Page 14 of Gap Control (Lewiston Forge #3)

Chapter twelve

Mason

I 'd cleaned the apartment like it mattered.

Not obsessively or to the point where it looked staged. It was enough to feel intentional—dishes put away, couch cushions straightened, and playlist cued low in the background. There was a hint of citrus from the candle on the bookshelf, and a vase of flowers on the coffee table.

They weren't fancy. Grocery store bouquet. Mostly yellow. The kind of thing you could brush off as cheerful without calling it romantic.

I bought them anyway.

I was expecting company, and he announced his arrival with a soft knock at the door. I rubbed my hands down the front of my jeans and checked the mirror one last time to make sure I still looked like me.

When I opened the door, TJ stood there, snowflakes in his hair and cheeks pink from the cold. His hoodie was visible under his jacket—the shimmer hoodie.

He grinned like we hadn't seen each other in a week. "Hope you're hungry. I brought Thai. And also… accidentally bought a box of mochi. For research purposes."

I stepped back so he could step inside. "You're researching desserts now?"

"Someone has to. I'm doing this for the people."

He brushed past me, the scent of soy sauce trailing after him. I shut the door, and when I turned around, he was already halfway into the living room, kicking off his boots and making a beeline for the couch like it was another Thursday with a buddy.

He stopped short.

I watched his shoulders pause, then dip slightly. He crouched toward the coffee table.

"Whoa, are these for me?"

I let him wait for an answer, removing my jacket, hanging it on the hook by the door, and stepping into the space between us.

He turned to look at me.

"Who else would they be for?"

He looked down again, then back up. "They're nice. Unexpected."

"You hate them?"

"No. I—you don't usually do the, you know, gesture thing."

"You don't usually bring mochi."

He laughed, but it was quieter than usual. "Touché."

A few seconds of silence passed between us.

"Should I, uh… set the food down?"

I nodded. "Yeah. We can eat in a minute."

TJ moved to the kitchen, set the bag on the counter, and then turned around slowly.

He glanced at the flowers again. "You okay?"

"I will be."

He didn't ask what I meant and leaned a hip against the counter, arms crossed like he wasn't sure whether to stay in place or come closer. His expression was still open, still TJ, but quieter.

I walked to the kitchen, stepped into his space without brushing against him, and reached for the takeout bag. "You want to eat now, or—"

He uncrossed his arms. "Oh, right. I get it now. The flowers are a vibe. I brought the wrong energy. I thought this was a hang on the couch, complain about practice, maybe sneak in a kiss before I leave kind of night."

"Is that what you want?"

"I didn't say that."

"Then what did you mean?"

I watched his Adam's apple bob up and down. "I meant… I didn't know if this was that kind of night."

"It doesn't have to be."

He nodded once, and his voice dropped to a whisper, "But what if I want it to be?"

I didn't answer. Not with words.

I stepped forward until there was nothing between us but the sound of our breathing. I reached up, one hand at the edge of TJ's jaw, letting my fingers settle there.

"I'm not good at first moves," he said.

I tilted my head. "You kissed me outside the Colisée."

"That was a moment."

"This is one, too."

He leaned into the touch slightly. "You sure?"

"I've been sure since you asked if the flowers were for you."

His laugh was soft. "You should know I'm gonna overthink everything after this."

"Not tonight." I kissed him.

He melted into it like he'd been waiting. Like he'd been holding still in a crowded room and finally found a resting place. His arms wrapped around my waist.

The kiss deepened.

When we finally broke apart, he whispered, "Okay. Yeah. That felt real."

I nodded. "Good."

"Should we, uh—go to the couch?"

I shook my head, then tipped it toward the hallway. "No. This isn't a couch night."

He looked at me, then past me, then back. "Bedroom?"

I held out my hand.

He took it, and we walked together.

My hand in his wasn't urgent. It was steady. TJ's thumb brushed the inside of my wrist once, as if he were checking to make sure it was all still real.

I pushed open the bedroom door. No music or flickering candles. Only soft lamplight and clean, crisp sheets.

He stopped a foot inside, like he wasn't sure where to stand.

"You okay?" I asked.

"Yeah, recalibrating."

I stepped behind him. My right hand brushed his lower back and then slid lower, cupping an ass cheek.

