Offseason

I'm on the escalator down to the baggage claim when I see Nick holding a sign. He spots me and gives me a lazy smile. One I find myself returning. I step off the escalator and walk toward him. Trying to act normal. Trying to pretend I'm not nervous.

"Hey Jas," he says.

His blue eyes are shining a little. He's wearing shorts and a polo shirt, trailing a black suitcase behind him. The sign, which I realize now is a piece of loose leaf paper, reads "JASON" in big, messy sharpie letters.

"Hey Nick," I reply. "Nice sign."

He grins, folding the paper and tucking it in his back pocket. "Wanted you to be able to find me."

"I found you." Again, I find myself smiling back. "Alright, where to?"

"Rental cars are over there," he says, pointing beyond the baggage claims. Revolving doors lead out to a vista of palm trees and terracotta buildings. "You got a bag you're waiting on?"

"Nah, all in my duffel."

"Then let's go."

###

Our rental car is comically small and bright red. Nick insists on driving. He rolls the windows down to let the breeze in. We wind our way out of the airport parking lot, heading north on the small island. The sun's high in the sky. Cacti and other strange plants dot the landscape.

"You been here before?" he asks.

"Aruba? No. Have you?"

"Once, in college." Something cross his face--nostalgia, maybe. "Spring break."

I wonder what Nick was like in college for a moment.

Then he answers me: "I was very drunk the whole time."

He weaves through roundabouts, following directions from his phone perched precariously on his thigh. The little blond hairs on his legs are shining in the afternoon sun. I let my arm hang out the window, take in the natural beauty of my surroundings.

"Here," Nick says, turning and pulling up a driveway.

I lean forward, peer out the windshield. A small stucco house with a red roof. There's a pool and a hammock tucked to one side, a small patio with a wooden table on the other. Palm trees dot the property. And there's a solid fence keeping things private.

He turns off the car, and I hear the waves crashing in the distances.

"This is amazing," I say.

Inside, the house is airy, smelling softly of the ocean. We carry our bags inside, set them down on the simple stone floors.

I turn to Nick in the kitchen. "What--"

He's kissing me before I can finish my sentence. I find myself laughing first, then returning the kiss. Remembering the last time. Letting myself remember. Because, fuck, it's been months, and he feels as good as I remember.

He pulls back, breathing hard. "Fuck," he mutters.

"We're here for a week," I remind him.

"We are?" He shakes his head gently, his arms winding around my waist. "I guess I get to savor you, then."

His lips are soft but his kisses are hungry. I let him steer me into the whitewashed wall, press me against his body. He's warm and he's not at all gentle and damn it, I'm gone.

Nick leans his head back, and I chase his lips. He laughs. "Think we should actually look at the bed first?" he asks.

"Ah-- Probably." I feel my face turning red.

"Come on," he says, pulling me into the air. I almost yelp. Wrapping my arms and legs around him for stability, I steady myself against his chest. "You good?" he asks.

"Yeah," I breathe. "I'm good."

He starts walking us out of the kitchen, down the hall, pausing occasionally to kiss me. We reach the bedroom and he sets me down on my feet, his arms still wrapped loosely around my body. I reach up and touch the side of his face, his smooth cheek, and his eyes close briefly. Savoring, as it were.

"You missed me," he says.

It isn't a question. His fingers toy with the bottom of my shirt, pulling it up a little, touching the small of my back.

"Yeah." My breath catches. "I did."

Nick smiles, leans into me, kisses me again. My hand moves from his cheek to the back of his head, pulling him closer. His hands work up my back, under my shirt, gently stroking my skin. He moans softly into my mouth. Unwittingly, I do the same to him.

When that kiss ends we're both breathless. He's panting, actually. There's sweat on his forehead, the air conditioning isn't that strong.

"Am I that hot?" I tease, wiping away the droplets.

"Yes," he says. His eyes, the bright blue, have darkened with need. "Yes, you fucking are."

He tackles me to the bed. I sigh as I feel his whole body weight pressing into me. But his mouth's on the side of my neck, planting soft kisses on my skin, humming gently as he works his way down to my collarbone. His hips are moving against me, too, maybe involuntarily, but I can feel him trying to fuck me, both of us fully clothed.

"You been good for me?" he murmurs into my neck. I groan, and he puts his mouth to my ear. "Have you been good for me?" he asks again.

My hips jerk into him, and he laughs. The sound, right in my ear, is enough to elicit a full moan.

