My father’s words dart through my mind, joined by my grandfather’s. I’m doing all the things they deride. I’m confirming all the things they would hate to know I’m doing, all the things I’ve told myself over the years I don’t want to do, the desires I’ve labeled as intrusive thoughts.
Because even before I met Cal, Dad and Gramps made it clear Larvik men liked women. I could feel their gazes on me when we watched swimming during the Olympics, when the room felt like someone had set fire to it, but the only person aware of it was me. I could feel my shoulders squaring, trying to keep my expression neutral and bored, even when I was confronted with round butts and interesting packages and masculine figures that made my blood sing as if I were watching a music video with sexy female singers.
Cal feels so good.
I’m tired of saying no, of pretending I don’t crave this. And Jesus Christ, Cal is so amazing. I’m tired of lying to him and telling him I’m not interested in things I am interested in. I’m tired of pretending I don’t notice his body, don’t want to burrow against his soft torso and thick thighs.
Because I’ve been noticing him for years. Maybe I didn’t see him this past decade, but he featured in my dreams. I’ve thought about our kiss as teenagers more than I have any other kiss.
And now his cock is right before me, swathed in wet, dripping cotton.
I reach for it, then my skin heats.
“You can touch it,” he says. “If you want. You don’t have to.”
His kindness and consideration melt me. He’s used to experienced men. Men who know what they want. Men who wouldn’t hesitate to worship his body.
“I-I want to touch it,” I say.
“Yeah?” He eases his briefs down, taking his time. More skin shows. My mouth waters.
Because of all the things I thought would happen in my life, being in a tropical paradise with a sexy man was not on my list. When I saw Cal for the first time, I was embarrassed. I hated that my eyes still drifted to him, and I despised the wariness I saw in his when he looked at me.
I move my hands to his hips, feeling his firm hip bone. He’s not rounded there like a woman.
His briefs aren’t fully dry yet, and they stick to his skin.
“Let me,” I whisper.
He stops, and I tuck my fingers underneath his briefs and pull them down.
And then there he is.
There is his cock.
Pink and throbbing and leaking and sticking straight up against his stomach.
My nerves zing, but I don’t move toward him. I am a statue, as surely as if Medusa herself has cursed me.
Cal’s expression falters, and he swivels away from my grasp. He collapses beside me. “I guess it must look strange.”
Something squeezes around my chest.
“Your cock doesn’t look strange,” I say finally.
“I suppose that’s good...”
“Sorry. That came out wrong.”
His lips swerve up, but the gesture is too forced for some reason.
“Can I touch it?” I ask.
He eyes me. “You don’t have to.”
I flop toward him. “I’m into this.”
“But you—”
