Page 107 of Gap Control

He laughed lightly—felt more than heard. It caused a vibration at the base of my cock that sent a pulse straight through my core. I gripped his hair, and I narrowed my focus to the heat of his mouth and the flex of his throat.

He pulled back and licked his lips, smeared with spit and me and something stupidly proud. “You gonna punish me for the rest of the week, or only tonight?”

He looked up at me with his head tilted back and a wild, smiling dare in his eyes. I couldn’t answer. I shoved him back down and he groaned, taking me as deep as he could manage.

Everything after that was blurry—fingers in his hair, my knees giving out, and how TJ’s shoulders looked hunched and sturdy while he swallowed me down. He reached up and squeezed my ass.

When I came, it landed all over, messy and too much at once. TJ swallowed most of it before leaning back on his haunches, mouth bruised and smiling like he'd just gotten away with murder. I gripped his biceps and I tugged him up, ignoring the squelchy, wet sound as he detached.

"You're a monster," I grunted.

He licked his lips again, slow and deliberate. "Only for you, Picasso." He grinned so wide it hurt to look at him. "Do you forgive me?"

I wanted to say something clever, but all I managed was, "Shut up and kiss me."

He did, mouth still tasting of salt and sweetness and us. If there was pure, unfiltered art in the world, it was TJ's tongue tangling with mine and his hands cupping my jaw.

We stumbled onto the couch, giggling. My head fell into the crook of his arm, and he started tracing the lines on my bare stomach with a fingertip.

"Tomorrow," he said, voice soft against my hair. "We're celebrating. I don't care if your work never hits the gallery. We're getting ramen and cake and maybe publicly making out on Portland's art walk until somebody calls security."

"And if they hang my art in the bathroom?"

"Then I'm telling everyone that the bathroom is the coolest room in the building." He kissed the corner of my mouth. "And then I'm going to drag you into it and blow you against the hand dryer."

Less than ten minutes later, TJ fell asleep with one hand curled under his cheek and the other on my thigh.

He’d pulled on one sock and nothing else, and there was a smudge of stubble burn on his collarbone where my mouth had lingered. I could’ve stayed there forever, tracing the edge of it with my thumb.

Instead, I sat back against the couch and watched the room dim around us.

He hadn’t apologized, but I didn’t need him to. He’d taken something I wasn’t ready to share and given it to someone who saw me. Not only the sketch—but me. He’d probably done the right thing.

If he’d asked first, I would’ve shut him down.

TJ stirred slightly in his sleep, forehead wrinkling. I smoothed it with my palm, and he settled again, breath slowing.

I didn’t say thank you. Not out loud, but I stayed and let myself be seen.

Chapter twenty-three

TJ

The snow had stopped pretending to be festive. Christmas was three days behind us, and all that tinsel-and-joy crap had been replaced by slush, salt spray, and the smell of wet brake pads every time I slowed for an exit.

I’d forgotten how bleak winter could look once the string lights came down.

Mason hadn’t gone home for the holidays. Neither had I. Not because we didn’t want to—though in my case, it was complicated—but because Forge had games on the 23rd and the 26th. That left just enough time to do laundry and cry into a hot chocolate, if you were the sentimental type.

We weren’t.

At least, that’s what I told myself.

Now the team had a rare three-day break before New Year’s, and instead of using it to sleep or catch up on therapy appointments like responsible adults, we were on the highway, halfway to Boston.

At Peggy’s invitation.

Technically she’d invited me, but when I’d hesitated on the phone, she’d said, “Bring the fake boyfriend. I want to see if he blinks under pressure.”

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