Page 30 of Sweat

“So, who do you think is gonna win?” I ask. “My baddie or my softie?”

“Hm.” He ponders, then sends me a dangerously pretty grin. “I think they should both win. Maybe they can work together, like teammates.”

I shake my head, masking my blush by taking a huge bite out of my Coney. With a full mouth, I say, “You’re a fucking poet, babyface.”

“I have to come up with a pet name for you,” he says.

“Call me your dad.”

He snickers, calls me a weird-o, then shuts up long enough to finish his tots.

There’s a Coney left on my tray, but my appetite slips from my tentative grasp as I watch Tommy suck ketchup from his thumb. He never put his t-shirt back on, opting for a thin hoodie he leaves unzipped. He smells like all the things I associate with manliness. Sweat, musk, grass, and Old Spice. This sugar-on-sugar drink I’ve been sipping on has me craving the salt that likely lingers all over Tommy’s body. I’ve never wanted to lick a man as badly as I do him.

The yearning drives me mad enough to say something I shouldn’t. “You still have my shirt.”

“Huh?” He lifts an eyebrow at me before his expression softens into understanding. “Oh.”

“Where is it?”

“I, uh—I was gonna give it back, but I figured you’d want it back washed.”

“You letting Mommy wash our jizz rag?”

The shade of red tinting Tommy’s face is new. “No, uh…honestly, it’s still in my truck somewhere. I can give it back to you when you drop me off.”

“Keep it,” I tell him, too lost in his eyes to rein myself in. “You can think about me the next time you nut all over yourself.”

The way Tommy exhales is something akin to an incredulous chuckle, but his mouth forms something like a frown. It’s got me paranoid until I figure out what he’s thinking. I watch him stick his hand beneath his tray and tug at his shorts.

What’s a straight boy doing getting hard over me and my bullshit?

Facing forward, Tommy clears his throat and says, “Those girls back at school were checking you out.”

If they were checking me out instead of Tommy, they’re blind. If Tommy thinks I give a shit about girls checking me out, he hasn’t spent enough time around me yet.

Breezing past this subject, I ask if he’s finished with his tray, then I take both his and mine and all our trash to the can beside our parking spot.

I drive us back to school. The whole while, there’s a tension in the air between us I can’t quite place, but it makes my heart beat fast and my dick throb. We’re silent, save for the music, and it’s a struggle not to stare at Tommy at every red light.

Halfway back to campus, I chance a quick glance at him, but when I see what he’s doing, I can’t tear my eyes away. His hand is on his crotch, gripping his erection through polyester shorts. The barely there movement of his knuckles suggests he’s squeezing his cock in soft pulses. The sort of shit I’d dowhile edging myself through an hour long porno, waiting for the action to get good before committing to getting off.

I look up, and our eyes meet.

His hand flies off his lap, and he looks sideways out the passenger window, a look of shame on his face through the side-view mirror.

The light turns green, and a car honks behind me to get my ass moving. I step on the gas a little too hard, caught up in a flurry of conflicting emotions. Last thing I want to do is take advantage of Tommy, but a close second to that is I can’t ruin my future over some baby-faced beefcake who can’t control his dick. Yet, I’m sick and tired of controlling mine. I’m twenty-two, about to enter my last year of college, a virgin in all the ways that matter to me, and I’ve never been with anyone I actually liked before.

At the next red, I hold my foot on the brake pad like if I let off even slightly, we’ll teeter off a cliff that exists only in my mind. I stare at the road ahead, and I reach across the center console.

Last time I touched Tommy, it was out of anger and self-loathing. This time, I glide my palm over his bulge and hug it gently, feeling how thick he is. I stroke him slowly, feeling how long he is. Even restricted, he feels massive.

I hear his breaths over the music, hard puffs forming a steady beat. I feel his eyes on me, but I refuse to turn my head. I find his cockhead poking at his waistband, and I pinch it between my fingers.

He moans, and I feel him pulse in my hand. My own dick swells in my shorts. I press the heel of my free hand into it.

The light turns green, and I tug both hands away and plant them on the steering wheel before stepping on the gas a touch too hard.

This is it, I think. No matter what comes next, certain death is the only outcome now, but God, I just want to keep touching him and never stop. Not just touching. I want to look at him. I want to see all of him, and I want to watch him get off knowing that I’m the one making it happen.

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