He’s in his “staples”—the quality shorts, the expensive-and-great-fitting tee, and he smells like a spring night: cool air, the crabapples in bloom, the heat rising off his skin. I give him a kiss at the door, and we end up on the sofa, and at first, it’s like every other time we’ve gotten together. He asks me about my day, and I tell him the little stuff, about serving a warrant, about watching Norman and Gross pick over the pastries Ruthie Bates brought in, about a meth lab Palomo and I are still trying to wrap up. He tells me about his day too—and a day on patrol is always wild, so I get to hear about the guy with his shorts around his ankles who was doing a one-man “Chicken March” down the middle of the street in Smithfield. And then I grab a blanket for us to share, and I turn down the lights, and we start the movie.

  I don’t even know what it is. Something with lasers. Sammy picks it.

  At first, I’m leaning against him: contact, but casual. A little too much for regular straight guys, but it’s not like I’m in his lap. But as the movie goes on, I snuggle into his chest. He’s such a gentleman that he pats my shoulder and puts his arm on the back of the sofa like he’s trying to get comfortable without being in my way. So, I take matters into my own hands and move his arm so it’s wrapped around me, and he’s holding me against his chest.

  When I look up, his eyes have a question, but he seems okay, and so we stay like that. He’s warm. I like how his chest rises and falls when he breathes.

  His breathing stays even when I put my hand on his bare knee, but there’s a hitch when I slide my fingers up under the shorts. He’s wearing trunks again, and I find the elastic band where it wraps around his thigh, and that seems like a good stopping point, so I keep my hand there, playing with his underwear. He starts to get hard. He shifts. He spreads his legs, and then maybe he thinks that’s too much because he tries to close them again. I don’t do anything except keep playing with that elastic band high on his thigh. They’re shooting a lot of lasers in the movie.

  After I’ve riled him up for a while, I slip my hand out of his shorts. And then I touch his dick. This is still high-school stuff, over-the-clothes stuff, but he makes a little noise—kind of distressed, because he’s been waiting for it, and it’s not enough. He opens his legs again. But I’m not mashing him or rubbing him or anything. I have my hand there. Enough pressure that he can’t miss it. When he moves, he gets a little stimulation, and if it weren’t so hot, it would be funny how Sammy keeps trying to find the right spot—like if he humps my hand enough times, I’ll get the clue and jerk him off.

  There’s an explosion on TV, but Sammy doesn’t even seem to see it.

  Finally he says, “What are you doing?”

  “Huh?”

  He actually licks his lips. “What are you—what’s going on?”

  “We’re watching a movie.”

  The helplessness and frustration on his face are so cute that I almost give in. But instead, I turn back to the TV like this is the best movie I’ve ever seen.

  And finally—finally—I start to move my hand.

  He groans.

  I shush him and say, “I can’t hear.”

  His head flops back. His chest is rising and falling faster. The arm holding me against him tightens like he’s trying to keep from falling apart. Not that I’m going to let that happen. It’d be hot, for sure. But I’ve got other plans for that dick tonight.

  And then Sam crosses some invisible line. His head snaps up, and he starts kissing my neck.

  “Knock it off,” I say, laughing. “We’re watching a movie.”

  “Like hell,” Sammy says between kisses. He’s got his hand up my shirt now, caressing my chest, and he switches from my neck to my ear, and all of a sudden, it’s hard to focus on teasing him because we’ve done this enough times that he knows how to flip all my switches.

  He’s so good at it that in a few seconds, he’s got me turned out of my shirt and lying down on the sofa, and he’s on top of me, kissing his way down my body, stopping to lick and pinch my nipples, while more things explode on TV.

  When he starts dragging off my joggers, I say, “Not here.”

  He leans back. He doesn’t frown, but there’s a little worry line in his forehead, because it’s never mattered where before.

  I chafe his arms. “Come on.”

