Page 29 of Caught Offside

“You like that nobody talks to you while you do it.” Asher reached over and stole a piece of chicken off the edge of Patrick’s plate. Patrick watched him do it and pushed the plate an inch closer.

“That too. You talk enough for both of us.”

“People would pay for this much personality.”

“No, they wouldn’t.” But the corner of his mouth had gone up, and he didn’t fight it down this time.

Asher caught it and grinned. Under the table he pressed his foot harder against Patrick’s, just to see. Patrick pressed back.

“Tell me about Arizona,” Patrick said.

So Asher told him. Every time he wound down, Patrick asked him something else. The food went cold. Neither of them cared, and their feet stayed where they were the whole time.

They did the dishes together, Asher washing, Patrick drying, lined up at the sink. It was the most ordinary thing in the world, two guys and a sink on a Tuesday, and Asher wanted a hundred more of them. He couldn’t stop clocking the few inches of air between their arms.

He set the last plate in the rack and turned, and Patrick was right there, close, the way he’d been on the path. There was no wind this time, no public anything, no reason left to keep his hands to himself.

So Asher kissed him, and he didn’t keep this one careful.

Patrick’s back hit the counter, and Asher crowded in after him, both hands shoving up under his shirt to the warm muscle of his back. Patrick made a low, rough sound and gave up whatever he’d been holding on to all night. His hands closed around Asher’s hips and hauled him in until they were flush. Asher felt how hard Patrick already was against him and briefly forgot his own name.

“You have any idea how long I’ve wanted to get my hands on you?” Asher got it out against Patrick’s mouth, barely.

“Since the gala.” Patrick’s voice was already wrecked. “You’re not the only one who’s been dying.”

Asher worked a thigh between Patrick’s and rolled his hips, slow and dirty. Patrick’s head dropped back against the cabinet on a sound Asher would be hearing for a week.

“There he is.” Asher dragged his mouth down the cords of Patrick’s throat, grinning against the skin. “Knew you were loud under all that quiet.”

“Shut up.”

“Make me.” He got a hand between them and palmed Patrick through his jeans, felt his whole body jerk. “Fuck, you feel that? That’s all you. I’ve been thinking about this for weeks.”

Patrick swore into his hair and pushed up into his hand, then went for Asher’s fly with fingers that weren’t quite working. “Asher. I need⁠—”

“I know. I’ve got you.” Asher’s vision quit on him when Patrick finally got him open. “Tell me what you want. I want to hear you say it.”

“You. Just don’t stop.” His voice was barely there. “Don’t you dare stop.”

The careful, locked-down man Asher had spent two months trying to reach was gone. This was the rest of him, hard and shaking, past holding anything back.

He said it again, low against Asher’s temple, the same three words of French he’d let slip on the lakefront, torn loose this time.

“Tell me what it means,” Asher said, mouth at his jaw, Patrick’s belt half undone in his fist.

“Someday.” It was barely a voice at all, his hips chasing Asher’s hand.

And then Asher’s brain, the worst possible organ at the worst possible time, reminded him what day it was.

He made himself stop. It was about the hardest thing he’d ever done with his clothes still on, his hand still down Patrick’s jeans, Patrick still hard against his palm. Every cell in his body filed a complaint.

“Wait.” He kept his forehead against Patrick’s, both of them breathing hard. “I can’t. I’ve got practice at six and the opener’s this week, and I cannot show up wrecked.”

“I know.” Patrick’s voice was shot. His hands didn’t move off Asher’s hips.

“I hate this. For the record.”

“Noted.” Patrick didn’t look any readier to let go than Asher was.