He chuckled again and rolled us over so he was on top. “Bossy.”
Spotting the chance, I abandoned his cock to grab his shirt, and this time nothing stopped me from removing it. His muscles seemed to ripple, amplifying them, as the cool air hit his skin. I beamed up at him. “If this is the result, I’ll have to be bossy more often.”
“You’re next.” He snagged the top of my boxers and swooped down, taking them off as he went, leaving me reaching for him.
“Not fair, I had a head start.” I pointed at his pants. “Off, now.”
Hey, if being bossy worked before, right?
Amazingly, it worked again. Kneeling by my feet, he hooked his thumbs in the waist of his pants, his cock protruding through his zipper, bouncing in the air, and tugged them down a few inches. “There, they’re off my hips.”
I glared. He wiggled them down a bit farther.
“Fine.” I lunged up—and if you’ve ever tried to lunge from a position lying on your back on a soft mattress, you can imagine how graceful I was—grabbed his sides, and twisted us around so he landed on his back. We bounced, and I moved down his body so that when we finally settled, I was there to slide his cock into my mouth.
“Fuck, yes, good.”
I would have laughed, but I was too busy tasting his skin, which was salty and a little tart from a long day—he must not have showered. It made the scent of his arousal all the stronger as I buried my nose in his curls.
“Goddamn it,” he growled, but he didn’t sound the least bit angry. He laced his fingers through my hair and gripped hard, not stopping or pushing me, but letting me feel the force of his strength all the same.
I hummed my approval as I slid off, leaving a path of glistening skin in my wake. I swirled my tongue over the head, tasting where the saltiness was strongest, and resisted taking myself in hand. I wanted to focus on him. I wanted to hear his little cries when I blew cool air on his wet, hot skin. I wanted to feel the twitches of his muscle as I sucked him back down until he was lodged in my throat, almost choking me. I wanted to be completely aware as my throat convulsed around his cockhead and his fingers in turn convulsed in my hair.
“Fuck. Izzy, you’re going to make short work of me if you keep that up.”
The pet name, pulled out so rarely, made my cock throb. I backed off to catch my breath, and as soon as my lips were clear, he gripped me under my arms and hauled me up.
By pure luck, I straddled him instead of knocking cocks, and I lowered my hips until his cock touched mine. I slid them together—not quite a bump and grind, but like a slow-dance sway. His hands dragged down my sides until they rested on my hips. Soon he was controlling the rhythm of my thrusts and the intensity of the pressure, which left me to focus on kissing him.
I never tired of tasting his lips. I tugged the flesh between my teeth and teased it to swell before laving it with my tongue and soothing the bites. All the while pleasure built in my balls, higher and higher, yet his easy pace didn’t quite push me over. As if he wanted to see how far he could push me before I begged.
I was nearly there, the ache in my balls so fierce it was almost painful, when he gave in and wrapped his hand around us. Our cocks gained traction, and with only one hand holding my hip, I was free to thrust as much as I wanted.
And I wanted badly.
His hand was a little rough on the stretched, sensitive skin of my cock, but that only intensified the barely there lubricant that my drying saliva provided as I thrust. It was all I needed. With a shout, I jerked hard, and come spattered his stomach, oozing between our cocks and his hand.
His strokes sped up, and I eased out of his grasp and lowered my mouth to his nipple, sucking the little bud in as he grunted his pleasure. A wet shot hit my chin, and in some primal way it felt like I’d been marked. I would have gotten hard again if I could have. Instead I followed the trail of come down his stomach, cleaning up our messes as I went.
When I reached his cock, he hauled me back up. “Jesus, you’re going to kill me.”
I met his dark eyes and grinned. “What a way to go.”
“You’re such a cliché.” He raised his head and licked my chin, likely cleaning the come that I’d left there. “And a mess.”
“Well, that’s your fault.”
“Then I need to take responsibility.”