  So we go into the bedroom. It’s all ready, the covers turned down, the lube on the nightstand, a towel. He stands next to the bed while I light candles, and then the room is full of a soft, flickering glow. When I tug his shirt off, he raises his arms to let me, and the play of light and shadows looks good on his bare skin. He pushes my joggers down. My dick pops out, the tip wet, a strand of pre hanging. I kick the joggers off the rest of the way and get on my knees. His shorts get caught on his boner, and he makes a faintly pleased but also somewhat distressed noise as I make a whole production out of it, pulling the fabric tight against his hard dick, just enough that I know the discomfort is also something of a turn on.

  “Gray,” he says, and he wraps his hands around my wrists.

  I give in and work his dick out of his shorts and pull them down around his ankles. He’s still stepping out of them when I take the head of that fat dick in my mouth, and he whimpers and wraps his hands around the back of my head—in part to steady himself, and in part to pull me onto his cock. I don’t know if Sammy even knows what a dom is, but when that boy knows what he wants, he takes it—in the politest way possible. And I’m having this out-of-body experience of thinking how maybe that’s a new thing, like a gentleman dom, and how much fun it would be to tell Emery about it.

  But I’m not thinking about Emery for long because I’ve got a donkey cock to take care of, and the fact that it’s attached to Sammy makes it so much hotter, because he’s making those soft, pleased noises, and he’s starting to fuck my face in the most civilized way possible. He’s big enough that all I can do is focus on him.

  When he starts to get close, I can tell: his dick hardens, the head flares, the taste of him grows even stronger in my mouth. I pull back, and he lets me, but there’s a look on his face like I took away his favorite toy, and I almost smile.

  He’s a good boy, though, so he asks, “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

  “Nothing’s wrong,” I say, and now I do laugh, and my voice sounds wrecked. “I will happily choke to death on your dick another night. But I was thinking, maybe we could try something new tonight.”

  He’s not just a good boy; he’s a smart one, too. He saw the lube. I can see in his face that he knows where this is going. The worry is mostly around his eyes.

  “Do you want to fuck me?” I ask. “I’ve got condoms if you want one, but I’m on PrEP, and I got tested after, uh, everything.”

  I’m thinking that topping will ease his concerns—since I’m still not sure where Sammy falls on the spectrum from raging homosexual to oops-my-dick-fell-in-your-mouth. He’s a cop. He’s butch. For fuck’s sake, he owns those fucking coveralls. The thought of somebody popping his cherry might send him over the edge.

  But instead, the worry lines around his eyes deepen.

  “What?” I say. I stroke his thighs; he’s starting to soften. “Hey, what’s up?”

  His voice is stiff with that wary self-protection I remember from the first night—from his first time. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

  There’s this part of me that’s actually surprised I don’t find it funny. Because another me would have thought it was hilarious. Instead, it feels like something’s breaking inside me, but in this huge, overwhelmingly good way, and my eyes sting as I rub his thighs again. “You’re not going to hurt me, baby. I know what I’m doing.”

  The indecision on his face makes that thing inside me break all over again.

  “Let’s lie down,” I say.

  So, we lie down, the mattress springs creaking under us, and I kiss him. It takes a few more kisses before he kisses me back, and slowly, his body starts to relax. I get a little lube in my hand, but before he can protest—or whatever he’s thinking about saying—I whisper, “I’m not doing anything,” and then I start to stroke him as we make out some more.

  He’s young. And it doesn’t take long for him to come roaring back.

  When I think he might be ready, I make sure I’m looking him in the eye and say, “The important thing is to go slow and use lots of lube. But I promise, Sam—I promise—you’re going to make me feel so good. And I think you’ll like it too.”

  The candlelight moves in his eyes. And then he nods.

  I work a little lube inside myself, and then I throw a leg over him, scoot into position, and bring his hands to my chest. He gets the message, and he starts running them over my belly, tweaking my nipples, touching me with the blend of novelty and familiarity that he’s developed over the last couple weeks—like he knows my body, but it’s still, somehow, new to him every time. I take him in hand, line us up, and lower myself onto him.

