Chapter Text
Taylor tosses his suitcase in the back of the truck, then opens the passenger door. “Thanks for the ride, bro. I appreciate it.”
Zimms frowns, eyebrows furrowed in an expression the guys call “Bad Robot.” Never to his face, mind. “You sure about this?”
“Yeah,” Taylor replies, grinning at him. He learned not to be afraid of that expression midway through training camp. Everyone else had been intimidated by their famous rookie, but Taylor had taken one look at him and thought, That boy is a big fucking marshmallow. And okay, maybe that wasn’t completely accurate, but it was enough to get him to work up the courage to chirp Jack Zimmermann on day one, and to actually get him to crack a smile on day two. By day three, Zimms had become Taylor’s very own special project: Operation Real Boy.
Sure, the massive crush he’d developed by then may have had a teensy bit to do with it. It wasn’t even his fault: the guy was smokin’ hot, with an unbelievable ass and a dick that was impressive even soft. (They all looked. It was Jack fucking Zimmermann, okay?) He looked like a goddamn model, not someone who’d had pucks aimed at his face for a decade. And that’s not even touching on the dude’s incredible skill and strong skating, on his fucking mind for the game. And then they connected so well on the ice that they got put on the same line. Taylor was still pretty firmly in the closet then, but seriously, fuck his fucking life.
Of course, that was almost a year ago, and Taylor’s crush has long since faded into something else altogether. Not that he wouldn’t hit that if it was offered — he’s only human — but these days he mostly just flirts with Zimms because it’s fun to watch him react.
“God, I’m so ready to get laid,” Taylor says, sliding down in the seat a little. “It’s been ages.”
“You hooked up with that guy from the coffee shop two days ago.” Zimms backs the truck out of his parking spot.
“I meant with Parse.” Taylor sighs dramatically. “God, he does this thing with his tongue—”
“Nope,” Zimms says firmly, and pulls out into traffic. “We’re not discussing that again.”
Taylor schools his smirk into the most innocent expression he can manage. “Did he have any tattoos when you dated him?”
Zimms goes Bad Robot again. “He was seventeen. Of course not.”
“Well, he does now. He’s got this one on his ass that I swear to god wiggles when—”
Zimms swears in French, one of those weird Quebecois phrases that’s apparently a lot dirtier than the direct translation would lead one to believe.
“All right, all right.” Taylor grins, then thumbs his phone on and scrolls through his emails, looking for his boarding pass. “Tell the guys I’m sorry to miss it tonight.”
“Should I tell them you chose sex over going to their college graduation?”
“If you want,” Taylor replies flatly. He likes Jack’s Samwell teammates, but he’s not going to feel guilty about this trip. “Aha, boarding pass. Good.” He favorites the email so he can find it again, and turns his phone off.
“It’s just… is this really the best time to go?”
“He invited me.”
“He’ll be stressed and exhausted, and gone half the time. What’s the point?”
Taylor turns to look at him. “This is really bothering you, isn’t it?”
Zimms opens his mouth, then closes it again. “No.”
“Then what’s with the inquisition?”
“Just… I dunno.” Zimms shrugs. “You know how hard it is during playoffs, how it gets. It’s not like you two are used to being around each other anyway.”
Taylor blinks at him. “Are you seriously giving me relationship advice right now?”
“Maybe.”
“And your advice is literally, ‘don’t go support your boyfriend when he really needs it’?”
“No, that’s not what I—”
“No, it kind of is. Are you saying having Eric around during the playoffs was a bad idea?”
“Of course not.” Zimms looks fairly horrified by the suggestion. “It’s just that you two have barely spent any time together. Doing it right now, while you’re still figuring things out and he needs to focus on his game — I dunno. It seems like a bad idea to me.”
Zimms had his boyfriend around during their playoff run, and got all the emotional and physical comfort he needed. But with the two of them being all coupley, Taylor was reduced to the role of miserable third wheel, barely able to score a decent hug when he needed one. And he needs hugs, seriously. He needs human contact on a regular basis, even if it’s just a chance to lean against someone else for a while. Better if they’ll pet his hair too, but honestly, he’s not picky these days.
