Salty. Clean from the shower and not clean under that. Knox’s hips jerked and a hand landed on the back of Tate’s head, not pushing, just there.

Tate took more. His jaw stretched. He used his hand. He was sloppy. Spit ran down his wrist. He didn’t care. Knox’s thigh was stone under his other palm. Knox was quiet except for the air going in and out of him, faster now.

“Fuck,” Knox said, once, like the word had been pulled out of him.

Tate pulled off and stroked him, watching the head push through his fist. He put his mouth back on just the tip and sucked and Knox’s...