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Sid booted Geno out of the car as soon as the coast was clear.
Geno slipped and slid on the loose gravel towards the team’s favorite bar, a run-down joint that had seen its heyday a decade ago. He fussed at his hair the entire way, pushing the still-damp waves away from his forehead as he ducked through the heavy front door.
Sid tongued at the corner of his lips, swallowing down the last bitter taste of Geno’s cum, and settled back into the driver’s seat with a sigh. It had been a rough game for the both of them. Geno had been switching his sticks every other shift, and Sid’s feet just hadn’t been where they needed to be.
The Penguins had won tonight, and winning—even if Sid didn’t feel like he deserved it—was improved by two things: a beer and Geno’s fist around Sid’s dick. They’d failed to find a good room in the arena—the shiny new Consol Energy Center was too new, with half of its room still locked and purposeless. The dark corners they’d mapped out in the Igloo had been damp and cold, but they’d been plentiful.
The last few months had required endless scouting for new locations. Too often the solution had been Sid’s car. Geno was a prude about it, but Sid trusted his window tint and was desperate enough to put in the effort of convincing Geno. It never took much.
Sid pulled down the sun visor to peer at his face in the mirror. After he flicked a stray pube off of his chin, he hauled himself out of the car and into the brisk November night. Pittsburgh had tripped over the last days of summer and fallen headfirst into fall. Sid loved it. He loved just about everything right now.
“You’re full of shit,” Talbo roared as Sid stepped through the doorway.
Jordy, on the other end of Talbo’s accusatory finger, shrugged and knocked back more of his beer.
“I don’t believe you,” Talbo raged. Sid swung wide, installing himself at the corner of the long table the boys always commandeered and reaching for the already-sticky pitcher of beer parked at its center. “In Montreal I saw you walk out with that blonde—”
“I didn’t do anything with her. Believe me or not, boys. I’m just saying it’s working.”
“Did someone tell him to stop wearing that cologne his mom got him?” Sid muttered to Nisky, who hid his laugh behind the rim of his glass.
“You’re telling me you got a four-pointer on the night because you turned down some good dome from a hot—”
“That’s not what he said.” Nealer’s grin was sharp from across the table. “He said he wasn’t even jerking it.”
“No,” Talbo said, and then he paused at the sight of Jordy’s face. “No. That’s not healthy, man.”
“It’s a thing,” Jordy protested. “In November, you hold off. It’s a focus thing. It dials you in. Discipline, man.”
“Discipline,” Talbo said in disgust.
“Maybe if you had some discipline, you wouldn’t have gotten your jersey tugged over your dome in the second,” Nealer said.
Next to him, Geno smirked. He was curled in on himself like usual, almost wrapped around his beer glass. For a moment, his eyes caught Sid’s before he pulled his attention back to the unfolding drama. Sid leaned back, his sticky dick feeling heavier in his jeans. Maybe he could talk Geno into another round in the driveway of his massive house.
“You want to talk about discipline?” Talbo laughed. “You couldn’t keep your dick in your pants for two days. I bet if you went a week without getting sucked off your head would pop like a melon.”
“I can score on and off the ice,” Nealer insisted.
“Tonight you didn’t,” Flower chirped from a seat over.
“Fuck you,” Nealer protested, his voice growing louder.
“Try it,” Jordy said. “Just hold off until the next game, then you’ll believe me. It works. You get,”—he pressed his index finger into the table so hard the tip turned purple—“dialed in. Your brain clears up.”
“You’re like a nun,” Nealer said in disgust.
“Try it,” Jordy challenged. He swung to point back at Talbo. “You try it too. Just until the next game. Play the game with a full tank. It works.”
“Put money on it,” Nealer demanded, and Geno’s eyes lit up.
“Do it and I’ll give you a hundred if you don’t score.”
“Two hundred,” Nealer demanded.
“Fuck you, that’s easy money. I want in,” Talbo demanded, and Sid watched as the bets took over the table. Within seconds, half the team had agreed to keep their hands off their dicks for the next two days. Geno gleefully scratched down the bets onto a crumpled napkin littering the table. Sid was watching the way he bit his tongue between his teeth when Nealer speared him with a hard thump to the shoulder.
“Well, Cap? You want some cash in your pocket?”
Sid smirked, his eyes sliding to Geno.
Geno raised an eyebrow, and Sid, blissfully unaware of what was to come, leaned in.
“Really? You’re not fucking with me?” Sid asked.
Geno, hanging halfway out of the passenger-side door, frowned at him.
