“You know what I mean.”

  “Yeah, dumbass, I know. But I’m not giving you a fucking scorecard. If you want that, hop on Prowler and knock yourself out. Plenty of guys will be willing to tell you all the ways you don’t measure up.”

  His body stiffens. He looks away.

  God help me, I think. And then, only slightly more clearly: How in the fuck did I get myself into this situation? Because the fact that I am in it is growing clearer and clearer. The night’s previous unreality has washed away, and now I’m faced with the fact that not only is this happening, but somehow, I’m supposed to be the adult in the room, which is so fucking unfair.

  I rub his stomach through the tee. I don’t expect it, but in some ways, that feels more intimate than the kiss—like I’ve crossed another line I didn’t even know was there. “Think about it this way,” I say. “I enjoyed kissing you. Did you like kissing me?”

  He’s still looking over me, past me. He’s so tense his stomach feels like iron under my fingers. But eventually he says, “Yes. Obviously.”

  God, I think. Maybe I need a switch.

  “Okay,” I say. “That’s what matters. It’s not like porn. It’s different with everybody. So, part of the process is figuring out what you like, and if you’re a good partner, you try to figure out what your partner likes, how to make them feel good.”

  That gets his attention; his eyes lock onto me again. “What makes you feel good?”

  “I liked kissing you. That felt good. I’d like to try a little slower, though. See if we both like that.”

  I don’t know if Sammy thought it through or if he was literally jumping my bones, but now it seems like a good thing that he’s on top, since it gives him control. He drops his head to mine more slowly this time, and this time, when he goes to kiss me, I tease him a little. I let him brush my lips, and then I pull back. I smile at him, and then I move to meet him, and then I pull back again. He’s got stubble, enough to scrape. The next time I withdraw, Sam’s smiling. A hint, barely there, but it’s good he’s relaxing.

  “You’re doing that on purpose,” he murmurs, and then he catches me by the nape and pulls me in for a kiss.

  He’s a good student, and I know I’m going to hell, but I can’t help thinking that Sammy just got himself another mentor. He’s slow, like I said, and he’s more careful about how our mouths meet. I kiss him back, and we stay like that for a while. When I run my tongue against his lips, he hesitates. And then his mouth opens, and I slide inside. He’s wearing shorts, and I feel him get hard instantly.

  He wants to try too, kissing me as deeply as he can, and I don’t know if he realizes he’s doing it or not, but he scoots forward, pressing us more closely together. Minute by minute, he relaxes. He starts to pick up on what I do, and he does it too. His mouth softens. He pulls playfully at my lips. He’s making up for twenty-four years, and he’s making good progress.

  And I can’t help it, but I’m getting hard too.

  I know the minute he feels it: he’s shifting on my lap, and he freezes. His mouth hovers over mine.

  “He’s got a mind of his own,” I whisper, and I tweak Sam’s ear.

  His voice is husky when he says, after a second, “Mine too.”

  “I like feeling you get hard against me, but if it’s weird for you, or if it’s too much right now, we can change positions.”

  Sam shakes his head. And to my surprise, he even says, “No.” He only stumbles a little when he adds, “I like it.”

  “Good,” I say. For the first time, I let my hands settle on his hips, and I stroke his belly lightly with my thumbs. “Is touching okay?”

  He swallows, and it’s loud. But he nods.

  “Let’s try something else,” I say. “Come here.”

  He lets me slide him forward. His hard-on is trapped between us as I kiss along his jaw, then down his neck. He shivers, and his breaths have a punched-out quality like he’s trying to hold them back. I bite his collarbone, and it’s Sammy’s first sound of the night: he moans. It’s short, and he squashes it pretty quickly, but it was there. And it was mine. I work his ear next, and the way he jolts when he feels my tongue is like an electric shock.

  “Shit,” he breathes.

  “You like that?”

  His head wobbles like it’s on a loose string.

  “Okay, babe,” I say. “I’m feeling really good, being with you like this. Are you okay?”

  He sounds like he’s been running when he huffs, “Great.”

