by Edie Danford
I didn’t want to bail, though. There was something about this kid… I hadn’t felt good like this since my last real workout. Shit, maybe I hadn’t felt good like this for a couple years. Not since the last time Zachary and I had been together for real.
I took the bottle from his hand. It would probably be okay as long as I kept it just on my hands and rinsed really well.
“So your skin allergies are bad, huh?”
He was smart. But at this point it probably didn’t take really big brains to figure it out.
“Yeah, they kinda suck,” I admitted.
“Water is good, though, right?” He started up with a slow jack again. And, lord, it felt so fucking amazing. His dick was hot and silky, his hands rough and warm, and water was a relentless stream of cool over the whole incredible deal.
“Yeah,” I breathed. I braced one hand on the tile wall and gripped his hip with the other. As my eyes practically rolled back into my head, I thought about the give and take happening here. He was doing a lot of giving and I was doing a lot of taking. I should do something, right? Be a more active participant.
But his hands were so, so good. My hand would probably mess this up. I’d be too tentative, too—
“Come okay?” he rasped.
“What?”
“Are you okay with another guy’s jizz on your skin?”
“Oh. Yeah. Yeah.”
“Good.” He started to inhale and his breath hitched. “Because you’re about to get a load all over your dick.”
I didn’t know whether to watch the expression on his face—his eyes going wide for a wild second like he was struggling against some inner demon, like he couldn’t believe what was happening. Or to fix my gaze on the fine, fine line of his convulsing throat when his head fell back like he was giving up the fight, joyfully giving in to ecstasy. Or his cock—
“Coming! Fuck!”
I looked down at the eruption. Thick and white and copious and so, so hot in so many ways. I bit off a groan and kept thrusting against skin and liquid. I closed my eyes against a bolt of sensation and then I was coming too.
This time there wasn’t a vanity to hold me and I took a stumbling step sideways, bashing my shoulder against the tiles.
“Easy there, baby. You okay?”
I opened my eyes to see an incredibly cute smile. “Yeah,” I said. I cleared my throat. I was pretty sure my own smile looked sheepish as hell. “Better than okay. I feel fucking great. You definitely know your way around a dick.”
His mouth scrunched up on one side. He shoved a hank of hair away from his face and Mr. Moody-broody made an appearance. I was good with Mr. Moody-broody—turns out he turned my crank—but I missed the happy-cute spark that had shown up in his eyes.
“Yeah,” he said huskily. “I can usually get up to a pretty good time. With a dick.”
I laughed. “Sorry about the, um…” I gestured toward the abandoned bottle of body wash.
“No worries.”
“Thanks for being so fricking nice.” I pulled him into my arms. “Have you, um, had experience with a guy who has issues like mine? With skin sensitivities, I mean.”
“Not that I can remember,” was his noncommittal response. His hands felt tentative on my hips.
I was thinking maybe more kissing would put the spark back in his eyes. And I was also thinking I wanted to try my hand at giving instead of taking. Felt like I was getting the hang of this hooking up thing finally. Weirdly, Cocky Kid put me at ease. Now that I was in the zone, I didn’t want to leave.
But the kiss he gave me was brief, and when he put his hands on mine, they’d gone from tentative to businesslike. “Let’s rinse,” he said. “I think I need to get off my feet.”
“Yeah, sure. Tiring day, right?”
He stepped into the spray on his side of the shower and I stepped into the spray on mine. As water rained over my head, a tiny chill raced down my arms and legs. First time in forever I’d felt uncomfortably cool.
And I also realized it was the first time Cocky Kid hadn’t been right up against me since we’d entered the shower. Hell, since we’d gotten to the hotel. I tried to recall the past hour. Damn. I’d been touching him in some way or another since he’d taken my hand at that party…
I glanced over at him. He faced the wall, water glossing his hair down his back, turning the ends into streaky points that were like arrows pointing to his ass.
The night wasn’t over. Probably four or five more hours until I had to head out of town. And, God, when would I meet up with a guy like this again? A guy who could crank me up at the same time he unwound me? A guy who actually made me want to try the stuff I was usually too freaked out to try?