"Fuck, Jas," he says, and it's almost a growl. He gets off me, pulls his polo shirt over his head. Drops his shorts to the floor. Then he's back on top of me, kissing me hard.

"I'm still dressed," I tell him between kisses.

"Well, fix that," he says.

"You're on top of me," I remind him.

Nick laughs. "Alright." He stands up again, looks down at me as I take my shirt off and struggle with the button on my shorts. "Fuck," he says, watching.

"Lube?" I prompt, shimmying out of my shorts and briefs.

"Right."

He disappears back to the kitchen, back to our bags. I stroke my cock and pretend I don't miss him on top of me. And yes, I know I'm pretending.

Nick remerges with the bottle. He smiles at me, watching me stroke myself, biting his bottom lip. "You're so fucking hot," he manages.

"So are you," I reply.

My cock twitches, precum drips from the tip. His eyes widen, then harden.

"Ass up for me," he says.

Obediently, I roll over, exposing myself to Nick. I sense the smack coming before it lands, but I still gasp as his hand slaps across my ass.

"Fuck," he says. "You look delicious."

Another moan escapes me as he wraps his lips around the tip of my cock, swirling his tongue. He doesn't take the full length into his mouth, he's at the wrong angle, but the sensations are still incredible. I whimper into the bed, grabbing fistfuls of the sheets.

He pauses sucking for a moment. "You want to get fucked?" he asks.

"Yes-- ah-- yes."

"You want to beg for it?"

"Please." The word comes out of me like a gasp. "Nick, please, please fuck me, please, I--"

"Damn it," he mutters, and I hear the snap of the lube bottle opening. "Keep fucking begging," he says while he slathers his cock.

"Please, Nick. Please." My cock is throbbing. "I'm fucking begging you, fuck me, please." I can feel his slippery fingers prodding my hole, poking in, sliding back out. "Please, I can't fucking take this, I need--"

"You thought about this a lot, Jas?" he teases, and I feel the lubed head of his cock pressing against me. "Tell me."

I'm trembling. "Every fucking day. Fucking hell, every fucking day."

"Fuck!" he moans, and he enters me in one go.

I let myself go as he fucks my ass. His hands are on my hipbones, guiding himself in and out, slowly building a pace. I'm whimpering, occasionally letting out a "please, fuck" or a whine.

"This what you were thinking about?" he asks, panting.

"Yes," I groan.

"Every day?" he asks. There's a lilt to his voice.

"Just-- fuck. Just fuck me."

And Nick obliges, picking up speed as he glides in and out of my ass. He's moaning too, trying to keep composure. I look up at him from the bed and his eyes are closed, his face awash with pleasure. "You're so fucking tight," he murmurs. "You're going to make me cum."

"Cum for me," I groan. "Fucking please."

There's no real warning, just "Jas, fuck," and he's cumming, filling my ass, gripping my hips for dear life.

He's silent for a moment. We both breathe. Then he loosens his grip on my hips and starts to pull out. I groan at the sensation of losing him, and he laughs softly. "Sorry," he says as he exits my hole completely.

My cock's begging to be touched. He seems to know, reaching down with a lubed hand. I let myself moan against the sheets, let the orgasm build. "Nick, can I--"

"Yes," he says. "I want to feel you cum."

And he does. He feels me pulse as cum shoots out of my cock. My eyes close with the sheer force of the pleasure. He keeps stroking me until I'm empty.

"The sheets, shit," he says.

I open my eyes and look down at the mess. "Oh."

He laughs. "We'll deal with that later. You good?"

"I'm good." I stretch my back, turn to look at him. "You missed me too," I say.

"Yes," Nick replies. He doesn't blush, but his ears are pink. "I did." Our eyes meet, and he smiles. "Every day, huh?"

I do blush, and I drop his gaze, too. "Ah--"

"You don't have to lie to me," he says. "We came here to fuck each other, I mean-- you don't have to lie."

"What if--" I swallow the words. "What if I want more than the fucking."

"Well," he says slowly, "I think we came here to figure that out, too."

###

The sheets tumble around in the washer. I found fresh ones in the closet, so we don't have to worry about tonight. Or tomorrow night. Or the night after that.

The sun's setting. Golden hour bathes the kitchen, casting Nick in a warm light as he slices something fragrant. He's making pasta, and I'm starving. I watch his hands as he delicately wields the knife, cuts paper-thin slices. I don't realize he's aware of my gaze until he stops and turns to me.

"You into shallots?" he says.