“We make bet,” he said.
“He’s bullshitting,” Sid said. “There’s no way he hasn’t jerked off all month.”
“You put money down. I put money down,” Geno said. “We play shit today. Maybe we try it, it helps.”
“It’s not going to help,” Sid said incredulously, but Geno slid out of the car and shut the door behind him. “Come on, G!”
He rolled down the window before Geno could walk any further and extinguish Sid’s chance at also receiving a blowjob tonight, though the flame of his hope was already flickering weakly. Geno had never invited Sid inside his new house, which sat, lonesome, at the end of a long driveway, its two neighbors hidden behind tall trees and bushes. Geno had bought it a year ago. Sid was trying not to think about it.
“It’s stupid. We’ve been playing fine, eh? The goals will come. What’s this gonna do?”
The corners of Geno’s mouth curled up. He looked like a pleased cat.
“I’m get more points than you this year,” he said, and turned on his heel.
Sid watched him retreat into his stupid mansion, his fingers tight on his wheel.
When he got home, he halfheartedly rubbed one out in the shower. He stubbornly refused to think of Geno, and his orgasm was unsatisfying. Sid fell asleep plotting how to make Jordy pay at their next practice.
“Well shit, boys,” Bylsma said as the last of the team staggered into the locker room. “Where was that hiding earlier this season?”
The silence around the room was initially shell-shocked; no one knew what to say in the face of eleven goals potted in the back of the Colorado net. The boys all looked at each other with the same wide eyes they’d had on the bench. Something was humming in the air, and it had made every pass connect, every puck slide between the pipes.
Eventually, the laughter began. Sid tugged off his pads, his back to the room so no one else could catch his scowl. Everyone knew he was a sore loser, but when the team had won, his dour expression became more embarrassing. The team had converted eleven times, and Sid hadn’t graced the score sheet once, not even a measly secondary assist.
He stewed on the bus back to the hotel. Their plane was leaving early in the morning, and what was usually an annoyance was a relief; the team had no time to go out to celebrate. They filed back into their rooms, and Sid stuck his foot into the doorframe of Geno’s room before Geno could shut the door in his face.
“You owe money,” Geno told him as he bullied his way inside, closing the door behind him.
“I’ll trade you,” Sid said, and he reached for Geno’s waist, eyes on the sliver of skin between Geno’s too-short hoodie and his sweatpants.
“No deal,” Geno said, smacking Sid’s hands away. “Two goal tonight.”
“Yeah, yeah, it worked, whatever. Game’s over now. That first goal was so fucking good, your hands are silky right now.”
Geno planted one of his silky mitts in the middle of Sid’s chest, pushing him back up against the door. The tension slid out of Sid as Geno leaned in. The smell of him was warm and faintly spiced from the lasagna the team had packed away for their post-game meal. Sid licked over his lips and tilted his head. He let his knees part, his body becoming an invitation.
Geno stopped just centimeters from Sid’s lips. Up close he was always so big, in the way that made Sid want to shiver and open up. It made him hungry, and Geno was always such a messy kisser, his mouth wet and—
“Goal’s good because I’m feel it. You need to try.”
“Lemme try,” Sid said, digging his fingers into the bony dips of Geno’s hips, but then Geno was gone.
“Try on ice, Sid,” he said, disappearing into the bathroom. “Keep hands off dick, maybe you get puck on stick little bit more. You’re see.”
“Fuck off,” Sid groaned. “You’re bullshitting.”
“I’m scoring,” Geno told him. “You, maybe not.”
“That enormous d-man was on me all night!” Sid protested. “I could barely breathe, he had me in the corners every shift.”
“I’m play half game against him too,” Geno argued. “Excuse. You really want, you do. You don’t want enough.”
“Fuck you.”
“If you want bad enough, you try. What’s this, you’re gonna try weird food, new routine, but not this?” Geno peered out of the bathroom for a moment. “Stupid.”
“You’re being a dick,” Sid said flatly. Geno rarely had an excuse to act high and mighty, and Sid didn’t care for it when he did. There was something about his face when he was feeling haughty that made Sid prickle with discomfort. Geno’s ego was usually a fragile thing.
“I’m try, it’s work, you’re mad,” Geno said. “You don’t try, fine, but if you don’t score, you can’t come to me, mad, and yell at me because I’m good. Maybe you try, it’s work.”
“Every guy scores just fine after getting his dick sucked.”
“Maybe I don’t need. Every guy? Not me.”
