...Jim slid his hand down his soapy abdomen and tried a do-over in his head. One where the moment their lips touched, Jim took charge—snaking one hand around Tommy’s lower back and the other threaded into that silky-looking hair, cupping the back of his head, holding him in place as Jim deepened the kiss. This time, he welcomed the parting lips, slanting his own across as he stroked his tongue inside, getting a fuller taste of Tommy, feeling the sleek slide of the man’s tongue against his own.

Giving up on teasing himself, Jim took his hardening shaft in a firm grip, the soap easing his strokes as his image of Tommy shifted from a kiss to Tommy on his knees in front of him. The vision of Tommy looked up teasingly at him from under his lashes as he pulled Jim’s cock from his pants, but there was nothing teasing about the way he took him into the warm depths of his mouth. He applied just the right amount of pressure and suction to ensure Jim wouldn’t last. And he didn’t, stripping the cum from his cock, in his mind painting the back of Tommy’s throat as his friend took everything he had to give.

Bracing himself with one hand against the tile, water cooling, Jim heard the faint sounds of his cell ringtone, abruptly bringing him back to grim reality—he was unemployed, and he’d missed a golden opportunity with Tommy. One at which he might never get another chance.

Jim haphazardly dried off and dug into his jeans’ pocket for his phone. The missed call was from Tommy, as if Jim’s shower fantasy had conjured him up. The voice mail hit his phone as he watched.

Getting really good at playing ostrich, he tossed aside the phone without listening. Jim dressed himself in sweats and an old T-shirt, grabbed a bottle of beer, and collapsed on the couch. He had become mindlessly engrossed in a re-run he’d seen often enough to know the lines, when the knock came at the door.

Shit.

The second knock came more forcefully, enough to convey that the person on the other side knew he was home and wasn’t going away. Ten to one it was Tommy, which Jim confirmed with a glance through the peephole. Tommy looked determined and in for the long haul.

With a deep sigh to bolster his nerve, Jim opened the door just as Tommy was set to knock a third time.

“Hey.” His friend fell silent and shifted uncomfortably.

Jim stood back to let him in. “For someone who’s called at least once—twice maybe?—and about knocked my door down, ‘Hey’ is the best you could come up with?”

That earned him a piercing look. “You’re not drunk yet.”

“Working on it.”

Tommy led the way into the living room, taking in the scene before flipping on the lights and turning off the television.

“I was watching that, you know,” Jim complained.

Without a response, Tommy disappeared into the kitchen and returned with two opened bottles of beer. “I ordered before I came. Pizza’s on its way,” he informed Jim as he settled on the couch. On Jim’s cushion.

Damn it to hell.

Grumbling as he made do with the middle of the couch, Jim glared at the man. “I don’t need your damn sympathy or your pizza. I just want to chill out. Alone.”

“You’ve got to eat,” Tommy reasoned, maddeningly sure of his welcome. At least most of him was. The smallest of signs, a clenching jaw, gave him away. Jim could almost see the stranglehold Tommy had on his responses.

Lips curving slyly as the possibilities ran through his head, Jim decided on silence as the first means of torture.

The minutes ticked by as they both drank their beer, and Jim began to frown. Tommy should be talking up a storm by now. About to burst, wondering who was torturing whom, Jim decided on another tactic; he sighed loudly.

Peering at Tommy when the expected question didn’t come, irritated as hell that the usual methods of getting Tommy going weren’t working, Jim pulled out the big guns.

“So what was that kiss today all about?”