Page 12 of Hot Ice, Tennessee

He’d reassured me that he wore Hot Mess with pride. I’d only known him for tonight, butshamedidn’t seem to be in his vocabulary.

At least until he found out who I was.

I paced on the patio, walking along the wooden patio over toward the rain. I watched it come down, forming little puddles on the grass.

The air smelled sweet and fresh. I’d needed a good summer thunderstorm. It always felt like a reset button, and I could use as many resets as I could get, this summer. I rearranged my cock in my pants, trying to get my hard-on to go away.

But then I remembered the look in his eyes and I perked right back up again.

Mason walked back out a few minutes later, drink in hand. I was over at the pinball machine again, leaning on the front of it and watching him.

“Yo,” I said.

He gave me a nod.

For someone who’d sworn off sex, he sure did keep looking at me like he wanted to get railed. His eyes gave acome-fuck-mevibe, but… there was a distance there now, and sadness, too. Blue more like a rainy sky than a clear day, with more depth than I’d realized at first.

I was staring him down. I didn’t bother hiding it. I could see a question in his eyes for a split second as he looked down toward my lips and then back up again.

“This drink came withtwoMaraschino cherries,” Mason said. “I’d rather die than put one of those in my mouth. Do you want them?”

“Um,yes. I could eat Maraschino cherries daily,” I said. “I wish every drink had one.”

“They’re vile. How do you enjoy these things?”

“They’re sweet, juicy little fuckin’burstsof cherry syrup,” I said. “How could anyone not like them? Gimmie.”

He plucked the cherry off the top of the drink by its stem. He held it up in the air, dangling it above my lips. It glistened under the string lights.

When I went in to bite it out of the air, he pulled it away at the last moment.

“You going to sayplease?” he said, lifting an eyebrow.

Well, hello.

“Just give it to me,” I told him, and he moved it back above my lips.

This time, right as he was about to pull his hand away, I reached up and clutched his wrist. I held it firmly, gripping his arm and pulling the cherry down to my lips.

I plucked it off the stem with my teeth, then leaned up to lick the remnants of sugar from the tip of his finger. I held his arm for another few seconds before releasing it.

“Good boy,” I told him in a low tone.

I watched his eyes widen momentarily, and a sick satisfaction spread through me.

I knew you liked that.

I liked it, too.

“Give me another,” I said.

“No.”

“Another,” I repeated, and even though he was still glaring at me, he clicked his tongue, then obliged. He picked up the other cherry, and I watched it slip a little the first time he tried to grab it, his fingers just a little shaky.

All at once, I realized something:

Wait a minute.

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