Page 138 of Dirty Like Dylan

I knew there was an implied trust when we were together with a girl, a trust that went into effect, every time, without need of words. We’d never talked about it outright, but we didn’t need to. I knew Dylan wasn’t into dudes. He didn’t want some guy’s hand on his ass while he fucked a girl. Even mine.

But I did it anyway.

My heart was fucking slamming in my chest at the feel of his smooth skin under my hand, his muscles tensing.

Somehow, I just knew that he wasn’t gonna stop in the middle of fucking Amber to deal with me and my hand, especially when he was so close to making her come.

And he didn’t.

He went right on fucking her like my hand wasn’t there. He drove her there, and Amber came with a scream and a shudder. Her nails dug into his back; there was no mistaking where both of her hands were on his body, no matter how caught up he was.

Then he came, with a low groan that made my dick harden, his muscles flexing beneath my hand.

I closed my eyes, and I could feel what he was feeling as he blew into her.

Then I pulled my hand away, before he could come down.

I rolled away and got out of bed, before either of them could say anything. I went into the bathroom to get a moment alone.

I breathed deep and slow and threw some cold water on my face, and willed my dick to snap out of it.

Then I looked at my face in the mirror, at my eyes, my pupils blown wide.

And I thought about what happened between us, that one time.

That one time when Dylan came… in my face.

By accident.

For a while, it had become a bit of a running joke between us. Because fucking seriously. He came. In my face.

It happened when we were in bed with Kitty. It was dark, Dylan had explained afterward, and he got “confused.”

It was dark. We were all drunk.

Maybe it was inevitable, in a way. We’d been in bed together, with a woman, so many times, we were bound to cross some kind of line, at some point. Even accidentally.

Maybe the only strange thing about it was that it never happened sooner.

I knew it didn’t mean anything.

But it had always left those nagging questions in my heart.

Was it really that dark? Was he really confused?

So we’d made a joke about it, kinda feeling each other out. Me, trying to figure out if it meant something more. Dylan, trying to figure out if I wanted it to mean more. Both of us feigning total innocence in the matter.

Him: It was dark. I got confused.

Me: I was drunk. I barely noticed.

Right. Like a dude blowing his load on your face was no big event. Who would notice that?

Then the joke, somewhere along the line, had died, and it became just one of those things that got filed away under the category of my sexual attraction to men, and we never talked about it again.

Of course, to me, it was never a fucking joke.

And just like then, I was allowing myself to wonder, right now, if what just happened might mean more than it actually did.

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