Taylor presses his hands over his face and groans. He just wants to be there, so badly. It’s been really fucking hard to be so far away from Kent, but especially so over the last few weeks. Skype has helped, but it’s not enough, and Kent’s schedule is about to get crazy again in this round. Taylor can’t think of a single good reason to continue doing this long distance if they don’t have to.
He sighs. “I know it’s not going to be easy, but I want to be there for him.”
Zimms glances over at him, his expression one of surprise.
This conversation suddenly feels like it’s about to veer far too close to things Taylor doesn’t want to talk about. He raises his eyebrows. “And if that means I spend the next two weeks on my knees, well. I don’t mind.”
“Jesus, Whits.”
“Oh, like Eric wasn’t waiting naked in your bed all those late nights in the last round.”
Zimms’ cheeks go delightfully pink. He grips the steering wheel harder.
“Anyway, he lives in some kind of resort. It’s gonna be like a vacation for me.” He looks at the window, watches the city go by. “I don’t know about you, but I kinda need one.”
“Yeah.”
“Besides,” Taylor continues, “y’all’ll be busy playing house. You’re not gonna want to babysit me.”
“Yeah, I guess so.” Zimms’ expression goes slightly gooey in that way it always does when he thinks about Eric. Taylor’s pretty sure he doesn’t even know he’s doing it. It’s sort of goofily adorable, even if it makes Taylor’s heart clench a little. He wants that, so damn bad — but he has no idea if that’s what he really has with Kent. Or hell, if Kent is really the one he wants it with.
That’s part of what this trip is about. And if this week goes well, what the whole summer will be about. Then the World Cup, and then they’ll go back to their separate teams on opposite sides of the country, and… after that, he has no idea.
Zimms pulls up to the curb in the departures area, and turns to look at him. “When are you coming back?”
“Depends on how far the Aces go, I guess.” He didn’t even book a return flight yet, which… he’s not going to tell Zimms that. “You two are headed to Montreal soon, right?”
“Monday morning, yeah.” Zimms looks out the window to the departures area, pointedly. “Have a good flight.”
“What, no goodbye kiss?” Taylor flutters his eyelashes a little.
“No.” Zimms’ isn’t smiling, but Taylor knows his expressions well enough to see there’s one just under the surface. “Tell your boyfriend I said hello.”
“Want me to tell him you said good luck in the third round?”
Zimms hesitates, his expression souring.
“I know, too soon.” Taylor glances around to make sure they don’t have an audience, then leans across the seat to give him a quick hug. Zimms doesn’t hug back, but he leans into it a little. It helps. “Thanks, bro. For everything. I’ll text you, ‘kay?”
When Taylor pulls away, Zimms’ smile is genuine. “You’d better.”
*****
The opening game of round three is tonight, so Taylor had told Kent he’d get a cab and go straight to the arena. Kent had said, “We’ve got concierge for that, babe. Someone will pick you up.”
A woman in a sharp suit is waiting for him in arrivals. She looks younger than Taylor, with blonde hair pulled back into a messy knot and makeup that looks like it was applied by a professional. She’s tapping on her phone while holding a sign that says T. Whitton in very round print.
“Hi,” he says, stopping in front of her. “You’re looking for me, I guess.”
“Mr. Whitton,” she says, looking up from her phone long enough to flash him a practiced smile. “I’m Tara and I’ll be taking care of you this evening. Got all your stuff?”
“Uh, yeah,” he says.
“Great. The car is this way.” She takes the handle of his suitcase and tugs it through the crowd.
Taylor shits his backpack on his shoulder and follows, trying not to feel uncomfortable about the fact that a woman who’s probably five-foot-nothing without those spike heels is pulling his damn suitcase for him. He’s a pretty liberated guy, but he still thinks his mom would slug the shit out of his shoulder if she saw this.
The “car” turns out to be a limo. With a driver.
“What the hell?” Taylor almost — almost says. In reality, he says nothing; just smiles and gets in when Tara opens the door.
