Page 12 of Men in Shorts

Click!

The new picture stopped Duncan’s breath. In it, he was smiling at the camera while Brodie regarded him with a gaze of spontaneous tenderness, a gaze that saidHow could you think I hate you?

“Delete it,” Brodie said. “I look stupid.”

“No, you look—”So fucking kissable.“You look fine.”

“My selfies are shite. Please delete it.”

It was the last thing in the world Duncan wanted to do (or maybe the second-to-last thing). “Only if you promise to let me take another.”

“Fine.”

Duncan deleted the second photo, then took a third. They both looked half decent in this picture, but the guardedness had returned to Brodie’s eyes.

After giving Duncan a quick nod of approval, he turned away to lie on his side. “Thank you for all you’ve done for me. It was very kind.”

His tone was formal, almost cold, but beneath it lay a note of vulnerability that twisted Duncan’s heart.

“Nae bother.” Duncan reluctantly slid out of bed. He held onto his tablet with both hands, to keep from reaching out and touching Brodie’s shoulder or cheek. “After practice I’ll probably meet our study group at the library, but I’ll pop in on you later, see if you need anything.”

Brodie uttered a faint, affirmative noise. Duncan gathered his things and left the room, before he could do something colossally, irrevocably stupid.

* * *

The moment the door shut,Brodie turned over in bed. He wasn’t sleepy at all—quite the opposite, in fact. Lying beside Duncan for two hours had given him a pounding pulse, tingling skin, and aching balls.

Pressing his face to the spare pillow, Brodie caught the faintest whiff of Duncan’s sweat. He sighed, remembering how it had tasted that night as he’d kissed his way down Duncan’s throat to his broad, muscular chest. How those hands had tightened in his hair as he’d tugged Duncan’s nipple, first with lips, then with teeth. It had all seemed so perfect until?—

No, he wouldn’t think of how it had ended. Not now, when he needed relief. Instead, he’d think of how itcouldhave ended.

Brodie began to stroke himself—tentatively at first, through the soft cotton of his pajama trousers, the way Duncan would if he were lying here. He’d cup Brodie’s shaft with his strong, wide palm, taking the measure of him. Then his thumb would sweep up, up, up to the sensitive ridge under the head. Finally his fingers would drift lower, feathering over Brodie’s balls, feeling their fullness.

Through it all he’d kiss him, swallowing Brodie’s pleas for more. Until he was ready to give it.

Brodie shoved his briefs and trousers down over his hips, urgently, like he wanted Duncan to do. He wanted Duncan’s hands to tremble with need. He wanted to be grasped too hard, too eagerly.

Turning back on his side to inhale Duncan’s scent, Brodie seized himself again. His fingers were cold, making him gasp with shock and pleasure. He started stroking with a tight, graceless grip, imagining Duncan trying to hold back, find a rhythm, make it last.

But he wouldn’t last a minute under Duncan’s touch. Not with that deep voice urging him on. Not with those slicing blue eyes watching for signs he was on the edge. Not with that warm hand enveloping his cock, sliding up and down and up and down and?—

“Och…” Brodie gasped, knees spreading wide, thighs trembling, hips jerking. Finally, in one moment, everything disappeared—past, future, memory, fantasy—everything but the singular surge of orgasm. His eyes locked open, fixed on the sandstone-red horizon of his pillowcase.

As his limbs slackened and his breathing slowed, Brodie’s first coherent thought was,I fair needed that.

His second thought was,Fucking hell, now I need to wash the sheets.

Chapter4

Brodie’ssoothing effect vanished the moment Duncan stepped onto the Warriors’ practice pitch at Ruchill Park. The team had been stuck in a downward spiral since Evan’s abandonment, their once-solid bond unraveling as their form slid into mediocrity. With each sloppy pass from his teammates, Duncan’s fury grew, until he thought his head would burst into flames.

No one made Duncan rage more than Evan’s ex-boyfriend Fergus. The Warriors vice-captain had become a phantom of himself. His skin’s pallor and the dark circles beneath his eyes showed he was barely eating or sleeping. Tonight Fergus wore what looked like several days’ worth of ginger stubble, which meant he’d not bothered to shave since Saturday’s loss to Drumchapel.

Because of his skills and experience, Fergus had been moved up into Evan’s attacking midfielder position, which Duncan thought a huge mistake. As the Warriors defending midfielder, Fergus’s calm, analytical nature had made the team hard to beat. No one read an oncoming attack like Fergus. With precisely timed interceptions and tackles, he’d disrupt plays before opponents could even dream of shooting for goal. He’d kept the team so organized on the pitch, they seemed to share one collective brain.

Fergus was the one their adversaries had feared most, the one they’d fought to neutralize. In many ways, he’d been the team’s true leader.

But no longer. He refused to become the new Warriors captain, despite the urgings of their manager. He’d stopped offering his wise insights at team meetings. To Duncan, Fergus seemed to be fading away from football, and perhaps from the rest of the world as well.

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