He let out a breath I didn't know he'd been holding.

"You can tell me to stop," I said.

He leaned his head back against my shoulder. "Don't want to."

His hoodie was soft under my fingers as I tugged it upward, and he raised his arms. I pulled it up and let it fall to the floor, along with the T-shirt underneath.

He touched my chest, flat palm against my sternum, then slid it upward to my collar. "Take yours off, too. I don't want to be the only one playing skins in here."

I chuckled. "Okay."

I pulled off my shirt and dropped it beside his. We stood chest to chest, skin to skin, heat rising between us in slow, steady waves.

His hand slid up the back of my neck, into my hair. I leaned in.

The kiss this time wasn't exploratory. It was full-body. His hands were everywhere—slow, then not, like he couldn't decide whether to memorize me or hold on tight in case I slipped away.

When we moved toward the bed, he didn't let go. His knees hit the edge, and he laughed into my mouth.

"Sorry," he whispered.

"For what?"

"I'm about to make this awkward."

"You already did," I said. "You flinched at the flowers."

He groaned. "You're never gonna let that go, are you?"

I rolled my eyes and tugged him down beside me. The mattress took our combined weight with a light creak, and then it began—elbows and calves tangling, his knees bracketing my hips, and his hands flat against my ribs.

His hands trembled. "You're shaking," I said.

"Yeah, well, I have a high metabolism and I've been downing coffee for the past twelve hours." He paused. Also, I'm so into you, it's not even funny."

"I can tell."

His hands went lower, fingertips sliding neatly past my waistband, teasing just above the button fly like he was drawing a boundary but very much hoping I'd let him cross it.

"You know what I always thought was underrated?

" He pitched the words in a conspiratorial tone.

. "Handjobs. Bear with me. No one ever wants to admit they're great, but I've always thought—if you're actually present?

If you're into it? They're basically poetry for dumb horny people. "

I bit back a laugh. "Is that so?"

"Yeah." He was grinning, big and reckless and a little bit hopeful. "You get all the improvisation, all the—y'know, feedback loop, without the pressure of a grand finale. It's just two guys seeing what works. It's honest."

I cupped the back of his neck and nuzzled his hairline. "You want me to write you some poetry, TJ?"

A low, delighted grunt escaped him. "I'll grade you on a curve."

Our first time beyond kisses probably should have been awkward. This was different. It was the kind of honesty that didn't need to survive outside our private space, so I let myself lean into it.

I let my hands wander, learning the unfamiliar angles of TJ's waist and the thin, dark stripe of happy trail dipping below his waistband. His skin was hot to the touch, and he shivered when my fingers skimmed the button of his jeans.

"Permission to improvise?" I asked.

"You're the artist. Paint your masterpiece."

We both sounded like dorks. I wanted to tell him so. Instead, I popped the button and tugged the zipper down.

"Are you—wait, you're really going to—" He cut himself off with a gasp when I slipped my hand beneath the waistband, palm cool against his warm cock.

He was half hard already, the anticipation. I curled my fingers around his shaft, fascinated by how his breath caught. He hid his face in my neck, grazing my jaw with his teeth.

I stroked him, slow and easy, nothing elaborate. I squeezed a little tighter, got a laugh out of him, then switched it up—faster, then slower, thumb rubbing at the head in a rhythm I knew from years of being my own best company.

"Oh my god," he muttered, clutching my shoulders. "You are—fuck, you are way too good at this, it's unfair."

I shrugged. "Some of us respect the craft."

He fisted the sheet at my side. "Is this, like, a hockey thing? Did you bench-press your way into being ambidextrous?"

"You want to see what I can do with my left hand?" I teased.

"Don't you dare—" His hips twitched as I changed angles, wrist rolling just enough to make him gasp.

I let myself get lost in my effort, noting the little feedback cues: how he bit his lip, the sharp shiver every time I squeezed near the base, and how his whole body went rigid then loose, like he was fighting the urge to just let go.

He raised his head and kissed me again, sloppy, urgent, hands in my hair now, tugging just enough to make sure I stayed right there.

"Jesus," he whispered, "you could make a killing in the pros with hands like that."