She slides in across from him and taps rapidly at the screen of her phone. “Would you like to go straight to the arena, or do you want to drop your stuff off at Mr. Parson’s apartment first?”
“Uh…” Taylor says, and swallows. “The arena is fine, I guess.”
She smiles brightly. “Okay. I’ll let PR know you’re on the way. Someone will meet us with a pass for you. Would you prefer to sit in the family suite or the press box tonight?”
Taylor briefly imagines himself hanging out in the family suite with all the wives and kids and girlfriends, not knowing anyone and feeling awkward as fuck. Yeah, no. “Press box is fine.”
“Great.” She smiles and goes back to tapping at her phone.
What the hell did Kent tell the team about him? They didn’t talk about it in advance, and Taylor’s been so careful to keep their relationship quiet. The only people who know are Zimms and Eric. Well, he’s pretty sure Rolly and Jansen have figured it out, and maybe Kratz too, but they stopped asking when it became clear Taylor wasn’t going to tell them anything.
He suddenly realizes he has no idea what to expect this week. That feeling is tempering some of his excitement at seeing Kent again.
He stares out the window, watching the massive buildings of the Las Vegas Strip get even larger as they approach. The T-Mobile Arena is right in the middle of the Strip, sandwiched between the New York-New York and Excalibur hotels. It’s been a while since the Falcs played here, but then they’d taken a bus straight from their hotel to the arena. He’d been so focused on the game ahead that he’d hardly looked out the window that night.
It’s still light out, but the Strip is a madhouse anyway: people and cars everywhere, and traffic so heavy almost nothing is moving. The limo driver takes a winding series of back roads, so they miss the worst of it, but it’s still a lot to take in.
He looks back at Tara, who’s still focused on her phone. “So, uh… Where should I put my stuff during the game?”
“Oh, don’t worry about it. I’ll take it over to Mr. Parson’s apartment for you.”
“Oh.” He hesitates a moment. “So, what exactly do you do for the Aces, again?”
“Concierge.”
“Which means…”
She gives him a surprised look. “The usual, I guess? I pick up dry cleaning, make appointments, make arrangements for out-of-town guests” —she pauses to gesture to vaguely at him— “and pick up kids from school, buy birthday and anniversary presents — basically whatever the players need done that they don’t have time to do themselves.”
“Wow.” It must be a Las Vegas thing. The Falcs have nothing even close to that. ‘Whatever they need doing’ could encompass quite a lot. “So what’s the weirdest thing you’ve ever had to do in this job?”
Her mouth twists into a wry smile. “I’m sorry, Mr. Whitton, but I really can’t divulge that kind of information.”
He chuckles a little at that. “Okay.”
She looks back down at her phone. “But I can say that Mr. Parson, unlike many of his teammates, has always been a perfect gentleman.”
Taylor’s eyebrows go up in genuine surprise before he can stop himself.
The limo goes through arena security, then pulls up to the employee entrance. A young man in an Aces polo shirt is waiting at the curb, his entire demeanor screaming hockey PR. Sure enough, he steps forward and opens the door. A wave of desert heat hits Taylor’s face.
“Mr. Whitton, welcome!”
“Yeah, hi,” Taylor says, blinking a little at the dryness of the air. He turns back to Tara. “Hey, uh, thanks for the ride.”
“No problem. Enjoy your visit!” She looks up from her phone long enough to give him a media-perfect smile.
Taylor climbs out of the limo (he’s still kind of freaked out about that, but he’s trying to be chill) and holds his hand out to the PR guy. “Hey, man. Taylor’s fine, please.”
“Cool, I’m Javier,” He replies, shaking Taylor’s hand. “I’m gonna take you up to the press box and get you settled in. We’re really excited that you’re here.” His smile is genuine, and it makes Taylor relax a little.
He takes Taylor in through security, where they take a quick photo of him and put it in the system, then give him a security badge. It’s more official than what he’d get as a one-time guest, he knows, and once again he finds himself wondering just what Kent has told them.