“Hey,” I said. “What’s your name?”
The muscles on his shoulders and arms tensed for a second and then relaxed. Obviously he wasn’t so sure about sharing. “Cinder,” he said finally.
“For real?” I couldn’t hold back a laugh. It was probably rude to question him on it, but it sounded so…fake. Maybe it was a nickname. Something he’d given himself to fit in with the hipster, artsy thing he had going on.
He turned to face me and shrugged, essentially telling me to take it or leave it. I wanted to ask him more questions, but the sight of his semi-erect dick made me lose my words. My gaze traveled upward, and the view from there didn’t help my ability to talk. I wanted to drop to my knees and explore that vicious tattoo with my mouth. The thorns seemed real enough to prick my tongue. I wanted to see if the dragon’s fiery breath felt as hot as it looked. I licked my lips.
He reached over and fiddled with the faucet controls. The water turned off abruptly and I shifted my gaze to his face.
“What?” he asked.
My ears rang and I found myself missing the whoosh of the water. “I…like the way you look.” Not the smooth invitation I’d been hoping to deliver, but it earned me one of his cocky smiles.
“I like the way you look too.” He looked down at his dick. It was getting bigger by the second. He laughed. “Obviously. Damn thing is bossy.”
Bossy. I narrowed my eyes, keeping my gaze fixed on his face, his neck, his shoulders. Without that sweet smile or that expression of otherworldly orgasmic pleasure, he seemed less accessible. We were standing in a shower stall together, our dicks raring to go for yet another round. Why did it seem we were getting farther apart?
Was it me making things weird? Me and my stupid hang-ups and awkwardness? Or was this about him? Maybe he was tired. Maybe I was too much work, not worth the effort. He could probably tell I wasn’t exactly experienced with this kind of shit—
I controlled a sigh. I was so good at so many things in life—how could I be so bad at this? I pushed my body to perform feats it didn’t want to do all the time. This—touching and coming with a hot guy—was something my body craved, needed. This should be the easiest thing ever.
“Do you have time—” I cleared my throat. “I mean would you want to…?”
“Want to…?”
“I have one condom.”
He slicked his hair away from his face. He shot me a quick glance, his mouth turning down on one side as he stepped out of the shower.
After turning sharply to toss me a towel—which I caught just before it landed on the wet tile—he retrieved another one from the rack and mopped his face.
I stood there like a big ol’ dope, clutching the towel against my midsection and watching as he swabbed down the rest of his body with efficient, quick motions.
“You want me to blow you?” he asked.
“Um. Well. I was kind of thinking…” I sighed as I lost good words again. Kind of thinking was about right. Jesus.
He leaned against the vanity, nonchalant as can be. “I thought you didn’t do anal?”
“Well, I don’t ordinarily get into it…but…” I wasn’t doing myself any favors. I was not behaving like a well-adjusted twenty-six-year-old athlete who’d been out and proud since he was fifteen.
�
��I like to double up and go with magnums, especially with a guy I’ve never fucked before. Also, I’m guessing the lube I’ve got will be no good for you. So me in that fine ass of yours can’t happen tonight.”
“Oh. Yeah. Yeah, makes sense, man.”
I realized I was still standing there dripping wet holding a towel. I kept my gaze on him as I began drying off. He began rubbing his hair vigorously, the long strands making faint slapping sounds as they landed against his back. I stepped out of the stall, dropping the towel on the bathmat. My hands couldn’t resist playing with the wet, black silk on his shoulders. But I couldn’t just stand there and fiddle with his hair. That would be weird.
“Can I help you dry?” I asked, tugging on his towel.
“Um…I guess?”
I smiled and captured the swathe of black on his shoulder with the towel.
“What’s the tattoo on your neck say?” I asked after working at drying for a few moments. I’d caught a glimpse of a few words inscribed just below his hairline. “Or is this one a secret?”
He shrugged. “It’s written on my body. Not a secret. You can read it.”
