Page 33

Sloane rolled his eyes. “Lift your head, you lazy shit.”

Dean did as he was told, and Sloane returned to his spot. Sloane watched as Dean laid his head on Sloane’s thigh, placing his hand above Sloane’s knee as he made himself comfortable. He thought it was telling that Dean didn’t hesitate in the slightest at cuddling up close despite having told Sloane his secret.

The thought rippled through him, and Sloane took a deep drink of his beer. He wondered just how much Dean had struggled at moments like this when he was curled up against Sloane, comfortable and affectionate. Had Dean not given too much thought to his feelings in those moments, somehow separating what he felt from the happiness? Or had he struggled the whole way through, wishing it was something more while knowing he would get nothing else?

Sloane frowned, struggling to make sense of the idea that Dean had been suffering the entire time they’d been friends. Would Sloane have been able to do the same? While he certainly respected boundaries and wasn’t exactly loose, he’d never been one to deny himself. If there was someone he wanted, Sloane wasn’t shy about pursuing them, perfectly willing to accept the possibility of being shot down.

Would he have been able to do the same if he were in Dean’s shoes?

“You have to admire the choreography,” Dean said, eyes riveted on the screen.

Sloane snorted. “I admire the fact that you can say choreography without slurring like an idiot.”

Dean’s fingers squeezed his leg as he laughed. “Ass.”

A jolt shot through him at the pressure on his leg, and whatever Sloane might have shot back was lost in his shock. Glad Dean wasn’t paying attention, Sloane gazed down at his friend in wonder. They’d done this several times, with Dean curled and comfy, holding onto Sloane. He’d never given it any thought before, taking it for what it was.

Sloane reached down, hesitating for a moment before finally resting his hand on Dean’s head. That, too, was normal, with Sloane’s fingers rubbing against Dean’s head and down over his neck gently. Little touches, gestures, ones they had done a million times before, except now Sloane knew what had been locked away in Dean’s head.

Had there been more than just struggle, disappointment, and bitter hope for Dean in their affectionate moments? Had he also laid his head upon Sloane’s lap and known he was mere inches away from Sloane’s cock? Sloane had never given too much thought to the sexual side of Dean’s life, but surely he had to have had thoughts, desires. If Sloane were in his place, he would have thought of it easily, especially when their bodies were so close and access to his fantasies was within reach.

Dean closed his eyes as Sloane’s fingers reached his neck, digging into the muscles with practiced ease. At the same time, Dean’s fingers stroked Sloane’s thigh, a low, happy noise rumbling out of him.

“You okay?” Sloane asked, bewildered as his heart pounded.

Dean slid his head further up Sloane’s thigh, nodding. “It feels really good. Maybe you could be a masseur if you ever get out.”

Had Dean ever been turned on by Sloane’s touches?

The thought wouldn’t leave Sloane, bringing a surge of unbidden images to mind as he gazed back on all the times they’d sat like this. Dean pressed against his lap, fingers lying casually upon Sloane’s body, but in his mind, Dean’s head turned toward Sloane’s crotch, careful fingers finding their way to his zipper and button, slowly undoing them as he reached into Sloane’s pants. Sloane closed his eyes, shaking his head as images of Dean’s mouth closing around him came next.

Pressure against his thigh brought his eyes open. Dean had turned around, using one hand against Sloane’s leg to prop himself up. His dark eyes swam with worry as he looked at him.

“You okay?” Dean asked.

Sloane cleared his throat. “I don’t know.”

He didn’t; he really didn’t. Never had he dared to think of Dean in a sexual sense, and now he was staring at Dean’s lips and wondering. Was it because of Dean’s confession, digging its way into Sloane’s skull and leaving him to wonder in an attempt to understand Dean’s perspective? If that were true, why was his heart beating so hard, and why were the thoughts so damned intrusive?

Dean frowned, his mouth opening and then freezing in place. For a moment, Sloane wasn’t sure what was wrong until Dean’s fingers twitched against his cock. As one, both of them looked down to where Dean’s hand pressed against Sloane’s leg and stared. Without realizing it, Sloane had grown rock hard right along the inside seam of his pants until it had pressed against Dean’s fingers.

Dean looked up, eyes wide. “Sloane?”

He was hard because of his thoughts about Dean, because of Dean himself.

“Oh,” Sloane whispered.

Time stood still as Dean gazed at him, and Sloane gazed back. Neither moved as Sloane’s cock pressed insistently against the fabric of his jeans, and Dean never moved his grip. Sloane knew he needed to say something, explain it, make it easier, anything at all, but he could barely keep his breathing in check.

Then Dean’s hand moved, fingers closing around the impression of Sloane’s cock, and what left his mouth was a low moan. Dean’s dark eyes grew almost black as his pupils swelled in response to the sound, licking his bottom lip. Sloane stayed still as Dean’s fingers traced their way up the length of his cock, stroking back and forth in slow, exploratory motions.

“Sloane?” Dean asked, voice breathless.

He wasn’t even going to attempt talking, licking his lips and nodding instead. It was all he could manage, but it seemed enough for Dean, whose hand slid to the button of Sloane’s jeans. Watching closely, Sloane’s breath stuttered as Dean undid the button, gripping the zipper and sliding it down. Dean’s eyes never left his face as he reached in, hesitating when his fingers found bare skin instead of fabric beneath Sloane’s jeans.

“Commando again,” Dean said.

Sloane huffed. “Again?”