Page 59 of Unwritten Rules
“Thank you,” Eugenio says, softly, when he’s done and Zach places his hand on the comforter, fingers splayed out from one another.
“They look good.”
“Yeah?”
“You look good.”
“Fuck,” Eugenio says, and Zach kisses him, Eugenio’s bottom lip between Zach’s teeth, his tongue in Eugenio’s mouth, and Eugenio sucks on it, unsubtle, an invitation. “Zach, fuck, c’mon.”
Zach doesn’t move, though, not for a second, leaning to kiss him, just giving him the tip of his tongue, pulling back when Eugenio tries to deepen it. Not until Eugenio says, “You gonna make me ask to suck you?”
Zach’s belt is loud in the quiet of the room. He pushes down his pants, his shorts, kicking them off, tossing his shirt somewhere, and knee walks as Eugenio repositions himself with his back against the padded headboard. His hands are still on the bedspread at his sides, unmoving, pressing divots into the quilting and shaking minutely.
Zach runs his fingers down his arm, tracing from shoulder to bicep to elbow to forearm to wrist before skiing off his knuckle. “Keep those there.” He works himself a few times, but Eugenio is already leaning down.
“I want to feel you get hard.”
Zach holds himself, guiding his cock into Eugenio’s mouth. “If you want me to pull off, uh, hit me on the thigh or something.”
Eugenio nods, eyes closed, eyelashes on his cheeks, tongue rubbing the underside of Zach’s cock. It’s easier at this angle, for Zach to put his hands against the wall, to roll his hips, expecting Eugenio to slap him on his leg when Zach gets fully hard, when he pushes deeper into his mouth. He doesn’t.
Still, he pulls back, fucking his mouth in small thrusts, then pulling back even further, running the tip of his cock over his bottom lip, smearing it, and then his cheek, a wet mark right where his stubble ends. “You look so good like this. I wish you could see.”
“Zach.” It sounds a little whiny. When he looks down, Eugenio is hard in his dress pants, hips straining.
“Stay still.” He nudges at Eugenio’s mouth again, holding himself shallowly without moving his hips, and counting down silently from thirty.
By the end of it, Eugenio’s trembling, fine shivers Zach can feel, muscles in his biceps and forearms tensing, his breath in short little pants through his nose. There’s sweat at his hairline, and Zach runs his fingers over it, and his temple, and the side of his face where he can feel himself through the wall of Eugenio’s cheek. Presses in with the pad of his thumb until it forces Eugenio’s mouth open wider, jaw going slack, spit running down his chin.
Eugenio has short hair, cropped close by the clubhouse barber before they got on the plane for this road trip. Zach tugs a few of the hairs between his thumb and index finger, and Eugenio hisses a breath.
“I’m gonna move, okay?” he says. Eugenio nods.
He braces against the wall, and works his hips, watching his cock disappear into his mouth, and his hands, which haven’t moved from where Zach set them on the bedspread, bright and intentionally visible.
He’s about to come and he pulls back, reaching to jack himself, when Eugenio says, “Um, on me?” His voice is rough.
And Zach spills over onto Eugenio’s chest, a little on his chin and lip. He leans forward, thumbing over one of the white streaks, smearing it into his tattoo. Then up, catching the droplet on Eugenio’s mouth, rubbing it in. “What do you want?” He reaches for Eugenio’s belt, the button to undo his fly.
“It’s not going to take much.”
And Zach cups him through his shorts, the fabric of his boxers already stained dark over the head of his cock, sticky when Zach brushes it with the flat of his palm.
Eugenio is breathing hard, chest working. “Though maybe more than that.”
Zach doesn’t curl his hand or grip him, continuing to trace Eugenio’s cock with no more than light pressure. Adding a loose unsatisfying circle of fingers but withdrawing his hand when Eugenio starts to move his hips. “Stop,” Zach says, and Eugenio stills.
He runs his hand up Eugenio’s chest, rolling a nipple between his fingers, scratching lines in one of Eugenio’s tattoos where it won’t show a mark, a dark abstract shape interrupted with a few edges of color. He’s shaking all over with the effort of holding himself in place.
“That first time,” Zach says, “when you came over to my place at spring training, we went swimming. I couldn’t stop looking at these. Couldn’t stop looking at you.”
He reaches, shoving his hand under the waistband of Eugenio’s boxers. His palm is probably too dry, but it doesn’t matter, not with the way Eugenio’s leaking, not when Zach says, “You can move,” and gives him the channel of his fist to fuck into, Eugenio coming almost instantly.
“Kiss me,” he says, after, and Zach does, hands on Eugenio’s sides, up his forearms, on the thick muscles of his back. “That was... Jesus, Zach.” He still hasn’t moved his hands.
“Your nails are probably dry,” Zach says. “Let me go get the remover. Unless you want to do it in the morning.”
“No, I might forget.” As if he could just walk into the stadium with both his hands painted, casually, unremarkedly.