  He’s as big as anybody I’ve ever taken; I’m a lot of things, but a size queen isn’t one of them. And at first the stretch is intense—even with the lube, it burns as his head forces its way inside. I stop to give my body time to adjust.

  Sam is rubbing my stomach. “Are you okay?”

  I nod. He’s looking at my dick, which is soft, so I say, “It’s just a lot. My body’s focused on other stuff right now. It doesn’t mean I don’t like it.”

  I can tell by his face that he doesn’t believe me.

  Slowly, I begin the process of taking the rest of him inside me. It probably doesn’t take as long as it feels like it takes, and there’s a glimmer of pressure when he brushes that spot inside me. He must be feeling something too because he forgets about stroking my chest and he closes his eyes and takes a deep breath through his nose.

  And then he’s in me. I run my hands over his arms, and his eyes flick half-open. I move—raising myself up, dropping back down again. A little faster this time. His dick is big enough that he’s pressing against that spot almost constantly, and I’m going to white-out from the pleasure. I’m distantly aware of my own moans.

  Sammy’s clutching my hips, and he sounds strangled when he says, “You’re so tight.”

  In answer, I move again.

  It doesn’t take long before my body has adjusted, and he’s moving in and out of me easily. I shudder every time he goes in because the contact makes my head light up like I’m a fucking carnival game, and I can hear the desperate, greedy noises I’m making. Sam, for his part, is looking at me like he’s never seen me before. His fingers are biting into my hips with a death grip.

  “I want you to fuck me,” I say as I bounce on his cock. They’re barely even words; they’re gasps.

  “I am fucking you,” he says, but it’s like he doesn’t believe it. “I’m fucking you.”

  “No, Sam, I want you to fuck me.”

  I inch myself off his dick and drop down onto my back. Sam sits up, looks over at me, and gets onto his knees. His dick is hard and bouncing as he gets between my legs. He puts his hands on my knees, and then he hesitates.

  “Put my legs over your shoulders,” I say.

  But he doesn’t, not at first. He looks down at me, his eyes soft, his thumbs moving in small circles like now he’s trying to reassure me. And then he sits back, brings his arms up, and flexes. It makes me laugh because he’s such a nerd and because it makes me think of our first time together, and I feel that breaking sensation inside me all over again. I have to blink my eyes clear, and I hope he doesn’t notice.

  “Fuck me, baby.”

  He doesn’t need me to tell him again. With my legs in the air, he hitches me closer, lines up, and buries himself in me.

  It’s so much that I shout.

  The look on his face, caught between wanting it and worry.

  “I’m okay. I’m okay. Fuck, Sammy, fuck me.”

  The worry dissolves, and he moves. At first, he doesn’t know what he’s doing. He doesn’t have a rhythm. He slips out. Or he stays too deep, barely moving at all. But I can see it on his face, the intense desire not just to get his nut, God bless him, but to do it right. And after a few minutes, he hits his stride.

  If I thought it felt good before, it’s nothing compared to the relentless hammering that comes next. I’m loud. I’m incoherent. When Sammy moves forward, planting one hand on the wall, with me bent almost in half underneath him, I scream, and in a scandalized whisper, he tells me to be quiet without ever breaking his pace.

  It’s his first time, and my brain is fucking broken, and there’s this part of me that can’t handle the idea that he’s going to get even better. He’s covered in sweat. His face is red. His hair is glued to his forehead.

  When he finally unloads, the muscles in his neck stand out, and he hits me like a fucking battering ram. I’m primed, so I’m saying, “Oh shit, oh shit,” as he slams into that spot, and all it takes is for me to jerk myself once and I’m shooting a mess all over myself.

  He doesn’t exactly collapse on top of me. But he does sag, drooping over me, his chest heaving. He’s trembling, and even though my bones have melted, somehow I manage to run my hand down his back, gathering the sweat there. His breathing slows. And slowly, he sits up.

  “You can pull out,” I tell him.

  He’s careful, checking my face, and then checking the rest of me.