"Sorry. Hungry."

He grins. "I know. Sorry. Do you want to help out?"

"I-- I don't really know how to cook."

The grin fades from his face. "Really?"

I shrug. "Never learned."

"Want to?" Nick seems earnest. "I can teach you. A little."

"Sure." I stand up, wincing slightly, and join him at the counter. "Shallots?"

"Shallots," he says. "Do you know how to hold a knife properly?"

"Yes?"

"You don't sound confident, Jas." He picks up the knife. "When you're cutting slices, you never let your fingertips near the blade. That way you don't chop off your fingers." And he demonstrates, carefully holding a shallot into place while he slices. His knuckles serve as a guide for the knife, protecting his fingertips beneath.

"That makes sense," I say.

"Your turn." He hands me the knife. I try to mimic his technique, and he nods. "Good. I'll get the pasta water started."

Nick moves around the small kitchen behind me, futzing with the stove. I concentrate on my shallots, aiming for thinner and thinner slices. Once they're done, he takes them and tosses them into a pan with oil and chili flakes. "For aroma," he says.

"Sure," I reply.

He laughs again. "You seriously can't cook?"

I feel myself blushing. "I'm a DoorDash guy."

"How are you gonna land a man like that?" He shakes his head, a smile still on his lips as he opens a jar of tomato sauce.

"Never really landed anyone," I admit. Until you, I want to add.

"And that's why." He gently spoons sauce into the sizzling pan.

I laugh. "What, your cooking gets you guys?"

Nick pauses. "Well, no."

"Oh."

He's quiet as he moves to the fridge and grabs a container of heavy cream. I let the silence linger as he stirs the cream into the pan, turning the sauce a nice orange color.

Finally, he sighs. "Listen, I haven't-- I haven't been great at relationships."

"Neither have I," I say. "Not with men, at least."

"Women?" he asks.

"Tried. Not my thing."

He looks up from the bubbling sauce. There's something vulnerable in his eyes, something I haven't seen before. "So neither of us know what we're doing," he says.

I nod. "Yeah."

Nick smiles softly. He looks like he's going to say something, then changes his mind. "Dinner's ready," he says instead.

"It is?"

"Grab two bowls."

We eat on the patio, watching the sky turn pink and orange. Nick picked up some wine at the grocery store, too, and we don't bother with glasses, passing the whole bottle back and forth across the table.

The pasta's delicious. Like a penne alla vodka. "But no vodka," he points out. "You don't need vodka to make a good pasta." We both have seconds, then thirds, then there's none left.

The sky's purple and the wine's nearly done by the time I conjure the courage to say, "This is sickeningly romantic, you know."

He leans back in his chair. "I know," he says.

"Is that why you suggested we come here?"

In the twilight, it's hard to tell what he's thinking. His blue eyes are fixed on me, unreadable.

"Yes," he finally says.

My heart jumps. Skips. I clear my throat. "Do you want--"

"Oh, what the hell." Nick leans forward, puts his hands on the table. "I didn't think we were going to have this conversation for another couple days. But yes. I want you, Jas. Damn it, I do. And I don't know how the hell that's going to work with you in New York and me in California, but I can't fucking lie to myself about it. I want you."

My heart's pounding. "I--"

"Fuck, Jason, I'm sorry." He covers his face with his hands. "I just-- fuck."

"I don't know how it's going to work," I say carefully. "But for you. I'd-- I'd give it a shot."

He lowers his hands slightly. "What?"

"It's worth a shot," I say. "This. This is worth a shot."

Nick's eyes are right on me again. "You want--"

"Yes."

A nervous laugh escapes his throat. "Holy shit," he says.

###

Nick finally got the air conditioning working, so we're under a blanket in bed, lying on the clean sheets. It's dark in the room, the only light coming from the moon through the curtains. My head rests on his chest while he traces circles on my shoulder with one finger.

"I can't believe you thought about me every day," he murmurs.

"Well, more specifically your cock."

He laughs. "Still."

"You mean you didn't think about me every day?" I say, turning my head to look up at him.

"I did," he admits. "You're-- well. You're the best fuck I've had, honestly."

My eyes widen. "Wow."

He tips his head down, kisses me. It's a lazy kiss, wine drunk, slow. His hand slips from my shoulder to the nape of my neck, holding me close to him. I can feel myself melting, but I'm no longer scared of what that means.

Nick gently breaks the kiss and tucks my head back onto his chest. His breathing's even. I close my eyes and let myself melt further into him.