Javier leads him down a busy hallway and toward an elevator. Once inside, he pulls a black Aces jersey out of the bag he’s carrying. He raises his eyebrows and hands it to Taylor. “So, uh… he said to give you this.”
Taylor unfolds it: it’s Kent’s jersey, of course. He laughs. “I guess it’s too late to tell him I’m rooting for the Sharks.”
Javier pretends to look scandalized, but he laughs too, which sort of ruins the effect.
Taylor feigns a put-upon sigh and pulls the jersey on over his t-shirt. “There, think he’ll be happy?”
“I think you know him better than I do,” Javier replies with a twist of a smile.
The elevator doors open at the top level of the arena, the area restricted to press, team staff, and VIPs. The music from inside the arena is audible now, along with the muffled sounds of the crowd. Taylor glances at the time on screen of his phone: warmups have probably started by now.
Javier leads him through the crowd, down around the corner, all the way to the door of the press box. Taylor sees a few heads turn as he passes, but no one looks completely surprised to see him there.
No one looks up when they come in, either. The reporters are sitting on one side, around the table with the snacks. On the other side of the box are the scratched players, wearing tailored suits that are straining at the seams, all glumly watching the players warming up on the ice below.
The view from the press box is dizzying. It’s been a while since Taylor’s been in one, happily. He got scratched a handful of times in the beginning of his rookie year, and he’d taken it for the lesson it was: observe, and make note of what the guys on the ice are doing right, because it’s what you need to do to get back out there.
Javier hands Taylor a bottle of water. “You want anything else? A beer? Something to eat?”
“Nah,” Taylor says. “I’m good.”
“Have fun, then.” Javier winks and leaves the box, leaves Taylor standing there alone.
He takes a deep breath and edges awkwardly toward the scratched players. They look up when he approaches, and their expressions range from surprise to wry lifting of eyebrows.
“Hey, y’all,” he says, and sits at the end of the row.
The guy next to him turns to look at him. “Whitton, right? From the Falcs?” He’s young, has a strong French-Canadian accent, and his right ankle is braced.
“Oh, hi — it’s Beaulieu, yeah?” Taylor says, now remembering him from the night he met Kent, months ago. “How’s the ankle?”
Beaulieu shakes his head. “Pretty fucked. I’m gonna have surgery in June.”
“Shit.” Taylor winces. He remembers Kent talking about it now: it was the result of a dirty hit early in the first round. The guy who did it got a five minute major, but Kent’s rookie was out for the rest of the playoffs. Kent had been livid. “Sorry, bro.”
“Eh,” Beaulieu shrugs. “They say I’ll be skating by September.”
Taylor leans over the rail, looking for Kent below. He spots him stretching and chatting with a few guys, and his belly twists a little. So close, but it’s going to be hours before he can give Kent a proper hello.
Beaulieu leans in close and lowers his voice to a whisper. “He is very happy you’re here.”
Taylor’s cheeks heat. “Well, I wish I was still playing, but since I’m not, I guess this is a good place to be.”
“Just don’t distract him too much,” Beaulieu says, then leans back in his seat.
Taylor glances at him: Beaulieu grins and looks out at the ice again. Okay, so Kent’s told a few people, apparently.
Beaulieu introduces Taylor to the other players, all healthy scratches. Two are callups from Reno, and both of them are a little wide-eyed when they realize who Taylor is. He grins at them when they stammer — he can’t pretend he doesn’t enjoy getting that reaction from other players.
“So how do you know Parse?” one of them asks, tilting his head toward the C on the jersey Taylor’s wearing.
“We met through Zimms,” Taylor says with a casual shrug. They both nod enthusiastically; he’d figured they’d know who Jack Zimmermann is. He can’t resist adding, “We hung out a lot at the All-Star Game. You know.”
“You’re both playing for the US in the World Cup this fall, eh?” the other asks.
Taylor smiles. “God, I can’t even think that far ahead right now.”
“So you just came to hang out with him?” the third player asks. His expression is different from the other two, a weird mix of amusement and suspicion.
