We have a big bar night at the end of the summer. Trav did not want me to go, and it was fucking adorable.
“The idea of you being in a nightclub with a whole bunch of men staring at you turns my stomach. You should only be going to nightclubs with me.”
I felt the same—I wouldn’t want him going to a nightclub without me either—but Casey’s pissed at Sutter for something, which means he’s with Sutter less and around the house more. It would look suspicious as hell if I didn’t go.
“I won’t dance with strangers,” I promised him, and it was the wrong thing to say.
“Well, that should fucking go without saying.”
“What I mean is, I’ll have to dance with my friends. I’ll mostly dance with Dash, okay?” Trav knows I still keep a protective vigil for him.
“Not in love with that either.” Huh. Well, that’s fucking changed. “Doesn’t he have Stacey for that? What about that Syd guy?”
“It’s a family bar night. No boyfriends allowed unless they’re also family.” It was supposed to be, anyway. Rhett ended up inviting Sutter because they’re besties, and I guess Sutter counts as Rhett’s family. They’re not related by blood, but they’re close.
I resorted to begging Trav because I just didn’t think it was gonna be believable that I caught a sudden stomach bug. He finally agreed, but he was a grouchy asshole for two days after, and it prompted a much-needed conversation. We haven’t done a lot of talking about anything. It’s been quick hands on each other, stolen kisses, and swift blow jobs because we’re horny motherfuckers.
I’ve stopped judging Sutterchuck, but I reserve the right to complain about them forever after walking in on Sutter licking ketchup out of Casey’s asshole. I can never unsee that shit. They’re a walking trigger warning.
Still kinda judging Stace and Dash, though. I’m knocking their heads together if they don’t get their shit together soon.
Trav pulls me into his office. It’s the middle of the day, and it’s been three days since that bar night.
“Talking to me again?”
“I never wasn’t talking to you.”
“Bossing me around the fucking restaurant isn’t talking to me, Trav.”
“Shut the door,” he grunts.
I shut it, but I stay on my side of the office, leaning against the wall with my arms crossed. We’re like a match and a bomb. If we touch, we’ll explode, and there’s noooooo way we can do that right now.
“I’ve been acting like a child. I’m sorry,” he says. “It’s no excuse, but the reason is I’ve never felt this way about anyone,and I feel real uncertain about us. It’d be so much easier for you to find someone else.”
Well, now I feel bad, and I want to be over there with him. I shouldn’t, really fucking shouldn’t, but I cross the invisible line. He’s up from his chair, gathering me in his arms, laying kisses on my face. I inhale him.
“You’re wrong about it being easy for me to find someone else. There’s no one else for me but you, Trav. No one will ever be what you are to me.”
He holds me in a vice grip. “I know what you guys get up to during the season, and the one club night got me thinking about all that. I’m sorry, but you can’t. I’m not okay with it. Going to the club says you’re available, and you’re not a-fucking-vailable, Dirk. You’re gonna have to find a way to decline.”
“Didn’t Dash tell you about Coach Meyer? He’s a hard ass. He doesn’t let us have fun. I mean, there are a few socials a season and some of them are bar nights, but I’ll skip.” It’ll be easier to do it during the season when I can play the “I’m dead from practice” card. “Better?”
“Much.”
“Look at us. We talked.”
“Yeah. This is downright chatty for us,” he agrees.
On the one hand, us being so taciturn’s probably gonna run us into trouble, but on the other hand, at least we’re both that way. We get each other, and it’s become an inside joke over the years.
“Maybe we don’t need as many words because we’re meant to be doing this…”
My mouth’s at the right height to suck on his neck. He moans, his hips thrust into me, seeking me, brushing our cocks together. I need out of these jeans, dammit.
We inhale in sync, our touches fanning the fire between us. It’s always on a low crackle, just waiting to burn us alive. All ittakes is the smallest of things—a look, a brush of knuckles—and then it’s game over. The need bursts out of control, mutually claiming us so that we’re possessed by it.
“Please,” I whine. “I want you in me, so fucking bad.”