  I’m smiling as I press another kiss to the side of his neck, and he shivers. When I touch Sam’s nipples for the first time, it’s that electric shock again; he jumps on my lap, and his breath comes out in a hard burst. I ease off, taking little bites at his collarbone, making him squirm as I ease my hands under his shirt. He’s so warm, and his body is soft and firm at the same time. I work my way up slowly, keeping up the kisses, going back to his ears.

  He’s restless now, fidgeting constantly, this little catching sound in his throat. And he sounds drunk when he says, “Gray. Gray.”

  I run my thumbs over his nipples, and he stiffens.

  “Oh shit. Gray!”

  “I know,” I whisper. This time, I take them and twist and pull—not hard, but enough that I know he’ll feel it. At the same time, I bite his collarbone.

  Sam convulses. His hands gather fistfuls of my shirt, and he shouts, “Shit! Shit! Shit! Shit! Shit!”

  It isn’t until I feel the warm wetness soaking through my shirt that I understand.

  When I lean back, he’s panting. His cheeks are red, and his mouth hangs open: picture of one totally fucked-out boy. It would be criminally hot except—

  “God damn it,” he says thickly.

  “Hey,” I say. “Hey, it’s okay.”

  He starts to get off my lap.

  “Whoa.” I loop my arms around his waist. “Hold on.”

  “You have got to be fucking kidding me,” Sam says. He’s looking everywhere except at me, and he’s pulling at my arms, trying to get free. “Let go.”

  “Wait a second. Sam, stop. It’s okay. That was so hot. I’m letting go, but please wait a second.”

  True to my word, I release him. He inches back, and I wonder if that might actually be worse—his shorts are gray, and it’s impossible to miss the wet spot on the front. Or, for that matter, on my shirt. He’s staring down at the space between us, misery painting his expression. But he doesn’t run.

  “That was hot,” I say again. “I really enjoyed that. What about you? How are you doing?”

  “How am I doing? I shot in my shorts, that’s how I’m doing.” More words burst out of him: “Like I’m twelve fucking years old.”

  I wait a beat before I say, “So, is that an A? An A-plus?”

  When he looks up, I don’t even have words for his face. A hint of outrage, maybe. Chagrin. Maybe even anger. But he catches my tone, I guess, because then it all gets hammered into a not-quite scowl. “I thought the gays didn’t have a scoring guide.”

  I shrug. “Improvise.”

  He sits there for a few seconds. His shoulders sag. “It’s so embarrassing. I swear to God, that’s never happened before.”

  “Why the hell would it be embarrassing? Sam, it’s a compliment. I liked getting you off. Like, really liked it. I’m attracted to you. I like kissing you and touching you. And I promise I’m not saying this to make you feel better, but it was hot, watching you come, knowing I did that for you.” I feel a hint of heat in my cheeks. “In case you didn’t get the memo, I have some serious issues around attention and validation.”

  His posture is a mix: the defensive tilt to his shoulders vying with the unmistakable desire to believe that this had been good for me—and the satisfaction that went along with that. Finally he says, “It’s not like I have a problem.”

  I’m careful not to smile. “I know.”

  “It was just…a lot.”

  “In a bad way?”

  He says, “No,” in a way that would have sent Gran running for something to tan his hide. And now I do let myself smile.

  “So, we could do that again,” I say.

  He shrugs. Then he looks at me. “What about you?”

  “I’m fine. I’m great, actually. I want to make sure you’re okay too.”

  He shrugs again. But he relaxes a little more, and then, to my surprise, he reaches for my hands and takes them.

  I can’t help the little laugh that escapes.

  “What?” he asks, and he’s all bristles again.

  “Nothing. It’s—a lot of guys freak out after they nut. I was waiting to see if you were one of them.”

  “Why do they freak out?”

  “That’s kind of the big question, isn’t it?”

  He seems to consider it. He’s still holding my hands. His are soft in some places, callused in others. He turns mine palms up like he’s inspecting them. And then, slowly, he brings them up, and he kisses each palm once. His eyes are dark and impossible to read.