Taylor smiles back coolly. “Ah, yanno. I’ve never really seen Las Vegas, and he offered to let me stay at his place. After the way our second round ended, I kinda needed a vacay.”
“Uh-huh,” the guy replies, and smiles coolly right back.
Taylor shrugs and turns to look out at the ice again. Next to him, Beaulieu snickers a little.
The game is intense. The Sharks dominate the first period, but the Aces come out fighting in the second, and finally take the lead on a power play goal scored by Kent. The entire arena erupts when the goal is announced.
Taylor shows up on camera a few minutes later, broadcast on the big screen. Some of the crowd seems to recognize him, to his surprise. He turns in his seat and points to the name on the back of his jersey, and the crowd roars their approval. Down on the ice, Kent stops and stares up at the screen, his grin obvious even from this distance.
The Aces win by two in the end. Taylor’s on his feet with the three Aces players in the box, shouting loud enough to earn eye-rolls from the jaded older reporters, and grins from the younger ones.
“You going to the dressing room?” Beaulieu asks once the stars of the game have been announced. (Kent is the first star, of course. Taylor’s already planning to blow him for that.)
“Yeah, sure,” Taylor says.
He heads down with Beaulieu, who’s still hobbling along on crutches. It takes them a while to make their way through the various levels of security, and by the time they’re standing outside the locker room door, Taylor’s stomach has tied itself in knots.
Kent is still doing press when they walk in. He’s got a dozen mics in his face, and he’s talking to them with a serious expression.
A few of the other players recognize Taylor and come over to slap him on the shoulder. He congratulates them on the win, keeping one eye on where Kent is.
Martinez grins and pulls Taylor into a bro-hug, even though they’ve never actually met. “Good to see you, man.”
“Yeah,” Taylor says, grinning. “Good to be here.”
“He’s so fucking happy you’re here,” Martinez says quietly, then pulls back and winks.
Taylor tries valiantly not to blush. “Yeah, okay.”
So Kent’s told his linemates, apparently. Okay. It’s not like the world isn’t going to know soon anyway.
There’s a clear moment when Kent sees Taylor: he actually stops talking for a full second and breaks into a huge smile, and loses his train of thought so clearly that most of the reporters around him turn to see what’s distracting him. Kent pulls their attention back and wraps it up, but it’s clear that Taylor’s presence has piqued the curiosity of the press in the room.
A few of them wander over and corner him, and he plasters on his media smile with an automaticity that would make Tasha proud. Yeah, he just flew out today from Providence, after locker cleanout. Of course their loss to Tampa Bay still stings, but he’s here to support his friend’s team and hang out in Las Vegas for a few days. Yes, he’s looking forward to playing on Team USA with Parse this summer. No, Jack Zimmermann isn’t here with him, and Taylor’s not sure what his plans are.
When the reporters let him go, Kent makes his way over. He’s a couple of inches shorter than Taylor is, and seems even smaller in nothing but UnderArmour and socked feet. He’s also clearly aware that every eye in the room is now on the two of them.
He grins at Taylor. “Bro. You made it.”
“Good game,” Taylor says, and holds out a fist.
Kent bumps it, then pulls him into a quick hug. “Missed you, baby,” he whispers, so quietly and quickly Taylor almost misses it, then steps back again.
Taylor wants him so much he can barely stand it. He smiles and nods, then forces himself to look away.
Kent gets undressed, and Taylor determinedly doesn’t look, talks to the other guys around him instead. Most of them seem genuinely surprised by his presence, so he repeats the story he gave the press, that he’s here on vacation, visiting and supporting his friend Kent Parson.
“So are you coming out with us now?” Johnson asks, pulling a clean t-shirt on over his wet hair.
“Dude,” Kracewski says next to him. (He’s totally naked, and good lord is he hung.) “We must. Is our last chance for a while.”
There’s a rumbling of assent around them; apparently they’re all heading to a sports bar in the New York-New York casino next door. Taylor shoots a helpless glance at Kent. He’s been waiting fucking months to get his mouth on Kent, and the idea of waiting even an hour longer than he has to is just torture. Kent shrugs in response, just apologetic enough to ease Taylor’s disappointment a bit.