Shame and something worse curled in Sid’s stomach. He fumbled for the door handle. Geno popped out from the bathroom in only his boxers, his pale skin yellow from the old hotel lamp bulbs.
“If you think it’s too hard for you, you don’t try, it’s distract, okay. Don’t do.”
“I could do it,” Sid snapped, and Geno didn’t even spare him a look. He didn’t need to. Sid could tell just from his silence that Geno’s face was disbelieving.
“Fine,” Sid said. “I don’t need distractions either.”
He left without sparing Geno another glance, mostly to save himself from watching Geno curl onto his bed and being unable to do anything about it.
Sid returned to his hotel room and threw his clothes onto his open suitcase, collapsing into bed with a groan.
Being dumb over what he and Geno did was the worst thing he could do; maybe it was a distraction, Sid’s mental energy frittered away worrying about Geno’s hands and lips and his big house that he’d never invited Sid inside. The last offseason had been incredible, Sid’s head full of a near-constant Cup-induced delirium as he was pulled from one event to the next. Every moment had been incredible, except for the time he’d spent wondering if Geno’s summer was as good.
Geno wasn’t a distraction; he was Sid’s teammate.
Even so, Sid drew his hand away from his waistband. He curled it into a first and shoved it beneath one of the overstuffed hotel pillows, letting the latent feelings of arousal and disappointment and shame settle low in his gut. It wasn’t an unfamiliar sensation to Sid of late, but letting it simmer instead of momentarily expelling it with a few minutes’ effort kept him up for an hour, watching the digital clock on the nightstand slowly tick each minute by.
Geno couldn’t take his eyes off Sid in Buffalo.
No one could. Sid had three points on the night by the end of the first. Once he smacked his second goal into the net halfway through the third period, the booing faded into the satisfying, begrudging silence of an upset but awed crowd. It was so quiet the ping of his third goal bouncing in off the bar echoed off the far glass.
When Sid slid along the bench, smoking, on fire, the guys howled at him, smacking his raised fist. Bennie wrapped his arms around Sid’s head and nearly popped it clean off of Sid’s shoulders.
Geno, as he straddled the boards, awaiting his turn on the ice, smirked at him.
Fuck off, Sid wanted to say. His jock was tight and ill-fitting no matter how much he shifted his weight and fussed at the waistband. He felt like he could take his cock out and stroke it right there, in front of Geno and the entire arena. He’d feed it to Geno under his visor and hold onto the hard plastic of his helmet as he pumped his hips forward. Sid could play stupid games and win them all the same.
Geno leaned in, and Sid’s breath caught in his throat.
“Good,” Geno rumbled, smacking the back of his fist into Sid’s chest protector before skating off to center ice, neatly swerving around the few hats that had been thrown in Sid’s honor.
“I’ll get another one,” Sid said to him, though he was too far away to hear it.
Geno bent down at center ice, his broad shoulders set, his posture eager and hungry, and Sid ached with want.
He got a fourth. The boys went out after, got horrifically drunk, and Sid fell asleep with a half-hard, untouched dick.
The team rolled through November like a freight train, thundering through their games. Even if they lost, their losses were spectacular and hard-fought. The trainers’ office door revolved endlessly as they nursed bruised ribs and sore ankles and tweaked nerves.
Sid found he didn’t mind it. When the entire right side of his torso was mottled and brown from a brutal hit courtesy of the Panthers, it brought a welcome distraction from the soreness in his balls.
The acolytes of Jordy’s plan weren’t shy with updates. They kept count of how many days they could go without tugging one out and ruining the invincible power coursing out of their blue balls. Talbo had hit a proud 14 days before he walked into the practice rink’s locker room and said he’d unleashed the biggest load known to mankind that morning.
“It was disgusting,” he reassured Kuni, who watched him with eyebrows so high they threatened to jump off of his forehead and escape into his hairline.
By the end of the month, the number of nuns—as Talbo took to calling them—had dwindled. So too had the team’s performance, but they were still winning more than they lost. Most players had fallen off the train, happy enough with their performance to consider the experiment a moderate success.
Geno, though, persisted.
Sid kept watching him in the locker room in vain hopes of seeing some change, as if he’d walk in with a hairy palm one day. Geno looked the same as ever, and so did his dick. Even while Jordy was getting razzed for having a stiffy after practice, Geno remained placid.
His hockey was incredible. Sid thought about it when he was awake and dreamed about it when he was asleep. When December rolled around, Sid was anxiously waiting on its doorstep.
