Page 68 of Shots on Net

When we pull into the garage, Zeke and I look at each other with identical expressions of relief. We’re home far later than I had originally anticipated, given a surprise storm that decided to pass through on our drive. We hop out of the car simultaneously and head inside; I check my phone on the way and note I’ve got two missed calls from my mom and a single missed call from Coach Mackenzie. There is also a text message from Vas, asking how things went this weekend. I ignore everyone but Vas—shooting him a quick message I toss my phone on the kitchen counter and decide to forget about it for the rest of the evening.

“Ah. I feel so much better,” Zeke says, coming out of the downstairs bathroom and wiping his hands on his thighs. “If we’d been stuck in traffic even five minutes more, I swear I would have peed on your car seat.”

“Or,” I say, leaning against the counter and watching him, amused, “you could have just peed in one of our empty water bottles. Instead of, you know, on my seat.”

He throws up his hands. “Figure of speech.”

Laughing, I look at the time on the oven. “So, what should we do to kick off spring break? You hungry? Want a shower? Gym?”

“Hmm. I’m still pretty full from lunch; I’m not even going to respond to the gym suggestion. But a shower does sound good.” His eyes light up and he steps closer to me, sidling into my personal space until our shirts brush. “Together?”

“Yeah? Last time wasn’t too much of a deterrent?” The last time we showered together we kept knocking our elbows into the wall and bumping into each other. What had started as sexy had ended with the bathroom ringing with laughter.

“Nope,” he slides his hand into mine and we amble up the stairs.

Other than some planned workouts and the quick visit to see my parents, I’ve got nothing going on for the entire week. And although Zeke was right in saying that we’ll need to do some studying, I’m hoping that the majority of the time is spent together. We’ve never had so much time uninterrupted by hockey or school—the possibilities feel endless.

Our shower is exactly that—a shower. Zeke is quiet, for once, so we wash mostly in silence. We take our time, and since he doesn’t try to turn this into shower sex, neither do I. I do, however, take the opportunity of a well-lit room and a small space to look my fill of him. He’s so slim; the line of his clavicle is severe—a narrow shelf of bone, trailing to equally narrow shoulder blades. I’m a little bit obsessed with how he looks.

Because he’s right there, I run my fingertips over the top of his shoulder, down along his collarbone, and over the other shoulder. On the way back, I stop and trail my knuckles down the center of his chest. His stomach is perfectly flat, framed by slender hips. Watching my hand, I trace those too. Eventually, I become aware of how still Zeke’s standing. I glance up at his face; he’s watching me, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

“Sorry,” I clear my throat and drop my hand.

“Nobody ever looks at me like that,” he says.

“They better not. Only I can look at you like that,” I tell him, and the smile grows. I reach a hand out to brush the wet hair out of his face, rivulets of water trailing down his cheeks. I am suddenly very, very horny.

Zeke’s eyes leave my face and coast down my body until they settle on my pelvis where I am sporting a semi. He looks back up at me, humor dancing in his eyes, and crowds me until our wet chests are pressed together. He tips his chin up; I lean down to oblige him, putting a hand to the back of his head to hold his lips to mine.

“Clean enough?” He asks against my mouth. In answer, I reach around him to turn off the water. Grabbing a towel, I throw it over his shoulders and give him a vigorous rub. He laughs, like I knew he would. He’s like my own personal ray of sunshine.

I don’t give him the opportunity to put clothes on, but slide the towel off and walk him backward toward the bed. I turn us around and then pull him down on top of me; he smiles into my mouth, our teeth bumping together in sloppy kisses that neither of us are willing to break. I’m only half on the bed, with Zeke mostly on top of me, our still damp skin warm against one another. My knee twinges where it’s twisted at an odd angle. I can’t really bring myself to care.

“So impatient,” he mumbles, and moves to pull away. I try to grab him but he gives me a playful shove. “Scoot up before you hurt yourself.”

I slide up toward the head of the bed; Zeke follows and this time lets me pull him back down on top of me. Holding his head with both of my hands, I kiss him fucking senseless. We stop when my lungs burn from lack of air, and I gentle my hands. He rests his forehead against mine, fingers coasting down my ribs. Confidently, he stretches an arm out and pulls the lube from my bedside table.

“Grab a condom, too,” I tell him, and he looks at me.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.” I wish I’d never told him that I don’t like to bottom, because he’s assigned more meaning to it than it deserves. What I should have said is I don’t like to bottom when I can’t see the other person’s face. I don’t like to be held down, and I don’t like it rough. Somehow, I don’t think any of these things will be a problem with Zeke.

“Okay, but are you sure,” he says, grabbing my chin and looking hard into my eyes like he’s trying to see into my soul.

“Do you want it in writing?”

“Don’t joke, I’m being serious,” he says, sternly. I sigh and close my eyes, because I don’t think I’m going to be able to say these words with his face that close to mine.

“I don’t mind being the bottom, as long as there is enough prep. I’d prefer to not be on my hands and knees, and I’d prefer not to be…like…drilled into the mattress.”

There is a very long silence following these words. I keep my eyes closed. I’m not sure why saying any of those things is embarrassing, but it is. Even to Zeke, whom I should be comfortable saying anything to. He’s still got ahold of my chin, and uses the grip to reach up and catch my lower lip with his thumb, gently.

“Hey,” he says, quietly, as though the room is full of people but he’s speaking to me alone, “look at me.”

I open my eyes. He’s got one hand planted on the bed and has shifted so that his face is further away, hovering above mine. My eyes skim over his face and find it contemplative, not critical. I relax.

“We don’t have to do this,” he reminds me.

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