So: they go out with the team. Even the old married guys go, many of them with their wives. It feels like a good night to celebrate, though: they won; they’re playing at home again in two days, and the round is only going to get tougher from here. It may be the last chance the team has to enjoy each other’s company for a while. Depending on how this round goes, it may be the very last.
Kent sticks close to Taylor, close enough that it’s making Taylor a little crazy, but not so close that they look like a couple. They have a few drinks, and Taylor talks to nearly everyone before they finally end up in a booth with Beaulieu, Martinez, and Martinez’s wife, Mara. She takes an instant liking to Taylor and leans heavily on him after a few rounds of shots, running her fingers through his hair.
“It’s just so soft,” she says for the fourth time, probably. “Can I braid it?”
Martinez snickers at her.
Taylor really wants to say yes — people touching his hair is a thing he likes, okay? But Kent’s knee is pressing hard against his under the table and Taylor can barely think straight at this point.
“I’m crashing,” he says instead. “That three hour time change is kicking my ass.”
“Fine,” Kent says, mock-exasperated. “What a lightweight.”
“We had locker clean-out this morning,” Taylor says. “And exit interviews, and then I flew all the way here. Do you have any idea how long I’ve been up?”
“Yeah, I’ve got an idea,” Kent says, grinning.
“Ha,” Taylor says. “Funny.” He looks around the booth, and he’s pretty sure that everyone here knows what’s going on. He’s just drunk enough that he doesn’t really care.
Kent’s hand slides up the inside of Taylor’s thigh, and Taylor’s dick actually twitches. “All right, I guess we’re heading out.”
“Have fun, boys,” Mara says, slurring her words now. Martinez wraps an arm around her and whispers something that makes her burst into giggles.
Kent squeezes Taylor’s thigh under the table, then slides out of the booth.
They head out to the front of the casino and wait in the taxi queue. Kent stays a respectable distance away from Taylor until they slide into the back seat of a yellow cab. Kent gives the driver his address, then plasters himself against Taylor’s side.
“I’m gonna suck you until you scream,” he whispers, then licks the shell of Taylor’s ear. “I’m not gonna let you come for an hour. You’re gonna beg for it.”
Taylor had half a chub anyway, but that gets him the rest of the way there. He closes his eyes and sinks down in the seat. “Fuck, babe.”
“Want me to?” Kent whispers. “I’ll fuck you so hard you won’t be able to walk tomorrow. That what you want? My dick in you?”
Taylor’s kind of past the point of words now. He’s nearly past the point of thoughts. He turns his head and looks right at Kent. Kent’s gaze rakes over his face for a few seconds, then he smirks in a way Taylor knows well. It’s usually the last expression he sees over Skype before Kent asks him to do something Taylor’s never tried before.
Kent shifts forward in the seat and raps his hand on the barrier between them and the driver. “Hey, man — I’ll double the fare if you drive slow don’t look back here.”
“My eyes are on the road,” the driver replies. “I’m not even sure anyone else is in the car.” He switches the radio on and turns the volume up.
Kent turns back to Taylor with a wicked grin, then reaches over to unfasten his jeans.
“Jesus,” Taylor whispers, and Kent slides his hand inside, wraps his fingers around Taylor’s dick.
Kent’s lips brush Taylor’s jaw. “Want me to suck you right now?”
“Ahhhh,” Taylor says, and closes his eyes. “You’re gonna get us arrested.”
“I would,” Kent says, his fingers tighter now. “I would suck your dick in the back seat of this cab, just lean right over and do it.” His hand twists against the head, thumb sliding through the fluid there, and Taylor nearly whines. “Get you in deep, just the way you like it. You love it when I choke on it.”
“Fuck, yeah,” Taylor says. He opens his eyes, stares up at the grimy ceiling of the cab.
