Page 117 of Catcher's Lock

“Well, tonight, we’re gonna change that,” I tell him, using our linked fingers to drag him up from the chair. “Time to fulfill your final horny adolescent fantasy, Rocket. I think we’ve both waited long enough.”

39

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Gemiah

Age 24 (Now)

We’ve already popped one ass-cherry on the lot, so we decide to return to the luxury of the trailer with its king-sized bed. Josha insists on taking a shower—by himself—and yeah, I know what he’s doing, but it leaves me alone exactly long enough to start losing my shit. After all my bravado about fulfilling his fantasies, I can’t help but spiral under the pressure of living up to my own hype.

Not wanting to end up with a chunk taken out of my ass, I toss Zombie outside with a brief warning to stay away from mountain lions. The half-feral little beast is more than happy to disappear into the night, gleeful at the unexpected liberation.

After stripping out of my boots and jeans, I pace the bedroom in my boxer briefs and still-unbuttoned shirt. My confused dick throbs against my thigh, warring with my nerves.

Should I try to dig up some candles and set some kind of mood? Are we going for romantic, or rough and dirty? I’m notsure I can pull off the former, and I’ve had my fingers up his ass enough times to know I probably won’t hurt him if I take him hard, butfuckif I’m not dying to be the perfect guy with the perfect cock tonight.

And then he appears in the doorway in nothing but the sluttiest little white towel known to man and steals that title right out of my hands.

“Where—did you get that?” I choke as saliva floods my mouth. I know he has normal-sized bath towels, so why is he wearing a fucking scrap so thin it shows off his entire dick outline and barely covers his ass when he turns to shut the door?

Not that I’m complaining, exactly, butJesus fuck.

He takes one look at me, and the corners of his eyes crinkle in amusement.

“You’re freaking out,” he observes. Observantly.

“No,” I lie.

“Yes you are.” He stalks toward me, and the glow of the bedside lamp paints every dip and hollow of his shifting muscles in sinful shadow and glimmering gold. Water drips from his hair to run along his jaw and pool in the hollow of his clavicle, begging me to catch it on my tongue.

I want to lick him everywhere like a fucking popsicle.

Which…might not be a bad place to start.

I let him close the distance and pretend it’s not because my feet are rooted to the floor. When he dips his head to claim a kiss, I stop him with my hands on the knot where his trail of russet hair disappears beneath the towel.

“This,” I tell him, my voice so husky I barely recognize it, “was a very bad idea.”

His lips part as his pupils flare, and his Adam’s apple bobs on a rough swallow.

Hello, confidence.

“Get on the bed, Rocket. On your stomach with a pillow under your hips.”

“Should I…” His fingers brush mine at his waist. “…take this off?”

“Abso-fucking-lutelynot.”

He flexes his hands, knuckles grazing my now-much-less-confused cock, and lowers his mouth to hover over mine.

“Whatever you want,Star-Lord.” And then he saunters to the bed with an exaggerated sway of his hips.

It’s a miracle he doesn’t lose the fucking towel.

It does start to slip when he climbs onto the bed, but he holds it in place until he’s situated as instructed, head pillowed on his crossed arms, bottle of lube waiting at his side. “Like this?”

In answer, I peel myself out of my remaining clothes with all the seduction I can muster and soak up the shiver that coasts over his damp skin. He tracks me with eyes like turned earth after a rain as I circle to the foot of the bed, his breath feathering out in a soft sigh when the mattress dips under my weight.