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Harris slipped one hand past the waistband of his pajama pants and closed his eyes. He wouldn’t lie and say he had never got off thinking about Troy Barrett before, but it was different now that he knew what Troy smelled like. Not just a vague fantasy based on game close ups and promotional pictures and sharp cheekbones and imagining what was beneath those hockey pads. No, now Harris had seen Troy without the pads, seen him smile even. Well, nearly. And Harris had even kneeled between those strong thighs while he was setting up for their mini-interview. Yeah, that was a moment that Harris (and his dick) would not forget anytime soon. God bless Troy’s lack of consideration to the weather and god bless those shorts.
So, what, Troy had just been lounging around in his fancy hockey star hotel suite and then thought, “Fuck, I’ve gotta go apologize to Harris, right now. No time to change into pants.” The thought of Troy thinking about him at all sent a shiver through Harris and he stroked himself faster. His fancy suite must be warm, maybe he was just wearing shorts and a tank top before. Maybe laying back on his fancy hockey player couch. Maybe watching TV, maybe watching something that would make him laugh, really laugh.
Harris would give anything to see those eyes crinkle, his Adam's apple bob, his dark lashes clump together with tears. Harris would very much like to make him giggle, maybe reach under his tank top and tickle his sides, up to his armpits, that smell again, and then put his fingers in Troy’s mouth, watch his eyes close, make him taste himself, make him whine, making a mess of his probably inexplicably expensive shorts. Harris thought again of Troy’s smell, of the way it felt to be on his knees for Troy, Troy looking down at him, and that was fucking it, he was coming, biting on his lower lip so he didn’t hiss out “Troy” with his orgasm.
*
Troy waited until he was in the shower to think about Harris again, which in itself was concerning. He had been thinking a lot about apple fritters though. Troy wasn’t sure that he knew what an apple fritter was, exactly, but it sounded fried. And sweet. Maybe it was one of those pastries you see in a bakery window, shiny with grease and dusted with powdered sugar. Troy liked the way Harris’s whole face had lit up when he talked about his mom’s apple fritters. So open, so real. Troy would like to see Harris eat, lips shiny with grease, beard dusted with powdered sugar. He remembered how Harris felt between his knees, so solid and alive. Yes, that was a more normal thing to fantasize about.
Troy put his back to the spray of the shower and started to jerk himself off, fast. Harris’s lips open, eyes closed, lifting his head to Troy like he was the sun. Troy running his thumb over that delicious lower lip, slowly pushing inside, Harris swirling his tongue around it like it was Troy’s cock. The apple fritters had joined them in this fantasy too, Troy could smell them, sweet and warm like Harris, a plate piled high with them, just like Harris deserved.
Troy broke off a corner of the buttery pastry, steam rising from inside. He pulled his thumb slowly from Harris’s mouth and imagined the whine he would make, replaced with a moan when Troy pushed the warm pastry past his lips. Harris chewing, swallowing, and then opening his mouth, wanting more, eyes still closed, trusting Troy to feed him more, more, he deserved everything, those lips open, that tongue out, waiting, too good for Troy, fuck fuck he was coming, his orgasm spilled from him and took the stress of the day. Leaving Troy sleepy and, for just a moment, smiling.