Page 35 of The Five Hole

I kiss him hard.

“I’m about to come in my pants. Need—“

Thatcher has my belt undone and my pants down faster than I can form thoughts.

I knock the lid off the tin the rest of the way and coat my hand before wrapping it around both of us, sliding our dicks together.

Gabe curses, and the sight of him white knuckling the workbench is one I won’t be forgetting anytime soon.

He lets go and joins me in stroking us, watching us together.

“Damn, Rory,” he says, eyes rolling back.

“Not going to last long. Feels too fucking good.”

Gabe groans what seems to be agreement and then crashes his mouth to mine again.

The man is a hell of a kisser, and it makes my head spin. It also races me toward climax, as Gabe clutches harder to me too.

“Wanna make you come, Roe.”

His words make my brain short-circuit, and I’m not proud of the noise I make when my hand stutters right along with my brain and his sexy rough hands take over.

“Holy fuck, Thatcher. That feels . . .” I trail off, unable to describe the absolute heaven I’m in as his rough hand works us both.

We come in a mix of grunts and aborted curses, mouths still finding each other as we kiss and pull back to watch pleasure ripple across each other’s face.

Chapter twelve

Gabe Thatcher

The Bench Social Media Group

Stan: Yeah. They got this.

We end up on my back deck. I found bottles of water and a quilt, and now we’re sitting in the quiet while the snow melts slowly along the edge of the deck railing. Everything’s still—no cars, no town gossip, just the quiet hum of night in Fox River Falls. My yard faces the woods, so it gets still and quiet back here.

Roe’s sitting next to me on the porch swing I built three winters ago. It’s piled high with cushions and mismatched pillows because Jamie is known to nap out here. Roe has one foot tucked under his knee, hair still a little messy, and his hoodie is zipped, but not all the way. He looks comfortable. Like he belongs here.

It guts me a little, how good that feels. As if maybe I’ve been wanting this, or something like it, longer than I realized.

I don’t say anything at first. Don’t want to break the quiet. I don’t want to look too hard at it.

Then he shifts slightly, just enough to brush his shoulder against mine, and says, “So . . . what are we doing?”

I set my water down, rest my hands on my thighs. “You want the polished answer or the real one?”

“Real.”

I nod. “I don’t know.”

He snorts softly. “Great start.”

I glance over. “I know I want this. You. Whatever this is turning into . . .” I sigh. “Actually, you want honesty? I didn’t want this. But now? Now I can’t imagine not trying to see where it goes.” I take a breath. “But I also know it’s messy. You’ve got one foot out the door of a place like this—maybe not now, but eventually.”

He’s quiet.

I keep going.