Page 11 of Catching Kyle
But it hasn’t been easy since. The only time I feel comfortable with other men is in bed, ‘straight’ or not. Before I came out, I was so scared to be around straight men. So when I finally accepted myself, I was eager to jump into a community that loved me for who I was. But so much of the time, these gays feel just as exclusive. The only time I ever felt like I had a home was around fellow writers in college. Once I’m published, I hope I find a similar community. I just want to belong somewhere.
I glance down at my watch. Two minutes have already passed.
His emailisTigersfan89. What gay person likes the Tigers but is also avidly seeking to be a part of a romance book club? The Venn diagram has a small intersection. Too small to be believable.
This guy isn’t gay. Maybe he just wants the book for his wife or something, so he wouldn’t want to talk with some rando man. I’m wasting my time here. I better just go.
I set the paper bag down by the glass window and turn toward my car. But just before I step off the porch, the door opens.
“Sorry,” I say, turning around. “I wanted to wait to introduce myself. I’m—” But when I lay eyes on him, my stomach sinks to the porch. Suddenly, the patter of rain sounds out from the driveway, and I’m trapped under the porch of The Sexiest Man Alive.
It’s Kyle Weaver. Shirtless.
And I can see his hard cock through his shorts.
Chapter 5
Kyle Weaver
Icomeintomykitchen through my garage having just finished up at the gym, still sweaty as hell. I set down my gym bag, which is in desperate need of washing, and hobble to the fridge. I peel my shirt off, throw it on the floor, and pull out a bottle of Gatorade. As I drink, it drips onto my sweaty chest, but I don’t care.
This past week has been hell.
Ever since that conversation with my agent Timmy, my mind has been a tornado. He told me the name of the bookstore where this romance book club was, but I had to figure out the rest myself. And not only does their damn romance book club meetweekly, but they also read things I would never be caught dead reading. My house is filled with fantasy and sci-fi books by the greatest. But this romance book club? I don’t even know the authors. And it’s a bunch of covers filled with pink, purple, orange, and other garish colors. The book for yesterday’s meeting was Pride and Prejudice, and the only thing I hate more than romance is regency romance. I know Timmy said I gotta find a girl, and that there has to be proof, but I had to miss out on this one. I just had to.
For the next session, I asked if a man could drop off the book. I didn’t want to just stroll in and let the whole world I’m attending this book club before I have to, and I don’t want a woman knowing where the Sexiest Man Alive lives. I’ve had my address leaked to female fans before, and I almost had to move because of this. But a man likely won’t care. The store emailed back and said someonewould drop it off today, so I’ll read it this weekend and hopefully have enough courage to attend next week.
Once I finish the Gatorade, I toss the empty bottle into the recycling and grab another from the fridge. I make my way to my giant living room couch and plop down. Management has said that being single is the problem, but I can’t help that my skills need to improve, too. Especially my speed. So I’ve been upping my cardio and restricting my food, which has only made this week more hellish. I’d kill for a burger right now, but I gotta keep my calorie count low. Thanks, sugar-free Gatorade.
I set down my drink and reach for the remote, and then I pause. In all the commotion of this week, I had forgotten about the notification I received when I was working out with the other guys earlier this week. Peter Cummins—he released a new video. And I haven’t watched it yet. I’m already a quarter hard at the thought.
I pull open the app and slide down my pants. As soon as I see Peter’s handsome face, I get that warm feeling in my chest. Not heartburn, but like a warming of my heart. I love his thick thighs, the globes that he has for an ass. He’s got a perfect torso, and that ginger mullet drives me wild. And it might sound weird to say, but he’s got these gorgeous hazel eyes, and every time there’s a closeup of him where I can gaze into them, I have to look away. It feels too personal.
I start the video and start stroking myself. I skip past all the foreplay stuff—not my style—and get right to the action. Peter is getting railed by PortlandBeefCake, someone who doesn’t really get me off, but whatever. All I need is Peter. I love how enthusiastic he is, how he just knows what to do to get the other guy off. It’s like he lives to serve, that all he cares about is what makes you feel good. But this doesn’t feel like it’s weird or obsessive. It feels like it comes from kindness.
Jesus, I’m already so close. I think I’m gonna—
Somebody rings my doorbell. My phone flies out of my hand onto the floor. I stuff my manhood back into my gym shorts and drop to the floor to grab my phone, the one still playing the video. I hear Peter moaning, and I can’t help butblush. It slid underneath the foot table, so I have to press my cheek to the cold marble floor to retrieve it.
When I grab the phone, I lift my head too soon and bang it against the table. So now that’s throbbing, and Peter is still moaning at full volume. I raise to my feet and finally turn my phone off. I make my way toward the door, and that’s when I realize that I’m still rock-hard. This is what going a week without getting off can do to you. I rest against my staircase, trying to think about things that will make this boner go away faster: Timmy, my girlfriend Rachel from Miss U. Coach Johnson. That asshole Ricardo.
Wait. This is probably someone from Rucker’s dropping off the book. They’re likely just dropped off the book. So I don’t need to worry about anything. My dick still hard after watching Peter Cummins, I slide in my socks over to the door as I hear drops of rain fall on my roof. I always like reading when it storms. Maybe this will make for a cozy Saturday.
I pull open the door, expecting to see the book on the porch, but what I see makes me feel like I need to take a bottle of tums.
It’s him.
I’d recognize that mullet anywhere, and his ass is just as gorgeously round as I’ve seen it. As Peter Cummins turns around, it takes all my strength to keep my wobbly knees from taking me to the ground. What on God’s green earth is he doing here? He’s wearing form-fitting gym clothing, and it looks like he just got back from a workout. He has a jacket on, but dark red chest hair pokes out from his tank top.
“I wanted to introduce myself,” he says. “I’m—” And then he freezes like he’s about to be tackled.
His eyes drift my chest down to my dick. Shit. That’s still hard. I shove my hands in my pockets and tent my shorts out so he can’t see, but I swear my face is going red. What the hell is this beautiful man doing on my doorstep?
“Can I help you?” I ask, my accent coming out strong. That only happens if I’m angry, horny, embarrassed, or drunk. And right now, I can’t tell which emotion it is.
“I, uh—” He clears his throat and points near my feet. I look down to see a small paper bag. “Your book.”
I look down at the bag, then back at him. “So you’re from that bookstore.”