They were out again in Pittsburgh, back at the bar where it began, when Geno laid on his brakes and refused to follow Sid out to the Range Rover.
“You’re shitting me,” Sid said flatly.
“It’s work,” Geno said. “I’m keep until it’s stop.”
“Your dick is going to fall off!” Sid hissed.
Geno was unmoved. Sid left the bar alone, and when he arrived back at Mario’s, he was grateful that the house had already turned down for bed. Despite Geno’s rejection, Sid had been hard the entire drive home.
The magic had faded quickly for him, too—it had stopped working only a week in, though Sid had stubbornly stuck to it, first in an attempt to bring the success back and then to prove to Geno he was just as unphased as Geno seemed to be.
That, more than anything else, bothered Sid. Geno had excised their trysts in an instant. He didn’t seem to struggle. He hadn’t joined in as the rest of the team bitched and moaned about the difficulty of keeping their dicks dry.
Sid, freshly through his bedroom door, fell onto his bed and shoved his jeans down his thighs.
Geno had been playing like he was on fire. He was strong on the puck and graceful in his stride. Geno’s hockey had been the first thing Sid noticed about him all those years ago across an ocean, when Geno hadn’t been anyone but an opponent to Sid. That the years since had led them here, in the same city, on the same team, in tight closets and backseats, was something that seemed impossible but felt inevitable.
It had all felt so right at every turn, in the same way hockey had felt right to Sid. It had been easy to let his eyes linger on Geno, to think about the few boys he’d kissed at Shattuck, to reach for more when he caught Geno watching him back. It had felt so easy that the first real barrier Sid had encountered—Geno’s unwillingness to let them fall into a bed that wasn’t a hotel’s—stopped Sid dead in his tracks.
Sid had known very early on that what he wanted was Geno. Geno had wanted him back, but now Sid was wanting more than just Geno’s mouth on his, Geno’s hand down his sweats in a dark corner where they couldn’t be found.
And here Geno was, denying himself everything that Sid had been unable to keep himself from.
It was over nearly as soon as it began. Sid wrapped his hand around his cock and jerked it once, twice, and cum hit his chin. He gagged as some of it flew onto his lips. It was thick and rank, and he stumbled on numb legs into the bathroom, wiping at his face with his shirt and groaning in disgust.
He woke up once more in the night, his hard dick trapped between his stomach and the mattress. He took care of himself quickly, though he lasted long enough to make his stomach twist with the images he brought to mind: Geno on his knees, smiling up at him with a devious glint in his eyes, his breath hot on Sid’s sensitive skin; Geno’s long cock slotted into the valley between Sid’s groin and thigh; Geno leaning in for a kiss, his eyes already closed, his lips open and hungry for Sid’s.
“Who pissed in your cheerios?” Rupper muttered as Sid’s garment bag dug into his shoulder.
Sid forced his way further down the airplane aisle. His face stung from the frigid weather that had blown into Pittsburgh, his toque pulled over his numb ears. The team had been trapped in their departure gate for almost two hours, grounded by sleet. They’d get into Toronto in the dead of night.
Sid wished he could close his eyes and wake up at center ice. He didn’t want to be trapped in a metal tube with his team for ninety minutes after the hours they’d already spent piled atop each other in the private gate. When bored, hockey players made each other into the entertainment. Sid was combustible.
He missed Geno. The mechanics of orgasm were only a physical relief now; they were pale and boring without the relieved laugh Geno liked to muffle against Sid’s skin, or the feeling of Geno’s big paws cradling the base of his skull, or how Geno always grinned at Sid’s bad jokes like he was just happy to be hearing them, that the joke itself was secondary to hearing Sid say it.
Without sex, there were no quiet moments of just the two of them. There were only the watchful eyes of their team, always looking for an angle to exploit for laughs.
“Sid woke up feeling like a princess today,” agreed Brooksie.
“Even Sid gets tired of dealing with you clowns,” Kuni offered, but his intervention was brief; he settled into his seat and cracked open the brick of a book he’d been working on all season.
“Someone get him laid in Toronto, please,” Joey pleaded from the back of the plane.
“You’d be a bitch too if you hadn’t played any five-on-one in almost a month,” said Nealer, and Paulie couldn’t fully muffle the snort that came out of him.
“You’re not still on that shit, are you?” Talbo groaned. “Fuck’s sake, Sid. We’ve lost a few. Let it go. Don’t turn this into one of your things. You’re a nightmare.”
“Did you forget how to do it, Croz?” Nealer asked with waggling eyebrows.
