Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 80035 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 400(@200wpm)___ 320(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80035 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 400(@200wpm)___ 320(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
“My mom was from Montreal,” he replied, glancing over at Nolan, who was hovering curiously nearby.
“So you two know each other?” Nolan asked.
Denny nodded. “Yeah, we’ve been friends for a while.”
Once again, a slight hush fell over the diner.
Was it me, or was this what the dawn of acceptance in Elmwood felt like? A welcome from Nolan and an acknowledgment of friend status from one of the town’s hockey heroes. Wow, I could practically hear an angelic chorus from on high.
Voila. You’re in the door, Hank. If you don’t fuck this up, you might be outta here by the end of summer.
Nolan inclined his chin. “Cool. Glad to have you home, Den. Rest up. Camp starts next month, and you know Vinnie is ready to go. If I were you, I’d lay low or he’ll volunteer you to deal with registration.”
Denny widened his eyes comically. “I’ll hide.”
“Good idea.” Nolan chuckled. “I have a stack of paperwork calling my name in the office. Enjoy your breakfasts.”
I speared a bite of omelet and darted a sideways glance at Denny, cradling a cup next to me. “I think the poster of you on the side of the diner is twice the size of my cowboy billboard. Just sayin’.”
“No way. Yours is huge.”
“Why, thank you,” I teased.
He snorted and lowered his voice. “I love these people, but the celebration stuff is over-the-top. I mean, we lost. I shouldn’t be celebrating at all.”
I kicked his shin lightly. “Don’t be a buzzkill. You’re a lucky dude. No one ever named a hamburger after me.”
“Too bad. Hank’s hamburger rolls off the tongue.”
“True.” I took another bite of omelet. “Happy to be home?”
“You have no idea.” He sighed. “It always takes a few days to acclimate, but I’m looking forward to doing absolutely nothing.”
“Really? I can think of a few things I’d like to do with you…and to you,” I whispered.
Denny choked on his coffee, casting a wicked glare at me as soon as he could breathe again.
“Not here. Geez, this is harder than I thought it would be. I wish I could…touch you,” he admitted softly.
I rested my calf against his. “You will.”
His lips parted and his nostrils flared. Of course, my dick noticed. Before I could say anything clever like, “Fuck breakfast, let me eat you,” Dierdre showed up with his scramble.
Denny cleared his throat and thanked her, setting a napkin on his lap…possibly to hide his own boner situation.
We ate in companionable silence for a few minutes, legs pressed inconspicuously.
Don’t ask why, but the innocent contact felt as intimate as holding hands. It made me less stabby about the constant interruptions: autographs, more selfies and congratulations. It was a lot of one-sided “You’re the best” speeches that were probably really gratifying to be on the receiving end of, but damn, I couldn’t wait to have Denny Mellon to myself.
I wanted to lick his muscular, sexy body from head to toe, trace the planes and valleys of his abs with the tip of my tongue, suck his balls, lift his legs over my shoulders and taste him while he begged me for things we hadn’t done yet.
I fucking burned for the hockey boy. Yep, I was hard and horny. I was also stuck at a diner counter in a wholesome town with a stiff cock and a head full of pornolicious thoughts, unsure how to make a graceful exit without scandalizing the masses and earning an unflattering new nickname.
The Bone, Stiffy, Woody Cunningham?
Meh, fuck it. I paid for my breakfast, brushing against Denny’s arm as I stood, mumbling a barely intelligible good-bye.
Head down, I moved to the exit, my fingers flying across my cell screen. I read my text once and pushed Send.
See you at my place. Hurry the fuck up.
11
DENNY
I’d wanted this for weeks. No…for years. Many years.
This was day one of my big gay summer, and I couldn’t wait to get the party started.
I drove through town, wincing as I passed under the Welcome Home sign. It was so fucking big. I didn’t mind having my number painted on store windows. Less in-your-face, you know? That was me, though…subjectively contrary.
I cut down Myrtle and took the hillside road, following Carlton Creek to a dirt lane leading to the old Hamilton house. I’d never been inside, but I was familiar with it. Vinnie and Nolan hosted a lot of hockey-themed celebrations at their house next door. You couldn’t help noticing the red barn from the other side of the creek.
I pulled into the driveway and took the porch steps two at a time. I raised my hand to knock just as the door swung open and a boxer-brief-wearing, messy haired man pulled me over the threshold.
Hank didn’t bother with a greeting. He wrestled my T-shirt over my head as he kicked the door shut and slammed his mouth over mine.