Chapter 23

Andy thought this might be the first time in years that he’d felt genuinelygrateful for anything—and here was Scooter wondering why he didn’t complain more. It didn’t make sense.

“You’ve worked hard for everything you’ve got,” Scooter said. “And this is your home. You shouldn’t have to give up space because Jeff’s an asshole and I’m forgetful. I’ll get it taken care of, right after the storm, okay?” He didn’t turn around, but the muscles in Scooter’s back were stiff, uncomfortable.

Andy didn’t know what to say or do. He didn’t know what he’d done wrong or how to fix it.

Before he could think of a response, Scooter said, “You should get your shower in. That seaweed down your trunks is gonna stick to your skin if it dries all the way.”

That sounded like something learned through hard experience.

Aaaand now he was back to thinking about what was down Scooter’s swim trunks. That he wasn’t wearing anymore. Because he was wearing Andy’s sweats, commando, his dick brushing against the same fabric that Andy’s had. Would.

“Yeah,” Andy managed, shoving the towels around until he could close the bathroom door. “That’s a, uh, a good call.”

He’d just gotten the water on and hot when Scooter tapped the bathroom door. “They’re done. I’ma go change and I’ll see you for storm prep when you’re ready.” And a moment later, the front door banged shut.

Andy sagged against the shower wall in relief. At least now he could deal with his most embarrassing issue.

He was too tightly-strung to bother with a tease; sitting there thinking about Scooter naked had been plenty of foreplay—and then it had been topped with nearly-naked Scooter and a brief but thorough look at his ass.

Andy wrapped his hand around his cock, hissing at how oversensitive he was already. He stroked slow, and then a little faster, letting his eyes fall closed. Christ, but Scooter was a menace. Standing on the beach, hair dripping salty water down onto his chest and back, making paths Andy wanted to trace with his tongue. The steady, reassuring rumble of his voice as he’d helped Andy stand on the surfboard, his hands firm and gentle. His shoulder bumping Andy’s as they leaned on the deck railing in the mornings, sipping coffee and watching the waves. The way his arms and shoulders flexed when he was rolling a beer keg into place or holding a broken shutter steady so Andy could re-attach it.

Thick thighs, all muscle, and an ass Andy would love to get his hands on. The rough edge to his voice when he laughed, the roll of it when he and Kat were firing Ukrainian at each other. Caring eyes and the kind of abs a man only got from real labor…

Andy gritted his teeth and a whine escaped his throat as he pushed into his grip faster yet. He dragged his thumb over the tip to smear pre-come around, slicker than the water, and a jolt of electricity juddered along his nerves.

And Scooter’s mouth, God. He was always biting his lip, leaving it red and swollen like he’d been kissing passionately. And then he’d flick his tongue over it, and he hadto know what that did, didn’t he? It was impossible to watch that and not imagine that tongue teasing at nipples and balls, tracing the vein up Andy’s cock before—

Andy’s whine spiraled into a shout as he came, surge after surge spattering the wall and floor to be rinsed away in the next instant.

He leaned against the wall, gasping for breath. Only the certain knowledge that he was expected and needed—that someone would come looking if he took too long—gave him the strength to turn off the water and clamber out of the shower.

At least the apartment was empty so he didn’t have to get dressed in the tiny little bathroom. He was reaching for his jeans when he saw his sweats, neatly folded on the table, a post-it on top with “Thanks!” scrawled across it.

Scooter had come back into the apartment while Andy was in the shower. While Andy was jerking off. While Andy was jerking off and thinking about Scooter

He might even have heard Andy moaning and known

Andy picked up the post-it note, brushed his fingers across the fabric of the sweats, and did something he hadn’t done for a very, very long time: blushed.

* * * *

Scooter didn’t usually smoke in the middle of the day; two per day was his compromise between his bad habits and his general attention to his health. (His ma had died of cancer, for fuck’s sake and smoking seemed somehow disrespectful, even if it wasn’t lung cancer she’d had.)

But he was gonna fucking fall over and die of a heart attack and he needed a cigarette damn bad.