Page 42 of Cool for the Summer

In my room I have condoms and lube, a few toys, but I don’t know if any of that is what Donovan has in mind. Or even if I want to go there. I’m kind of an old-fashioned boy. I like to start slow and work my way up to the main event, which is part of why one-night stands don’t really work for me. It sounds like Donovan wants this to be more than a one-night thing, so maybe we can afford to start slow. But if I only have one night with him—what do I want?

The fact that I’m even about to go to his bedroom has me wanting to scream into my pillow like an overwhelmed teenager about to have his first date. It doesn’t fucking matter what we do. I trust Donovan to make it good, and I just need to let myself enjoy it.

Just because I’m going to have my heart broken at the end of this doesn’t mean I can’t savor every second of it before that inevitable conclusion.

In the end, I clean up a little, quickly brush my teeth, and change out of my bar clothes into a pair of loose shorts—sans underwear—and my aqua tank top that makes my eyes look electric blue.

Barefoot, I pad up the stairs. Donovan must have lube and condoms if we need them, and if he doesn’t, mine are only a floor away. I hesitate outside the door to his room, which is open a crack, faint light showing through the gap. I’ve never actually been inside. I’ve been upstairs, of course, familiarizing myself with the linen closet and retrieving some extra dog toys from the floor of Jack and Pete’s room. But Donovan’s door has always been closed.

I knock lightly, and he opens up right away. He’s barefoot, too, wearing the same jeans from earlier, but he’s unbuttoned his shirt and it’s hanging open, exposing the ridges of his pecs and abs, the light dusting of hair down the center of his chest. My mouth goes dry.

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

And then we’re kissing again, hot and fierce, like we’re both starving for it. He stops after way too short a time, removing his tongue from my mouth. I chase it for a second, but he says, “You brushed your teeth. I should, too.”

“Don’t worry about it,” I say, launching myself at him as though if I don’t have more of him right now, I might expire from wanting.

He lets me walk him backward to the bed, which is a king, like mine, but covered in a dark blue comforter where my room is done up in shades of gray. When we reach it, we topple over, and I revel in feeling our chests touch for the first time. Greedy for more, I take half a second to lose my tank top, then push aside his shirt and lick a stripe over each of his flat, dark brown nipples. They fatten up nicely under my tongue. He hisses and puts a hand to the back of my head, pushing me against his chest, so I do it again and again until he’s groaning a bit desperately beneath me.

Since I’m so hard I could poke a hole in the mattress, I let up on the nipple play and we crawl farther up the bed together. Donovan stays on his back, though, and I straddle him, glad my shorts are loose, allowing me to easily push the waistband down and pull my erection free.

“Damn, I knew you had something going on,” he says, gaze glued to my hand on my dick. I stroke it from root to tip, flicking my thumb over the head, and smile. I’m not hung like a horse or anything, but I’m a little above average, which I’m vain enough to maximize by keeping my pubes shaved close.

“Yeah? What did you think I had going on?”

“Teasing me with that tiny little excuse for a swimsuit,” he says. “Can I?”

I let him replace my hand with his, and he jacks me a little, fumbling with his other hand to get his own dick out through his fly. I do my best to help him, and then we’re jerking each other off, slowly, not really with an end in mind, just learning the weight and feel of each other. He’s not small, either, not as long as me, but a little thicker, with a gorgeous dark bush of curls. I love all the hair—I want to shoot come all over his pubes, see them glossy and sticky with me. It feels good—I almost forgot how good sex is. It’s been so long.

“Feels good,” Donovan says, echoing my thoughts exactly.

“Yeah.” I lift my head and we make eye contact. His blue eyes look almost black in the dim light thrown by the desk lamp on the other side of the room. I get a shock of recognition as we look at each other. We haven’t actually known each other very long, but, I don’t know, maybe living together, accelerating our friendship from the get-go—I feel like I know him better than most of my best friends.

Being with him like this feels good, yeah. I’m ready to come just from this, rubbing our dicks together without even getting fully naked. But it also feels sort of…natural. Like we’re supposed to have been doing this all along. That I can be myself with him, that he doesn’t have to pretend with me, either.

I flutter my eyes closed, lean forward and press my mouth to his. It’s not a frantic kiss, because if I kiss him hard and fast right now, I’ll come. Instead, I keep it soft, tracing his plush, sculpted lips with mine, tattooing my mouth against his in gentle pulses. We work each other slowly. A humid dampness blooms between us, the smell of sex and sweat, and, a second later, the addition of a slightly metallic odor as my hand grows wet and sticky with Donovan’s come.

I hadn’t realized he was so close—the only warning he gave was a slight stiffening of his torso and a low groan. Fuck. I made Donovan Eastman come. I haven’t stopped kissing him, and I milk him for a few more strokes, then put my dirty hand over the one he has on my cock and speed up the rhythm. I’m close, but it’s when I breach the seam of his lips with my tongue, and he sucks on the tip—hard—that my orgasm overwhelms me and I add my jizz to the party with a groan of relief.

Slowly, I break the kiss and look down, the sight of our mingled come streaking his pubes and both of our hands, his softening cock lying in the crease of his thigh, an erotic snapshot I’m determined to memorize for posterity.

“Fuck,” Donovan says, reaching across the bed to a tissue box on the side table. He grabs a wad, and is about to mop us up, but I stop him with a hand on his wrist.

“Wait. I want to—” I scoot backward and bend over, sticking my face close to his crotch, breathing in the heady, musky scent of him, a scent I already associate with some of the best sex of my life when all we’ve done is rub each other off.

Carefully, deliberately, I lick the come off his cock, cleaning it as thoroughly as if I was scrubbing the counters after a baking session. I look up at him as I start in on the rest, intent on my task, my cock impatient to respond to how the taste of him—of us—turns me on.

He looks down at me, his dark eyebrows drawn together as if he’s puzzled by my actions, his mouth parted on a question.

I pause to check in. “Okay?” Maybe he thinks this is gross—in which case I’ll be disappointed, but I’ll deal.

He responds by growling, “Fuck yes,” and pushing me back down with his hand on the back of my head.

Well, then.

EIGHTEEN

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