Page 86 of Rule 3: Never Fake Marry the Coach's Son
I slink my arms around him and hope that helps. I gaze into his eyes, and his dark eyes soften.
“I’m here now,” I say. “You’re here now.”
His throat works as he nods, his gaze dropping to my lips.
I tug him toward me, parting my lips. Uncertainty bubbles through me. I’ve watched him for too many years. I’ve known him as my straight friend. Not my husband whom I kiss. But I push away my fears, and instead, I kiss Dmitri.
He melts against me. He shifts his position, but it’s not to separate and stammer embarrassed apologies that he’s straight and last night and this morning never should have happened. Instead, he tightens his grip around me, and I focus on strengthening our kiss. My tongue explores his mouth, because I’m definitely getting the hang of this now, and the way his heart beats against my chest tells me all I need to know.
For some crazy reason, Dmitri Volkov actually likes me. He does want this.
I bring my hands to his face and continue to kiss him. I want to kiss away his stress and fears. Our tongues and lips dance, and my cock is as hard as any hockey stick.
He breaks away. “Is big deal, Oskar.”
“I know.”
“Media is onto us.”
“Yeah.”
“And the government...” His beautiful features twist.
“Shhh...” I kiss him again. “We’ll figure it out.”
He nods, even though he knows that we might not figure it out. We’re just two men.
“Come here.” I lead him to the massage table.
I push him onto it with more enthusiasm than grace. “Sorry!”
He laughs. “Feeling feisty, baby?”
“Um, maybe?” I slide between his legs, and his gaze dips to my bulge. His bites his lower lip, and I grin. He really does seem to like that section of my body.
He wraps his legs around me, so that my bulge is pressing against his, and I see the way that his eyes roll up and the way his lips press together as if to constrain a moan.
“Slide off your sweatpants,” I whisper.
His eyes round.
“I want to see it.”
His lips swerve. “I thought you were virgin.”
“You’ve been corrupting me.”
His eyes soften, and he unties the string of his sweatpants. His cock juts out obscenely. Maybe I’m bigger than him there, but he’s hardly small.
His sweatpants slide down.
My mouth waters.
“And your boxer briefs,” I order.
“Oh, yeah?” His eyes dance, but he moves quickly. He can see the benefits of wearing fewer clothes too.
Then I see it.