He rolled us over and licked my chin a few more times—which was more ticklish than anything—before giving my groin the same treatment I’d given his, although mine was already much cleaner. After a few perfunctory licks, he kissed his way up to my mouth and settled down beside me. He wasn’t small enough to lie on my chest, but he worked as a blanket, and rested his head beside mine on the pillow.
I turned toward him so we were nose to nose and he could see into my eyes. “I’m sorry that I’m not ready. I want to be—I want so hard to not make myself a liar—but it’s too scary still.”
“Scarier than losing me?” He winced. “No, don’t answer that. It’s not a question, and it’s not an ultimatum. I’m not going to make you choose between me and them.”
I twisted so we were chest to chest and I could wrap my arm around his waist. “You’d win.”
He sighed, come-scented breath and all. “It doesn’t feel that way.”
No, it probably didn’t. But I felt like a rock lodged in dry, barren earth. Staying was easier, even if I could see the blossoms a foot over. “By the end of the year, I promise.”
His smile wobbled, like he wanted it to be there but it was too hard. “Don’t do that to yourself.”
I tilted up so I could kiss him lightly. “It’s not an ultimatum for myself. It’s a deadline. Something for me to get comfortable with so when I do it, I’ll feel ready.” At his raised eyebrow, I added, “Hopefully.”
He returned the kiss, letting the words form between us. “I’ll try to be patient.”
I swore my parents’ house was getting farther away. It didn’t help that Logan was sleeping in and I had to make the long drive on my own, through pouring-down rain, without even his voice to serenade me—because no way in hell was I waking him up early just to talk to me on my trip down.
No, my only company was the knowledge that coming out to my parents would solve a lot of my complaints. All of my complaints, actually. Not that I spent the entire drive thinking about it.
Nope, definitely not.
The weather began to cooperate as I got closer to their place, with the rain stopping and the clouds overhead clearing. It was downright sunny when I pulled into their driveway. I parked next to my sister’s car, grabbed my father’s present, and headed inside.
Same thing, different day. I wasn’t inside more than a minute before Mom was harping that I didn’t wrap the present right—Sue and I shared a look—she complained that she had to do all the cooking—Sue and I shared another look—and my father grumbled about his computer acting up.
So, being the not-completely-terrible son that I am, I offered to check it out.
“Nah, you’re here as a guest. I don’t want to waste your time.”
“It’s no big deal. I’m sure I’ll be able to tell if it’s an issue you should go into the shop for or if it’s something I can fix in a jiffy.”
“Don’t you think if it was easy that I would have figured it out?” Dad snapped.
“Um, I spend a lot of time around computers, so I thought—”
“It ain’t an easy fix!” he shouted.
“Certainly. Sorry.” My stomach churned and tension strung my shoulders up tight. “Uh, good luck with it, then.”
“Least the Best Buy won’t have some damned Oriental helping me,” Dad grumbled, and Sue and I winced. “I tried calling that help line, and it was a complete waste of time. Couldn’t understand a goddamn word.”
I was reminded of why I tried to avoid starting conversations with my dad. “I had a similar problem when I called— Well, I can’t remember what it was for, but the person who answered had a Deep South accent. Sweet as could be, but I
had to ask a thousand times for her to repeat herself!”
I laughed—only a bit forced—because gosh darn, couldn’t thick accents just happen all over?
“She was probably black.”
My laugh died. “Since it wasn’t a Skype call, I couldn’t tell you. So Sue, did you have a nice drive here?”
Maybe we switched conversations on Dad a bit too often, because he didn’t even blink at the sudden change.
Sue launched into an overly detailed description of her drive and the traffic and the construction, and I’d never been more enthralled to hear about the potholes that had sprung up around her town over the winter. Finally we were distracted by the arrival of snacks. It was a godsend.
Mom littered the table with chips, dip, crackers, and nuts, then went back to the counter for a second round, because obviously what she’d provided wasn’t enough for four people. I shook my head and reached for a paper plate.
“Whoops!”
Something hit my back, and the unmistakable feeling of cold wetness soaked through my shirt. I glanced over my shoulder as Mom peeled off the plate she was holding, which contained a smashed brick of cream cheese that had once been covered in cocktail sauce. The red offered a nice contrast to my sky-blue shirt.