  “I guess you’re not going to freak out,” I say, and my voice has a little burr in it. I don’t know what to make of it, but if Sam hears it, it doesn’t show in his face.

  “I want to get out of these shorts,” he says.

  “Yeah, of course.”

  He cocks his head.

  “Oh,” I say. “Oh! Wait, are you sure?”

  In answer, he slides off my lap. He keeps one of my hands and tugs, and I follow him into his bedroom.

  He shuts the door and turns on a lamp, and he’s already turning himself out of his shirt and bucking out of his shorts. So much for undressing each other by candlelight. I strip down to my briefs, not sure if I should go farther, but when I glance over, Sam’s already bare-assed.

  It’s almost impossible to see the scrawny kid with the bad complexion from a few years ago. The man in front of me has broad shoulders, big arms, a torso that’s defined—and the little fuck is still skinny enough to have abs popping out. He’s got a little fuzz around his nipples, more between his pecs, and a surprisingly thick trail down from his belly button. And Lord Almighty has that boy got a bush, where strands of come still glisten.

  He’s also a fucking donkey.

  I mean, I want to be a gentleman. I try. I really do.

  But Sam Yarmark has got a third leg. It’s half-hard again, bobbing every time he moves, and I’m guessing it’s a fucking monster once it’s at full mast.

  There’s also this part of me that is weirdly gratified that I called it. Skinny country boys and their dicks, man. It’s a real thing.

  I drop my briefs, and we stand there, looking at each other.

  I say, “You’re okay if I come over there?”

  “Gray, I shot my load while you played with my nips. You don’t have to keep asking me.”

  That gets me moving. He’s warm when I put my arms around him, and I can smell his load, now, and the slight spiciness of our bodies warming up. When we kiss again, it’s even easier this time, smoother, better. We’re almost the same height, and there’s something about how he softens in my arms, like he’s melting. Because he’s been starving, a little voice says in my head. Because he’s waited so long. Don’t let it go to your head. But it does go to my head, and I want more of it, and more, and more.

  He’s running his hands up and down my arms, so I flex for him, and I grin when he laughs. He touches my nipples, and then my belly. The pause, if it is one, is so brief that I might have imagined it, and then he slides his fingers down and brushes my cock.

  I groan, and he freezes. “God, Sammy, don’t stop.”

  He touches me again, moving more confidently this time, tracing the outline of my dick first and then wrapping his hand around it. He pumps me once, wipes his thumb across my slit, pumps me again. I feel flushed: chest, shoulders, this hectic heat radiating upward through my whole body.

  And then he stops.

  “Are you shitting me?” I ask.

  He gives this husky little laugh I’ve never heard from him before, and he pushes me onto the bed. I bounce once, and then Sam is crawling up next to me. He bends, kisses me, kisses my chest, my shoulder, and then runs his tongue across my nipple. But he doesn’t stay long. He kisses a line down to my belly button, and then he sits back. He touches my legs, runs his fingers down the inside of my thigh, then down my calf. He wraps his hand around my ankle, and for a moment, it’s so grounding and possessive and intimate that I can’t believe someone touching my ankle can make me gulp in air, make my eyes sting.

  “Come up here,” I whisper, and I pat my chest.

  For a moment, confusion flickers in Sam’s face. And then uncertainty.

  “We’re trying new things tonight,” I say. “Remember?”

  He’s heavier than he looks, but his weight is high enough on my body that I can still breathe, and I like how solid he feels. I like—if I’m being honest with myself, which I’m not always—how it feels to have him pinning me to the bed. The monster is jutting out above me, and I stroke it a couple of times. He shivers and touches my wrist like I’m supposed to stop, but I do it a couple more times just to drive him crazy. Then, guiding him as best I can, I take him into my mouth.