“You love to fuck my mouth.” Kent’s breath is warm and wet against Taylor’s ear, and his hand on Taylor’s dick is pumping in a steady rhythm. “And you could do it right here, with the driver pretending not to watch. But he’d hear you, even over that shitty music. He’d hear it when you came down my throat, and he’d totally get off on it.”
Taylor slides a hand around the back of Kent’s head, and only barely resists the urge to push him down. The only thing stopping him is the thought that Kent isn’t bluffing: Taylor’s pretty sure he’d actually do it.
“God, look at you,” Kent breathes, and presses his forehead against Taylor’s. He’s looking down now, watching the head of Taylor’s cock disappear into his fist over and over. “So fuckin’ hot, babe.”
Taylor tightens his fingers in Kent’s hair, jaw clenched. He’s so close now, and he’s determined not to make noise.
“That’s it, baby,” Kent says, speeding up his strokes now. “God, I want to see you come like this, in the backseat of a fuckin’ cab, like you couldn’t even make it home.” Kent’s breath hitches a little, like he’s just as much on the edge as Taylor is. “You missed this, I know you did. No one touches you like I do, not even when I tell them exactly how you like it.”
“Yeah,” Taylor manages, and god help him, it’s true.
“I’ve been hard for an hour, thinking about getting my hands on you. Getting this in my mouth again.”
“Please,” Taylor breathes.
Kent’s hand stills for a full second, then he ducks down and takes Taylor’s dick in his mouth. Taylor gasps, lets his head fall back against the seat, his fingers still tangled in Kent’s hair.
This is crazy. He can’t believe they’re doing this in a fucking taxi, that Kent is really that reckless, but here they are and he’s not going to stop it now. His tongue, god — it’s like it’s everywhere at once, all perfect heat and pressure, with just the right amount of suction. Kent’s fingers wrap around the base and dip lower, tracing lightly over Taylor’s balls, just the way he likes it. Taylor peeks down through his eyelashes enough to see Kent’s head bobbing in his lap, mouth working him so damn good.
He scratches his fingers against Kent’s scalp, the closest thing he can manage to a warning, and tries not to make any noise when he comes. There’s definitely a sharp gasp, maybe a little bit of a grunt, but hell — the cabbie already knows what they’re doing anyway.
Kent’s mouth goes slack after, but he doesn’t stop sucking until Taylor pushes him away. Taylor usually likes to keep going — he can get hard again sometimes — but he’s too self-conscious now. It’s not like they’ve never done this with an audience before, but in a taxi, a couple of feet behind a random cab driver, is a little different.
Kent sits up again, breathing hard. “I’m gonna fuck you into next week. You’re gonna feel it for days.”
Taylor wants that too, so much. He nods, then leans into Kent and kisses him. Kent tastes like spunk, and fuck, it’s hot. Taylor whimpers a little.
Kent gives the driver a hundred dollar bill when they get to the front of the complex where he lives. The driver nods and continues on, like nothing happened at all. Fucking Vegas.
Taylor’s still kind of light-headed, but he manages to follow Kent down a winding paved pathway lined with desert landscaping and dim ground lights, all the way to the door of his building, then up to his second-floor apartment. Taylor’s been here once before, the first time he ever hooked up with Kent. He’d been starstruck then, mostly stunned at his luck in getting this far. He hadn’t imagined then that he’d be back under these circumstances.
Kent unlocks the door and leads him inside with a hand hooked in the waist of Taylor’s jeans. He doesn’t even bother turning on the lights; he just steers Taylor down the hall to the master bedroom. Once there, he pauses, pulls Taylor into a soft kiss. It’s all lips at first, teasing and sweet, until Taylor can’t stand it anymore and slides a hand around the back of Kent’s head and tugs him closer, licks into his mouth. Kent makes an almost guttural sound and melts against him, arms winding around Kent’s shoulders.
It’s been so long since Taylor’s been able to kiss him like this. He’s always liked kissing; loves the intimacy of it, the sheer romance of taking someone apart with just your mouth against theirs. It’s something he knows he’s good at, too, something Kent doesn’t get from anyone else.
Kent pulls back after a few minutes, and looks up at him with an almost dreamy expression. “Hey.”