“Oh my gosh! I’m so sorry!” She set aside the plate and began attacking me with paper towels, which got the worst of it off but seemed to be grinding some of it in. “C’mon, if we’re quick and throw it in the wash, I bet it won’t even stain.” She held out her hand.
Grateful to get the wet, sticky thing off, I slunk out of it, trying my best to avoid smearing sauce all over myself. I held up the shirt once I was free and grimaced at the mark. The shirt seemed doomed, but I handed it over, and Mom bustled away to do a bit of laundering.
“What the fuck is on your back?”
Sue gasped, although it probably wasn’t because she’d seen the black ink trailing down my spine.
Play it cool, play it cool, play it cool, I told myself as I turned around. Dad’s face was red and his lip twitched in its grimace. I tried on the innocent smile I hadn’t worn since I was a teen trying to get out of trouble. “My tattoo?”
“Yes, your goddamn tattoo,” Dad snarled. “When the hell did that happen!” Not so much a question as an accusation. His eyes flickered down and narrowed. “What the hell are those?”
I dropped my gaze down to my nipple piercings. Goddamn motherfucking shit. I cleared my throat. “Yeah, I got these and the tattoo a couple years ago,” I said, flooding my voice with confusion. “I thought I told you guys about them.”
“You most certainly did not!” He highlighted this fact by standing and slamming his palms against the kitchen table, which creaked under the weight. I forced myself not to flinch. “Why would you mark yourself with something so fucking queer?”
So the whole world will know I’m gay, Dad.
Because I am fucking queer.
There were options for me to take this and run with it. Pull all the Band-Aids off at once, as it were. But as I met my dad’s glaring blue eyes, my cowardice once again took front and center. Being shirtless didn’t help, and I had to struggle not to cover myself and cower. “Dad, tattoos and piercings aren’t ‘queer.’ Lots of people have them these days.”
“Yeah, bikers and rapists. Like that waste-of-space Logan your sister brought home,” he growled, taking a step toward me.
“Hey! Don’t talk sh— Uh. Be nice about Logan. He’s my friend.” My heart raced. As if my dad would pick up on the inflection on the word friend and realize how much of a friend he was.
“And mine.” Sue moved to stand next to me, creating a united front. I wanted to sag against her. Hell, I wanted to hide behind her. Instead, I leaned slightly so our shoulders brushed, and I took what comfort I could from that.
Outnumbered, Dad shrugged, still huffing. “I don’t see why you’d do that to yourself. Paint yourself as one of those people.”
I wasn’t going to ask which group of people I was painting myself as. Maybe just as a person who had tattoos. Who the fuck knew. “I like the way it looks.”
That was easier than saying I’d gotten it when my first boyfriend broke up with me. Not as a reminder of him, but that I had a spine and all pain healed over. Plus I did like the art.
Dad snorted. “We’ll see how you feel about it when you’re sixty and can’t find a woman who will take you like that.”
“Dad,” I said, perfectly calmly, as if this conversation wasn’t making my palms sweat, “lots of people with tattoos get together. Maybe the person I’ll end up with will have tattoos.”
I could almost feel Sue fighting the urge to roll her eyes.
“Well, I don’t like it. And you’ve broken your mother’s heart.” Dad stepped back and returned to his seat, as if the conversation was done. And maybe it was. He’d said his part; he’d shown me the errors of my ways. Nothing else he could do since he couldn’t take me over his knee anymore.
I sighed in relief.
“What was all that yelling about?” Mom asked as she emerged from the basement where the laundry machines were. I didn’t get a chance to turn around—as if flashing my piercings instead of the tattoo would be better—before she gasped. “Oh, baby, what did you do to yourself?”
“Actually a tattoo artist did it,” I said, because I couldn’t seem to control myself. Logan would have laughed and given me a kiss, if only to shut me up.
Sue rolled her eyes so hard the axis of the planet changed.
Mom huffed. “You know what I mean.”