"I'm a fast learner," I trailed my lips down his neck and across his collarbone, feeling him shudder at every light scrape of teeth.

TJ never shut up, not even now. As I jerked him with two fingers braced against the base, thumb circling under the head, he kept up a running thread of half-muttered, half-shouted commentary.

"You—fuck, Mason, wait, that's—how did you even—" He panted, then snorted.

"Is this your backup plan if hockey doesn't work out? Because I'd support that, honestly."

I pressed my palm flat, squeezed gently, and whispered into the space behind his ear, "You'd support me professionally?"

He bucked, trying not to laugh. "I'd invest. I'd do the whole pitch on Shark Tank . I'd—oh, my god—" His voice cracked and the rest trailed off into something that wasn't really words, only desperate, breathless noise that made my cock stiffen.

I liked seeing him like this—loose, uninhibited, all the slack and easy cool he wore everywhere else replaced with raw, honest need. I wanted to see how far I could push it.

I slowed down momentarily to see whether he'd notice.

He did. "Nope," he moaned, voice muffled by the pillow he'd pulled over his face, "don't you dare slow down, I'll rat you out to every guy on the team.

" His hips twitched upward to chase my hand.

I picked up the pace, stroking him with smooth, practiced pulls along the length, twisting my wrist at the top to show off.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck, oh—" He clapped a hand over his face. "Sorry if I say your name. Or, like, the Lord's. I'm not really in control."

He wasn't. He babbled. He told me I was an asshole and a menace. And—direct quote—"if you don't kiss me right now I'm gonna die, actually die and haunt this apartment forever." So I did.

I couldn't remember the last time I was this into it.

Not the act, the person. The TJ-ness of TJ and how everything about him was immediate and unfiltered, every reaction a live wire.

I wanted to take my time, draw it out until he begged, but he was getting close; he tensed all over, jaw clenched, hands locked around my forearm like it was a lifeline.

He groaned, "You're—shit, you're gonna make me—" and then he did, no warning, just a ragged intake of breath and a spasmodic jerk of his hips against my hand. He spilled cum across my fingers, the sheets, and his belly, making a mess of everything.

For a second, the only sound was his ragged panting and the creak of the bed as he let himself collapse back onto the mattress, arm flung across his face. I wiped my hand on the inside of his thigh, then buried my face in his neck, waiting for TJ's world to reboot.

He made a wounded noise, then giggled. "You—fuck, you're—" He tried to talk, but it came out as breathless, hiccuping laughter. "You ruined me," he managed.

I couldn't help it. The sight of him—wrecked, cock still twitching against his thigh, chest heaving—shoved my own brain into a brownout.

My jeans were slung around my knees. I ground my hips forward against the bare skin of his abs, feeling every groove of hard-earned muscle slick against the head of my dick.

He noticed immediately, and his expression—still goofy and post- orgasmic, but hungry again—made me want to show off a little, just for him.

"Go on." His voice was hoarse. "You earned it."

I hooked a hand behind his knee and pulled him open, pressing forward so my cock dragged along the warm, sticky mess on his stomach. He wrapped his legs around my waist like he was trying to keep me attached to the planet, and kept kissing me.

We were stuck together, chest to chest, dick to abs, his cum hot and slippery between us.

It was the friction that did me in—nothing fancy, just the solid line of his body, ridges of his stomach, and the sticky heat.

I jerked myself off, rutting against him, and the second my breath hitched and I tried to bite back a groan, he grinned, grabbed my ass, and pulled me tighter.

"C'mon, Mason, show me."

I pressed my forehead to his cheek, braced myself with one hand on the mattress, and let go—once, twice, and then I was coming, hard, all over the mess we'd made together.

It hit him, his ribs and belly, and he laughed, running his hands up and down my back like he was proud of himself for making me erupt.

I collapsed on top of him, heart pounding, the world gone soft and floaty, and for a minute, there was nothing but our breathing. He was the first to speak.

"That was…"

I turned my head. "Yeah."

He looked up at me. "We're not faking this anymore, are we?"

"No," I brushed his damp hair back from his forehead. "Not even close."

"Good."

We stayed like that for a long time. Quiet. Breathing the same air.

I didn't ask what came next. I didn't need to. TJ was here, and he wasn't running.