Next to him, Geno’s eyes flickered to Sid’s for the briefest moment. He was still wrapped in all his winter garb, unable to handle even Pittsburgh’s cold, much less Toronto’s. Under his toque and above the chunky scarf obscuring half his face, his eyes were dark and warm. He looked like he was smiling under there, amused as he often was by Sid being the team’s beloved target.
Sid felt none of the enjoyable warmth of taking the guys’ shit now. He was exhausted and unhappy and his hockey wasn’t even worth writing about.
Sid threw himself into the seat next to Flower, who glanced warily at him before busying himself with his PSP. The team settled into the flight as soon as the plane took off; they were all tired from their hours spent in the airport, and by the time they were shuffling off of the plane and onto a bus, it was quiet.
Before he could shut himself into his hotel room, though, Tanger caught his arm.
“You want to go out?” he asked.
His expression wasn’t playful or teasing. He watched Sid seriously, his dark eyes scanning Sid’s face like it would give him an answer before Sid’s mouth did. Sid had liked him ever since his first call-up to the team. His quietness off the ice and explosiveness on it reminded him of Geno. Sid suspected him of being shy and poorly hiding it, but he’d been coming out of his shell. He liked going out on the town as much as the next guy.
“I know a place, it’s… it’s good. Nice girls. English,” Tanger continued with a small smile; Sid’s French had already degraded so badly since he’d left Rimouski that the team’s Frenchies ripped him for it. This wasn’t one of Duper’s pointed teases.
“We’ve got morning skate tomorrow,” Sid said. “See you there.”
Tanger cut bait with his mouth pressed flat in acceptance. Sid locked his door behind him and showered to scrub the smell of airplane off of his skin.
In bed, he pressed his face into the pillow and groaned.
He wanted to text Geno. He wanted to wait by the door to let Geno in, so they could take the unused queen bed and push its overstuffed comforter to the ground as they wrestled for position. It was never a fight to get off, but they almost never had the same idea for how to get there. Sometimes it was Geno bucking against him, trying to roll underneath and pull Sid on top of him when all Sid wanted was to feel Geno’s soft tongue on his cock. Other times it was Sid, beaten up and exhausted from a game, hungry for Geno to press up along his back, an arm thrown over Sid’s side, his fingers soft and teasing on Sid’s inner thighs.
It was always fun, and that was what Sid missed.
He didn’t think until the call connected. Geno was silent, just like he’d get sometimes when he and Sid were tucked away, watchful and a little wary, even if his lips were spit-slicked and swollen, even if his legs were tangled with Sid’s, their hard cocks pressed against each other as he waited for Sid’s next move.
“G,” Sid whispered, like they were in the back of the bus and their hands were places too intimate for public. “Hey.”
“Sid? Okay?” Geno asked. He sounded groggy, like he’d just woken up, or just come down Sid’s throat and was a half-second from falling asleep. Sid let out a shaking breath and palmed at his half-hard dick.
“Yeah, I’m okay. Tanger wanted to go out. He wanted to hook me up.”
The call went dead, and Sid’s fingers froze around his dick.
Shame burned through him first, clearing the path for the wave of anger that followed. He slammed his phone into the pillow, cursing at himself, mortified that he’d stoop to this, embarrassed that Geno wouldn’t entertain him.
He slept like shit, and it showed when he stepped onto the ice at the Air Canada Centre. He was grimly determined to get through the game by brute force alone, even if every pass felt disjointed.
What Sid wasn’t expecting was for Geno to look even worse.
After the fifth turnover, Dan benched him until the buzzer, which made Geno’s rage worse. He rattled down the runway to the locker room, where everyone gave him a wide berth. Sid tucked himself into his stall, tendrils of guilt creeping up his esophagus.
The game ended as it began; the Penguins fell flat on their ass, and Geno earned himself a one-way ticket off the bench in the dying minute after shouting in protest at the ref trying to book him for tipping a Leaf over in the corner. He stormed off, pointless, and the Penguins slunk back into the locker room after him twenty seconds later.
It was almost a relief to get swallowed by the vulturous Toronto media, because it meant Sid didn’t have a chance to look for Geno exiting the showers and then slipping away. It was easier to ignore and be ignored, instead of to search and see Geno passing him over, reaching for hockey instead.
The flight back didn’t improve morale. Some players snapped at each other as they deplaned in Pittsburgh, while others just slunk off into the private hangar without a word. Sid, who hadn’t slept a wink, chewed on his tongue as the rest of the team shuffled past him. Geno was dark and venomous, wrapped in his coat and toque again like he was trying to hide from the rest of them.
