Page 22 of Gap Control (Lewiston Forge #3)

I hugged him back, probably tighter than necessary, breathing in the familiar scent of his shampoo mixed with hockey sweat and laundry detergent. The noise of the locker room faded to background static.

When TJ finally pulled back, his hands lingered on my shoulders. The space between us crackled with electricity.

"Good game," he said.

"Thanks," I managed, though the word felt inadequate for everything churning between us.

He stepped back, running a hand through his disheveled hair, and grinned. It was the now-familiar expression that managed to be cocky and shy at the same time.

"My place?" I asked.

"Definitely."

My apartment felt different when we walked through the door—warmer somehow, more alive. Maybe it was the lingering adrenaline from the game, or how TJ immediately kicked off his shoes and made himself at home.

It was no longer the intensely orderly space I inhabited before TJ. The surfaces told our story: takeout containers from last night's dinner still stacked on the kitchen counter, and my sketch pad open on the coffee table next to a mug with coffee rings staining the wood.

It was evidence that someone lived here. And he had a boyfriend.

TJ flopped onto the couch with theatrical exhaustion, one arm flung over his eyes. "I'm physically and emotionally exhausted from watching you be amazing for three hours. My heart can't take much more athletic excellence. I'm a flu patient for Chrissake."

"You were on the ice for most of the game," I pointed out, settling beside him.

"Irrelevant. I was busy having feelings about your feelings. Very draining work."

I reached over and tugged his arm away from his face. "What kind of feelings?"

"The kind where I wanted to climb over the boards and tackle you myself after the second goal. The kind where watching you smile made me forget how to breathe properly."

"TJ—"

I couldn't get any more words out. He was already reaching for me, fingers curling around the back of my neck, pulling me down until our mouths met.

The kiss started slow, almost tentative, but then TJ made that soft sound low in his throat, the one that went straight to my gut, and suddenly, slow wasn't enough.

I pulled him closer, or maybe he tugged on me—either way, we ended up tangled together on the couch, TJ's legs bracketed my hips, his hands curling into my hoodie. He tasted sweet and slightly electric like the sports drink he'd been nursing all evening.

Halfway through the kiss, he started laughing.

It wasn't mocking or nervous. Pure, unfiltered joy bubbled up between us and made me smile against his mouth.

"What?" I asked, pulling back to stare into his eyes.

"Nothing, it's just—" He grinned, cheeks flushed, hair sticking up in several directions. "Hat trick hero makes out with his fake boyfriend on a Tuesday night. My life got weird."

"Your life was already weird."

"Fair point." He kissed me again, quick and sweet. "But this is good weird. This is the kind of weird I want to keep."

Something in my chest cracked open at that. The careful walls I'd spent years building, the distance I maintained between myself and anything that might hurt, crumbled under the weight of TJ's honest affection.

"You really commit to your bit," I said, voice rougher than I intended.

"I'd win an Oscar for best supporting fake boyfriend," he murmured against my jaw, "if I weren't so into you."

Instead, I kissed him harder and poured everything I couldn't articulate into my tongue dancing with his.

TJ responded enthusiastically, his hands sliding under my hoodie, fingertips tracing the muscle lines across my stomach. His touch was warm, slightly calloused from years of stick handling, and everywhere he touched came alive.

"Bedroom?" It was a suggestion that sounded like a question.

"Fuck, yes."

We untangled ourselves from the couch and stumbled toward the hallway, hands still on each other, unwilling to break contact for longer than necessary. TJ walked backward, trusting me to guide him, and nearly took out the lamp on the side table.

"Graceful," I teased.

"Shut up. I'm distracted by your—" He gestured vaguely at my general existence. "All of it. It's very distracting."

In the bedroom, we fell onto the mattress in a tangle of limbs and laughter. TJ's hoodie got stuck when he tried to pull it over his head, arms trapped above him, muffling his complaints emerging from beneath the fabric.

"Help!"

I tugged the hoodie free, and he emerged with his hair even more disheveled, looking thoroughly rumpled and absolutely perfect.

"Better?"

"Much." He reached for the hem of my shirt. "Your turn."

Getting undressed became a comedy of errors—TJ's belt refused to cooperate, my jeans got tangled around my ankles, and at one point, we both got stuck trying to navigate the logistics of removing socks while horizontal.

But somehow, the awkwardness made it better. More real. Less like a performance and more like two people figuring each other out and laughing at the ridiculous parts.