  He tastes clean and masculine, only a hint of musk, and of course, come. He’s too big for me to take in this position—not all the way, at least—but I do myself proud. He moans. It’s nothing I’ve ever heard before. Even those sounds he was making when we were on the sofa pale in comparison. He’s holding himself so still that I know he’s afraid of moving, so I nudge him, and slowly, he starts to thrust. It takes him a couple of tries—and a couple of close calls—before he figures out how much I can take without literally choking on his dick. Once he’s got his rhythm going, I get a hand around his shaft, the length I can’t take into my mouth, and jerk him. It’s like patting your head and rubbing your stomach—hard to do until you get a little practice, but once you do, it’s a neat trick.

  Sammy buckles. It’s like his spine snaps. He grabs my arm with one hand, and he squeezes so tightly he drives his nails into my flesh. His other hand clutches the bedding.

  I look up, blinking away tears from having him hammer the back of my throat.

  And I know when he sees me. When he notices me looking up at him. When our eyes meet.

  He moans, and his hand tightens around my arm, and he unloads down my throat. The rhythm of his body breaks up into little, jerky thrusts, and he slumps forward, knees clenching my chest, the hand that had been clutching the bedding now keeping him from crashing into me face-first. His dick slides out of my mouth.

  I work a hand free, reach around, and jack myself. It only takes me a second to start shooting. My everything seems to contract, and then it’s all soft, and loose, and Sam’s cheek is rubbing against mine, and the little pricks of stubble feel almost like velvet.

  He makes a noise that sounds obscenely satisfied. And then he turns and kisses me twice: on the jaw, and then on the lips. None of the hardball stuff now; it’s almost like kissing a ghost. He pulls his head back, and I check him for the signs of an upcoming freak-out. He’s watching me almost as intently, and I realize he’s looking for something too.

  “Okay?” I ask.

  He nods.

  “Want to lie down with me?”

  For someone who was recently drilling down my throat, now he’s shy. But he doesn’t say no, and when I tug on his fingers, he slides onto the mattress next to me. I have enough post-nut presence of mind to pull the blanket over us, and I think, Five minutes, maybe ten, but not so long he thinks you’re suffocating him. But I’m warm, and all the knots in my body have untied themselves, and he feels good next to me.

  And when I close my eyes, everything, everywhere, snaps out.

  16

  Sam

  I don’t even mean to fall asleep. I tell myself to stay awake because it’s not a sleepover. Guys like Gray are probably used to getting off, hanging around long enough to pull their clothes back on, and then heading out the door. Not in a bad way, but this is all normal for him. That’s what hooking up is about: keeping it casual.

  But lying in bed with him, listening to him breathe, it’s hard to feel like it was casual. He said he liked me. And I said—well, I said way too much. And he was so much sweeter about everything than I expected. But as soon as I think that, it feels unfair, because yes, Gray likes to run his mouth, and yes, Gray likes to tease. But ever since we became, well, friends, Gray has been nothing but sweet to me. So, there’s this part of me that keeps waiting for him to wake up, grab his shorts, and head for the door. But there’s also this part of me that keeps thinking about how he asked, Is this okay? Asked it over and over again, to make sure. Told me it wasn’t weird to be my age and still a virgin. Said it was hot. It couldn’t have been that hot since I’d shot in my shorts from him touching me, but it was sweet of him to say it. And there’s this little voice that says, Plus he got off pretty fast, didn’t he, so I guess I did something right.

  I don’t even know how I end up with one arm around him. He’s knocked out, snoring a little. And I think I better wake him up and offer to drive him back to his car and act casual and normal like shoving my dick down his throat is something we do when we see each other. Because that’s how it’s supposed to be, I guess.

  And somewhere in there, I fall asleep.

  I wake up once, in the middle of the night, long enough to turn off the lamp, and when I get back to bed, Gray rolls toward me. I put my arm around him again, and he settles right back down. So, I guess he likes that.

  Am I going to freak out?

  It doesn’t feel like it. Gray said lots of guys freak out after they get off, and he must know what he’s talking about. But I don’t feel like freaking out. Maybe I should. But freaking out would mean the whole thing ought to be a big deal, and it doesn’t feel like that either. I lie there, Gray under my arm, and I guess it should be a big deal for me. I mean, I’ve never done this before. Never done anything like it. And he’s a guy.