He steeled himself and followed after Geno, who made a break for the bathrooms like he always did after a flight. The hangar was dead at this time of night, half of the lights off, not a single staff member waiting besides Josef, who manned the front desk. There was no one to ask questions when Sid planted himself in front of the bathroom door and waited, trying to wrap his head around what he was doing.
He didn’t feel quite ready when the door swung open again and Geno collided with him.
“We’ve gotta talk,” Sid said as Geno swore loudly.
“Why you care?” Geno said, trying to step away. Sid followed, and Geno’s back hit the bathroom door.
“Because you don’t talk to me anymore.”
“So? You go out, have fun with team, girls,” Geno bit out, but he wouldn’t meet Sid’s eyes.
“You want me to?” Sid said angrily. “Are you just going to let your dick fall off? What kind of hockey is that getting you, anyways?”
“You don’t worry about!”
“It’s my job to worry about your hockey!” Sid hissed. His hands fisted into Geno’s peacoat. “Captains do that! And you played like shit, you’re pissed at everyone, and you dropped me like you didn’t give a shit!”
“So I go out, find girls with you and Tanger? No!”
“I don’t want to find a girl,” Sid snarled, and then his lips were on Geno’s.
He’d missed it more than he’d realized, somehow. It had only been a month, but without his summer distractions and post-Cup delirium, it had felt interminable. Geno’s mouth, even twisted in anger, felt so good it made Sid melt. He pressed himself up against Geno, enjoying the press of his chest and the way his neck bent to accommodate Sid’s height. His body was whip-thin under Sid’s hands, any summer gains already burnt off as he became sharper and honed from hockey. He tasted of the Russian candies he always had jammed into his pockets: strawberries and a rocketing zing of citrusy acid.
“G,” Sid said into Geno’s mouth, and Geno’s hands finally stopped hovering over his back and gripped him.
He was hard. Sid could feel it up against his stomach, thick and pressing. His mouth grew wetter in response. He wondered if Geno would let Sid wrangle them back into the bathroom, if Sid could get on his knees—if Geno would even last, if Sid would pull him out of his sweats and he’d go off like a firework, thick and disgusting and hot on Sid’s skin. The moan that escaped from Sid’s throat was swallowed down by Geno easily, and Sid’s hand slid between them, searching, hoping—
Geno gripped his wrist so tight the bones ground against each other.
“You go out?” Geno demanded, his breath hot on Sid’s wet lips.
“No.” The word shook out of Sid’s empty lungs. “Fuck, Geno, I didn’t—”
“You say, on phone.”
“Tanger invited me. I didn’t go. Why do you think I called you? I wanted you to come over, but you were doing the stupid bet.”
“Why’s it stupid?” Geno demanded. “It’s work.”
“Was it working tonight?” Sid asked. “Your dick is going to fall off.”
“Why you care?”
“Because I like your dick, and I miss you,” Sid said, and then caught himself.
“I miss it,” he said and tried to take a step back, but Geno’s hand remained locked around him, keeping him close.
“You miss.” Geno drew the words out, testing them, but his expression wasn’t twisted up like he was about to make a joke at Sid’s expense.
“So?” Sid said weakly.
“You miss get laid? You miss dick sucked?”
A “yeah” hung on the tip of Sid’s tongue. It would be easy to say—it would be the same thing they’d been implicitly reaffirming to each other for the almost-year they’d spent doing this, finding each other in dark corners and gasping their orgasms against each other’s mouths and saying little else.
Sid wanted that again, but it wasn’t all he wanted. It’d be like getting the Prince of Wales Trophy without getting the Cup—hollow, half-finished.
“I miss you.”
Geno’s face was inscrutable. He looked Sid over, his lips pursed and dark from Sid’s kisses. For the briefest moment, his fingers danced against the hair that curled against Sid’s neck. The shiver that shook Sid’s body was uncontrollable, a frisson that vibrated against Geno’s fingertips.
Geno smiled.
“You miss get laid too,” he said, and Sid had only about a half-second to be confused before Geno’s lips were covering his again.
“My car?” Sid asked desperately, hopefully, even as Geno kissed him and mangled the words.
“No,” Geno said, and he tilted Sid’s head how he wanted it. Sid let him, consumed by how Geno held and maneuvered him as he wanted.
“Please,” he begged against Geno’s mouth.
“House,” Geno demanded, and the brightest star of hope ignited in Sid’s chest.