Page 3 of Punching the V-Card
The autumnal gloom of the front hall swallowed any hope of reading Carl’s expression, as did his swoopy hair falling into his face as he ducked his head. “I brought condoms and lube. We’ll do it in your room.” He turned briskly as if he were going to head upstairs to Devon’s room right now to get this all over with.
“Wait,” Devon said, grabbing Carl’s arm. It was small and wiry against his palm, and he couldn’t resist squeezing a little.
“What?”
“We need to have a talk first.”
Carl pulled his arm free, cleared his throat, and lifted his chin. The wan light from the square windows over the front door fell onto his face, highlighting his strange, pale eyes. “We’ll get the first time over with. That way we can practice specifics the rest of the weekend.”
“No, Carl. That’s not what we’re going to do.”
Carl’s jaw clenched, as if he wasn’t accustomed to being told no. And given how spoiled he was as an only child, maybe he wasn’t. “Yes, it is,” he said.
Devon snorted. He knew if he were a normal guy he’d be on the same page as Carl right now, dragging him upstairs to get his clothes off and all the rest.
But he wasn’t a normal guy, and he kind of thought that was part of why Hope and Carl had planned Carl’s first time to be with him, wasn’t it?
So, nope. That wasn’t how this was going to happen.
The idea of taking a guy up to his bed and fucking him before they’d even had a chance to talk didn’t appeal. He’d had enough hookups in college to know he just wasn’t that kind of guy. And if they were going to do this, he wasn’t going to compromise who he was and what he liked, for Carl, or anyone.
“Back to the kitchen. Now,” Devon ordered, trying to take charge. He was the older of the two of them, the more experienced, wasn’t he? Who did Carl think he was trying to take control of when and how they were going to fuck? “We’re talking this out whether you like it or not.”
“Uh-uh. No,” Carl said.
He sounded serious, like there was no way in hell he was going to back down. And Devon didn’t know why. What in the hell was going on? He tilted his head, trying to get a better bead on the situation.
“We aren’t going to talk about it.” Carl’s silver eyes gleamed in the low light. “Let’s just get this done, all right? I know you want to fuck me.” He lifted his sharp chin in a seductive way and gave Devon an obnoxiously confident stare. “Everyone does.”
“Then why hasn’t anyone done it yet?” Devon asked, putting his hands on his hips and lifting a brow. “Why’d you have to get Hope to beg me to do it?”
Carl sniffed. “There was no begging. I don’t beg. If you don’t want to do this, fine. We don’t have to do it.” He started to turn back to the kitchen, his back stiff and tense.
Devon rolled his eyes. “Stop being so dramatic. That’s not what I said.”
Carl stopped and turned, the light from the windows highlighting his eyes. He looked almost inhuman as he stood there, studying Devon like he didn’t quite know what was making him tick, like he was trying to decide if Devon was made of flesh and blood. For that matter, was Carl? He was so cold he could’ve been made of snow. And Devon didn’t intend to fuck a snow man.
“Look, just come in the kitchen with me to talk, all right? We’re both here for a reason—”
“Exactly,” Carl interrupted. “Let’s get it done.”
Devon dropped his voice a bit lower. Maybe Carl was scared, and this was how he dealt with his nerves. “Is it a crime to want to have a conversation first?”
“I really don’t see the point,” Carl said.
This wasn’t how Devon had thought thisdefloweringwould go. Which raised the question, howhadhe thought it would go? He didn’t know anymore. Maybe he’d thought Carl would seem a little grateful? Or eager? Or something other than cold and alien, something other thanresentful.
Did Carl not want this?
Devon’s stomach twisted. He crossed one arm over his chest and rubbed the pad of his other thumb across his eyebrow. Silence filled the hall as dust-motes drifted around them almost like snow.
Thunder rolled.
They stood in the shadows of the hallway staring at each other. Confusion roiled inside Devon, along with the desire to walk back out to the garage, get into his Ford Taurus, and drive away. Where? He wasn’t sure. Back to school, probably. Away from this, for sure.
Carl’s tension collapsed, and his expression turned softer, his blond brows scrunching up. “Hey, it’s okay,” Carl said, his voice pitching lower, gentler than Devon had ever heard it. Grit in honey, a rough whisper.
Carl reached one thin hand into the space between them. The light from the windows fell on it, illuminating its steadiness and the bitten nails and callouses from guitar strings.