  “I’m okay,” I say. “I’m better than okay. Fuck, Sam, you fucked my fucking brains out.”

  It’s like he wants to be uncertain. Like he can’t quite bring himself to believe. But like he’s happy, too. So happy. And the happiness wins out, spreading across his face.

  “Come here,” I say. “Lie down.”

  He does. And even though Sam tends to be the big spoon, this time, he lets me pull him against me, and I kiss the sweaty hair above his ear, and I say, “That was so fucking good. You’re incredible.”

  “I’ve never done that before,” he says. Not because he needs to say it, since we both know it, but because he can’t bring himself to say what he really wants to say.

  “You were fantastic. You made me feel so good. God, Sam, it was perfect.” I rub his arm. “Was it good for you?”

  “Oh yeah,” he says, and it’s so enthusiastic that I can’t help the laugh that escapes me. His ears turn a little pink, but he’s grinning.

  There are other things we say, but they’re not anything meaningful—little sounds of contentment, snippets of words. Two happy fucked-out animals making their happy fucked-out sounds to each other in their den. And Sam apparently has been taking Natural Top lessons because he’s asleep in about five minutes—deep sleep, snoring softly.

  But I don’t sleep. I lie there, and as that crushing bliss of the orgasm fades and my body starts waking up to the aches and minor discomforts of having been folded up and used like a fuck doll, I can’t help it. I start thinking about his smile, that boyishly pleased grin at how much he’d liked it, and how happy he was that he’d made me feel good. I think about how he said, I don’t want to hurt you. And about how he flexed. Most of all, I think about how I feel: like I’m wearing my heart outside my body, and I can feel everything, every whisper of air, everything. There’s this part of me, getting louder and louder, that wants to do something dramatic. Break all the plates in the kitchen. Throw the TV out the window. Set the bed on fire.

  He loves you, I think to myself, and it’s as bright and clear and painful as sunlight.

  He loves you, and you’re going to hurt him.

  19

  Sam

  It’s dusk, and I’m standing behind the Sigma Sigma house with at least a hundred people milling around me, and I’m praying, God, please don’t let me trip over my own dick.

  Tonight’s the night of the Greek Life outreach event.

  It’s hard to believe how quickly the time has gone, all those days and nights of preparation leading up to this, and somehow, it still feels like I’m not ready. But it’s happening, whether I’m ready or not. All I can do is try to stay out of my own way. It’s harder than it sounds.

  The Sigma Sigma house is a redbrick colonial with white trim, and it’s well maintained. It ought to be for how much these guys pay for it. They can afford it, I guess—I can’t pick out which of the college bros around me are part of Sigma Sigma, but it doesn’t matter because all the Greek Life guys have the same look: preppy hair, preppy clothes, the kind of skin and muscles that tell you they have the money to take care of themselves. You notice that kind of thing when you didn’t have it growing up.

  When I got here, the backyard was nice—the flowerbeds kept up, and the lawn mowed, and no cans or bottles left out on the patio. But now, after Gray and I have spent the last four hours setting up the event, it looks great. The theme is purple because it’s a purple party, which is obvious, I guess, but there are purple streamers and purple balloons and purple tablecloths. Purple up-lights paint the walls and the trees, and a few purple floods add big, dramatic splashes. The stage for the acoustic set is over to one side, and yeah, there’s a bar because otherwise nobody from Greek Life would even come, but there’s also a photo booth, and there’s an art zone with crayons and colored pencils and even a couple of watercolor sets. Most of it, Mr. Vincent donated from the art supply shop, and I didn’t even have to tell Gran to put the moves on him, although she offered. There’s a pledge wall where people can write their personal pledge to stop intimate partner violence. There are tables with flyers and informational packets, where people from the college counseling center and from WISP are waiting to answer questions. And tucked away at the back, there’s a safe space with a couple of WISP’s trained staff. It’s there in case anybody gets triggered during the event, or they need somewhere quiet to be away from everybody else. That was my idea. Well, I found it online.