“Hey,” Taylor replies. His knees feel wobbly now. He’s not sure how they’re both still standing.
“Missed you, Boo.”
“I missed you.”
Kent kisses him again, a gentle, lingering press. “But I still wanna fuck you.”
Taylor grins. “Yeah, okay.”
He ends up on his hands and knees with Kent pushing into him from behind, and god, he’d forgotten how good Kent is at this. His dick isn’t huge, but it’s somehow exactly what Taylor needs. It stretches him just enough and hits him precisely where he needs it, every time.
And okay, the thing is? He’s had a lot of sex in the last eight months or so. So damn much, but no one has ever fucked him like Kent does, god.
Kent’s pounding into him now, hitting his prostate on every stroke, and it’s a lot. Taylor’s still pretty sensitive from when he came in the cab, but he likes it, likes the feeling of being pushed like this, to the point where he thinks it’s all his body can take, and then being pushed further. He’s getting hard again now, cock hanging heavy between his spread thighs.
Kent pauses, leans over to lick Taylor’s shoulder. “You feel so damn good, babe. God, your ass is perfect.”
Taylor whines and pushes his hips back. “You gonna fuck me or what?”
“Gimme a sec.” Kent bites the skin beneath his mouth and laughs. “I’m gonna come too fast.”
“Mmm, you really did miss me.” Taylor rests his forehead on his arms and sighs, lets himself just feel for a moment. He likes the sensation of fullness, the friction just inside, the pressure. He likes bottoming, but he doesn’t actually do it all that often. It’s too intense to do casually, not something he feels like doing with just anyone.
When Kent starts moving again, it’s with a stream of profanity intermingled with whispered endearments against Taylor’s skin. It’s “so fucking good” and “god, the way you take it” and “ass tight as fuck” and “gonna fill you up, babe.”
Taylor gives as good as he gets, saying, “c’mon, fuck me harder” and “right there, just like that” and “your cock is so perfect.” The feedback loop is intense, and by the time Taylor comes again, hand pumping his own dick, he’s not even sure what’s coming out of his mouth.
Kent comes less than a minute later, mouth open against the back of Taylor’s neck, teeth sharp against the vertebrae there. His breath is hot against Taylor’s skin, and the words he whispers are ones Kent never says when they aren’t fucking. Words Taylor wants to believe, but he brushes them away, doesn’t let himself dwell on them.
Kent disposes of the condom and plucks a box of tissues from the nightstand. They clean up, then curl into each other. That, too, is something Taylor doesn’t get to do much, doesn’t really want to do with anyone else. Sex is one thing, but this — as much as he loves cuddling and being close to people, it’s never like this with the other guys he fucks. Being pressed against Kent, holding him like this, is a whole ‘nother level of touch. And it scares the shit out of him.
“So fuckin’ tired,” Kent says, and yawns.
“Do you have to get up early?”
“Practice at 11:00. Probably gonna leave around 9:00, though. My car’s still at the arena, so I gotta call Tara or cab it over.”
“Hey,” Taylor says, and kisses his forehead. “I don’t want to get in the way, okay? Whatever you need, I’m cool. Just let me know.”
“M’already looking forward to coming home to you tomorrow night.” Kent burrows his face into Taylor’s neck.
“Want me to cook dinner?” Taylor asks. He’s kind of kidding — he can’t cook anything other than pasta, really.
Kent sighs against his neck. “Whatever you want, pumpkin. Long as you’re here, I’m good.”
I love you, Taylor doesn’t say. But god, he wants to.
“Yeah, okay,” he says instead.
“Wearing nothing but an apron,” Kent adds.
“Do you even have an apron?”
“Probably not.”
“Too bad,” Taylor says, and yawns. “Cause I’d look good.”
“Gonna buy you one,” Kent says, his voice nearly a whisper now. “All lacey an’ shit. Amazon. You watch.”
Taylor smiles. “You do that, darlin’.”
Kent’s breathing is steady and shallow after that, and Taylor closes his eyes.
*****