I used the towel to push his hair away, so I could read the small, stylized script. “‘Your very flesh shall be a great poem…’” I ran my fingertip over the black ink and laughed. “I can’t believe it,” I said, shaking my head.
“What can’t you believe?” He tugged the towel from my hand and took a step away from me.
“Walt Whitman. You have a Whitman quote from Leaves of Grass on your neck.”
“Yeah,” he said. He didn’t seem surprised I knew where the quote was from. But he seemed more annoyed than pleased I’d brought it up.
“You like Whitman,” I said. “Enough to make him a permanent part of your body.”
“Yep.” He shrugged. “I’m a gay man who likes poetry and loves sex. Of course I like Whitman.”
“God,” I said. “It’s so weird when connections like this crop up. Did you know I did a huge research project on Whitman in college?”
He tossed the towel onto the pile. “Not that I wouldn’t be interested at another time or in another place…but are we honestly going to discuss poetry right now?”
The same small smile was on his face—more than a little bit arrogant. Earlier in the evening I’d thought his cockiness came across as natural. I’d relished the idea of letting him take control because he seemed so easy with playing this game. Now, as I watched his reflection in the mirror, seeing tension in his back and his ass and thighs, tension that didn’t match his I’m-fucking-hot-and-I-know-it expression, I wasn’t so sure how easy this was for him.
“Guess not.” I scrutinized his features, finding him way more interesting than I should.
He put his hand on my arm, and I looked down at where our skin connected. The bracelets on his wrist were wet. One of them was rainbow yarn in a chevron pattern. They looked homemade—the kind someone would’ve had to tie onto him. The leather gleamed and I ran my fingertip over the strands, making them slide over the surprisingly delicate bone of his wrist.
“Friendship bracelets, right? I haven’t seen these in years. Looks like you’ve had them for a while.”
He didn’t answer. Obviously he wasn’t interested in conversation. Had to wonder why I kept trying. Habit, I guess. I was a friendly guy.
He slid his palm down my forearm, rubbing gently at my damp arm air, ruffling it until it stood on end. I held my breath. When he got to my wrist, he turned it and began to trace the edges of my birthmark.
I exhaled sharply and my dick twitched—a big enough motion it was impossible not to notice. He smiled up at me, but still with the moody-broody lurking around the corners of his mouth and eyes, and said, “Let’s go find your condom.”
He grabbed my wrist and tugged me out of the bathroom.
“I don’t want this to be all about me, though,” I told him. “I wanted to—”
“Believe me, baby, blowing you will be a dream come true.”
I snorted. “Some dream.”
I knew I had a lot of physical gifts—my parents and grandparents had been very generous with their excellent genes—but sometimes I felt really unattractive when it came to sex.
I mean, I was sure I came across as a whiny bastard. You don’t have the right lube. Your condoms are the wrong brand. I want you to fuck me, but I’m kinda freaked out about it and you’ll have to handle me with kid gloves…
“You’re fuckin’ gorgeous and you know it.” He led me to the edge of the bed and dropped my wrist. I hadn’t paid much attention to the bed earlier. It was king-sized. Puffy comforter. Fancy pillows. My knees felt jiggly, like my joints and tendons were waterlogged.
“Don’t think anyone really knows how they appear to someone else’s eyes,” I responded lamely. More whininess there. Don’t be me with me because of the way I look… Be with me because of me. See me. See me.
He stood in front of me now, looked me in the eyes and said, “I love beautiful things. I’ve made a study of them, in fact. And in my eyes, you’re beautiful.”
The sincerity in his tone was flattering. And his eyes—a dark, dark brown I wouldn’t mind getting more familiar with—seemed genuinely appreciative.
But he’d only known me for a couple hours. And “know” didn’t really apply to a situation like this, right? How could it? We hadn’t come to this hotel room to share anything but spit and jizz.
So hearing him say that shit—that he thought I was “a beautiful thing”—made me feel uncomfortable. I’d felt…something with him. A deeper connection. Or maybe the possibility of one.