“Uh, well, I got a tattoo and piercings. I could have sworn I told you. Do you like them?” I asked, knowing she wouldn’t. But she also wouldn’t react like Dad, ready to skin my hide, so it was safe to ask and play the fool.
“It’s not what I would have done, dear.” She sighed the sigh of all put-upon mothers. “But it’s your body. As long as you’re ready to live with them for the rest of your life.”
I never understood why people said that. Did they assume most people got tattoos so that they’d go away? I mean, I understood the thought, You won’t want this when you’re older. But my line of thinking was that there were going to be a lot of things I didn’t like when I got older, so I certainly wasn’t going to regret a little bit of ink on my skin.
The old saying got it wrong: live fast, die young, and leave a good-looking corpse. Nah, I want my corpse to be well lived in.
Mom probably wouldn’t want us talking about death at my dad’s birthday though. “I’m hoping it lasts a very long time, personally.”
She sniffed. “Well, we should probably cover you up. Wouldn’t be proper at the dinner table. Rupert, get him a T-shirt, would you?”
My father shoved a salsa-drenched chip in his mouth and grumbled around it as he stood and left the kitchen.
“Thanks, Dad!”
I heard the grumbling echo down the hall. I tried really hard not to smile. Sue elbowed me in the side.
“Ow!”
“Now, now, that’s no way to behave,” Mom chided before I could exact my revenge.
I narrowed my eyes at Sue. “You better watch it.”
“Oooh, whatcha gonna do?”
I opened my mouth, paused, then closed it, smiling widely. “Nothing at all.”
She went from playful to suspicious in an instant, and I fought off a wider smile. Paranoia was a wonderful tool for revenge.
Dad came back down and handed me a . . . well, I’ll call it a shirt. It had to be his oldest, rattiest, mow-the-lawn-and-work-in-the-garage shirt. Once white, it was now pale gray, although translucent was a better description. Tiny holes lined the hem, and brownish stains hugged the armpits. It was going to be more disgusting to have to stare at this than my bare chest.
Sue leaned over, smug joy on her face, and whispered, “If you’d like, I think I have a spare shirt in my car.”
She was at least two sizes smaller than me, but I was really tempted to take her up on the offe
r. Instead I gritted my teeth and pulled the shirt on. Despite appearances, it felt clean, though it sagged around me like a sad hospital gown.
“Thanks, Dad.” I hoped he couldn’t hear the grimace in my voice or see the one I was keeping off my face.
“Yeah, just try not to get it dirty.”
“Definitely not.” I glanced down at the revolting shirt and had the sudden urge to send Logan a selfie. This torture might just make up for everything else I’d done.
I did end up sneaking into the bathroom and sending Logan a picture. He was all sympathy, although I could practically hear his attempts to hold back his laughter. He kept me sane as the day went, forwarding GIFs and videos, telling me of his own minor frustrations with a personal project he was working on, possibly blowing them out of proportion to make me smile.
My mom noticed my focus on the phone, of course, and immediately began harping on me about it and warming up for the “sins of ignoring your family in favor of your phone” speech. I wasn’t sure if Sue was saving me when she told Mom, “Obviously he’s in love.”
“You have a girlfriend!” Mom screeched, which made Dad complain and turn up the volume on an infomercial. Why did I get in trouble for checking my phone when he was in the room next to us not participating in our conversation at all? I’d have said it was because it was his birthday (and he could ignore us if he wanted), but it was par for the course.
“Um,” I said in reply to Mom. “I’m seeing someone. Yeah.”
“Why didn’t you bring her?” It sounded more like an accusation than a question. I probably deserved having to deal with this questioning at home and here.
“We weren’t ready yet, Mom. You know how intense it is to meet the family.”
Mom sniffed. “You and Sue make it sound like bringing someone here is like running the gauntlet.”
“That’s because it is. You didn’t even like Logan and you asked if he wanted children and how many!”
“I want little grandbabies. You guys aren’t getting any younger.”
“It is a certainty of time,” I muttered.
“What?”
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