When we were finally skin to skin, the laughter faded into something quieter, more intense. TJ traced his fingers over the scar on my shoulder from a bad check three years ago.

"You're beautiful," he said, so quietly I almost missed it.

"TJ—"

"No, I mean it. All of it. The scars, the bruises, the way you get this little wrinkle between your eyebrows when you're thinking too hard." His thumb brushed the spot he was talking about. "All of it."

I didn't know how to respond to that level of honesty, so I kissed him instead. Slow and deep, trying to show him what I couldn't say—that he made me feel seen in ways I'd never experienced.

I lost track of whose hands were where, only that everywhere I touched, he was soft and hot and alive.

His skin was marked up from the game—a purple thumbprint blooming on his thigh and a red streak across his shoulder where someone had gotten overzealous with their stick.

I wanted to taste every bruise and claim them not as injuries but as evidence of something hard-won and beautiful.

We rolled, TJ laughing and breathing hard, until I had him flat on his back with his arms pinned above his head. His eyes were wide, sweat shining at his hairline. I bent and bit his shoulder gently, and he shivered.

My hand drifted down below his waist. His cock was hard against the thin cotton of his boxers. He made a noise, desperate and surprised, like maybe he hadn't thought I'd go there so quickly.

I pressed my palm flat against his chest and watched his face go slack, eyes rolling half-closed. "Is this okay?" I muttered, mouth still pressed to his jaw.

"Mason," he grinned, "if you ask me that one more time, I'm going to draw a comic strip about your excessive politeness in bed."

"That's not—"

"Panel one: 'May I touch you here?' Panel two: 'Are you comfortable with this particular—' Panel three: 'Would you like to complete this customer satisfaction survey before we begin—'"

He didn't get to panel four. I yanked his boxers down enough to get my mouth on him, one hand wrapped around the base of his cock so I could feel the throb.

I'd done it before, but never for someone who made me feel like every second mattered. He tasted like skin, salt, and sweat, and when I dragged my tongue up the underside, he lost whatever self-control he pretended to have left.

The noises—sharp, involuntary, like laughter shifting registers—went straight to my core. I made a mental note to get him to do it again, as soon as possible.

TJ's heels drummed against the sheets. His voice wobbled, somewhere between a curse and a plea. I stared down at his face—damn, his flushed eyelids fluttered. He looked wrecked and perfect.

I slowed down, just to see if he'd chase it. He did, hips bucking, fingers tightening. TJ tried to say something—my name, probably, or possibly the entire plot of The Princess Bride —but I swallowed his cock and doubled down. He made a helpless, breaking noise.

I wanted to see him let go, for me. His mouth had nothing to say for once, only open vowel sounds and raw noise. He bucked up, and I held him down with a palm across his hipbone, in case he tried to escape.

He came with a shout that would have gotten both of us thrown in the penalty box if a ref heard it. His grip of my hair went from tight to gentle, from "please" to "oh, God, okay, I need a minute."

There was more mess than I bargained for—on my lips, chin, and dripping down my wrist. I didn't care. I leaned up, wiped at my mouth with the back of my hand, and smiled at him.

TJ had his arm thrown over his eyes, breathing like he'd skated a three-minute shift in overtime. He rolled his head to the side, peeking at me through his fingers.

"Holy shit."

"Yeah," I said, voice hoarse and weirdly proud.

He reached for me, still half-dazed, pulling me down until we were nose to nose, chest to chest, the fabric of the sheets twisted between us.

He kissed me, slow and almost gentle, his tongue sweeping my lower lip.

I let him taste himself there and set the pace.

He held the back of my neck, thumb stroking the short hair at my nape, like he wanted to memorize every part of me.

When it was over, we lay tangled in the sheets, TJ's head pillowed on my chest. His hair tickled my collarbone, and he draped his arm across my ribs, possessive and protective.

The room was quiet except for our gradually slowing breaths and the distant hum of traffic outside. Underneath the physical contentment, something new stirred. A restless anxiety that had nothing to do with what we'd just done and everything to do with what it meant.

"This is going to mess me up," I said, mostly to myself.

TJ's eyes were closed. "Yeah," he murmured, voice thick with approaching sleep. "Me too."

He said it like it was a good thing. Like being messed up by this, by us, was exactly what he wanted.

And as I listened to his breathing even out, I decided it was what I wanted, too.