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“Uh, yeah, my summer was okay, I guess.” Actually, my summer was spent waking up each morning in a cold sweat, dreading the upcoming season. Corwin Sanhover, front and center, each and every day—fuck my life.
More often than not he seems to be accompanied by Lawson, like some sort of pseudo bodyguard. Part of me wonders if something is going on between them. This is also the part of me that wants to run Lawson over with my truck, so I do my best to ignore it.
“Here, my place, wherever. You’re the important part in that equation, not the location.”
He must not know how to interpret my silence, as he rushes to explain. “I just thought, since you come over for dinner quite a bit, maybe we could talk in French since it’s your native language and you probably don’t get many chances to use it here.”
He doesn’t sound mad, more incredulous than anything. Which, in turn, makes me a little bit mad. Only Corwin fucking Sanhover would be surprised when someone cares about him.
“Okay.” He hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his boxers. “What next? Should I take these off, or do you do that?” He asks so sincerely I can’t help but laugh. Corwin Sanhover is a national fucking treasure. I walk to stand opposite him, leaning forward to pat the middle of the bed. “Just come here.”
“Sure, yeah. Good idea. You have a huge dick, so…” I let out a peal of laughter, pressing my face into his knee. Thirty-four years old and I’ve never gotten this much enjoyment out of foreplay.
Lawson lifts his head, tipping his chin to indicate Nigel, who’s busy measuring out three servings of soup. “And just so we’re clear, you ever say the word and I’ll take him out. No questions asked.” “I can hear you,” Nigel mutters. “Good. I expect you to treat Cor like the beautiful, smart, hockey god that he is.”
Above me, Nigel is muttering in rapid French; I hope he’s not telling me what to do, because my limited knowledge of the language does not yet include instructions on how to give head properly.
“You cater to me—no, it’s true and you know it—you cater to me in bed because I have no idea what I’m doing or what I like. But you do know what you like. It’s not fair, Nigel, for everything to be about me.” “Yes,” he deadpans, “everything was about you last night when we had sex, and today when you gave me a blowjob. It’s very difficult to live like this, but I am making it work.”
“None of what you just said was a hardship for me, and you are worth it. I love you, you fucking idiot.”