He pushed me to the bed and I fell back, sprawling. He climbed over me, straddling me with long legs that were surprisingly strong. His moves were amazing. The swing of hair against his cheek, the play of his lean muscles as they worked beneath pale skin and ink. Graceful. Transfixing. Dizzying. Practiced…
He’d done this before. Many, many times. I needed to remember that. This was all about getting off for him. It felt personal, but it wasn’t. Not really.
“You’re thinking too hard,” he said, moving forward, cupping my face in his hands. He dipped his head, kissed me.
His lips were tender—perfect little nibbles coupled with sweet swipes of his tongue. For a few seconds I was caught up in a weird head space again. What was real? The warmth of his kiss? The seemingly effortless grind of his hips that so perfectly—too perfectly—created the heavy, rhythmic push, push, push of his dick against mine?
You’re thinking too hard. See with your heart and not your head.
A new voice bumped against the others in my head—unwelcome and impossible to ignore—my dad, the king of platitudes, the coach who could never stop coaching: I wasn’t using my brain, Joshua. I almost lost everything because I wasn’t using my goddamn brain.
My fingers had been scrabbling over the smooth sheets. I lifted my hands to his shoulders. “Stop,” I whispered against his mouth.
“What?” He pulled back. We were both breathing hard.
“I want to think,” I told him. “I like to think.”
He looked down at me for a moment and then he smiled. Not moody-broody. A real smile. “Um… Okay.” He nodded and swiped a hank of hair behind his ear. The gesture made him seem younger. Vulnerable.
I reached up and tucked more hair—damp and heavy—behind his other ear and I caught a glimpse of that Whitman tattoo. I wanted to push him down to the bed and play with him for a while, dive into the browns in his eyes and the textures of his skin and hair. Ask him a few dozen questions.
But no. That would be too real. Too personal. This—what we were doing together—was an hour or two of fantasy. Too bad my brain was telling me fantasy time was over. I sucked at fantasy. This was why I’d devoted my life to the study of history and facts. This was why I was headed out of town in a couple hours.
“You’re thinking…” he prompted.
“I’m thinking I need to go.”
He raised his brows and I couldn’t resist following one dark, soft curve with my fingertip.
“But…” He exhaled slowly. “What about your condom?”
I didn’t think he was joking, but I laughed. Couldn’t help it. He shrugged and joined in my laughter after a second, a good cover-up of any embarrassment I might’ve caused.
“I’ll be leaving Boston in a few hours,” I told him. “In my new town I’ll likely find a guy with a smaller dick and bigger conversational skills. Maybe he’ll be a condom candidate.”
He snort-giggled. An incredibly awesome sound that made it hard to shift around beneath him and free myself from the hold of his knees.
As he flopped onto his back, his head made the pillows poof and a wave of hair waft over his chin. His chin—its jut was striking me as more cute than cocky at the moment—yep, his chin and the scent of his hair and crisp sheets were more reasons to stay.
But the way he palmed his dick, his fingers slowly curving around his glans, his thumb working the crinkled skin of his frenulum…
God. Yeah. That. I glanced at his face. He was watching me watch his hand and his dick. On cue, he licked his lower lip. Either he was getting sloppy with his slick-dude efforts or I was getting better at reading his too-practiced moves.
I breathed out a small, sharp laugh. Yeah, the way he did all that was more reason for me to go. “You’re too much for me, man.”
His hand stopped rubbing his beast of a cock for a second. Then it started up again. “Nah. I’m not.”
I leaned over him and let myself play with his hair—just a quick swipe of the hank on his chin.
“Maybe if we had more time to talk,” I said.
“And more condoms…?”
I laughed again. “Yeah, that too.”
I shoved off the bed and went in search of my clothes. As I put them on, I watched him continue to jack himself.
Another adjustment in perception there. He interested me. And not just because of his amazing dick and his obvious skills with sex. He could totally be my type. But I didn’t do distance relationships. And it was likely we were both too insecure—even though we each had effective methods of covering up our insecurities—to really do anything to move beyond awkward but amazing sex.