t known existed, and the slight rise of his stomach as he took a breath under my hand.
He caught me looking. When I lifted my eyes, the amusement was still there in his expression, but his lips had parted. I kissed him.
He reached for my buttons. “You’re behind schedule.”
“I got distracted.”
“Good.”
I helped him finish the buttons and let the shirt fall from my shoulders. He pulled off his jeans, and I did the same.
We sat on the edge of the bed and removed our socks.
Trier wore navy boxer briefs with tiny gold bees scattered across them. One leg had ridden a little higher than the other. I looked from the bees to his face.
“I was expecting something more severe.”
“From my underwear?” he asked.
“You play hockey. You have a reputation.”
“They’re bees, Mark. They work hard.”
Mine were burgundy with a black waistband. I’d spent longer choosing them than I had choosing my shirt. Trier glanced down, then caught the waistband lightly between thumb and forefinger.
“These are nice.”
“Thank you.”
“Shame about the bees,” I said as his underwear joined mine on the floor.
“You can check them out later.”
He kissed me again, and I lay back and pulled him over me. His weight settled between my legs, his cock hard against mine, and the first slow grind of his hips emptied my head of nearly everything I’d planned to say next.
