17. 17

17

Ant Decker

“Um, what the fuck?” I say.

The initial shock of the mind-bending orgasm I just had has worn off, and I’ve come back to myself. As always, reality has landed with all the aplomb of a hard slap to the face.

I let him use the bathroom first because I have a nonnegotiable set of principles about how to treat a guy who just bottomed for me. First and foremost among said principals is don’t be a dick , and second is do be a gentleman . I’ve just returned to our room from cleaning up, only to find Robbie McGuire happily ensconced in my bed. He’s on his side, facing the wall, with the covers draped loosely over his waist.

“My bed’s flooded in cum,” he says matter-of-factly, without bothering to look back at me, “there are two wet spots the size of Delaware on my sheets. No way I’m sleeping in that. You can take my bed if you don’t mind it. Otherwise, you’re stuck with me. ”

I let out a long, exasperated sigh. It’s not that I mind spunk. It’s that I mind when it’s gone cold. It’s not even that, really, it’s that McGuire’s in my goddamn bed. I’ve already let him run rings around me, I can’t have him throwing me out of my own bed as well. It’s too much. I have to draw the line somewhere.

“Move up,” I say tersely.

He makes a big show of wriggling his shoulders and hips and bouncing around a lot, but best I can tell, he doesn’t actually move up. If he does, it’s by no more than an inch.

I get into bed and kill the light. At first, I lie on my side, facing away from him. He’s left me so little space that I have to cling to the edge of the mattress to stop myself from falling off. Neither of us is wearing clothing, so our bare asses are smooshed together. I looked for a while, but I couldn’t find my pajama pants in the carnage we made of his bed, and honestly, there comes a point where clothing becomes arbitrary between two people. If you ask me, that point is when you’ve lain behind a guy naked and reamed his anal virginity into the wild blue yonder.

I roll onto my other side, mimicking McGuire’s position and taking great pains to leave a margin of space between our bodies. It’s been a hell of a night already, and I’m pretty sure nothing good can come from me having McGuire’s satiny smooth ass cheeks touching any part of my body at this point.

His breathing is that of a man who’s wide awake. One who has no intention or inclination of going to sleep anytime in the next seven or eight hours. I close my eyes and do my best to ignore it. I can’t, though, because he won’t stop blinking, and every time he does it, his lashes scrape against his pillowcase. It’s a soft scratch, hair on linen, that gets louder and louder as the minutes tick by.

“Close your eyes,” I say eventually. “Get some sleep.”

“No.”

No?

What is it with this guy? Did he miss an entire chapter of the How to Behave guidebook?

“You can’t just say no to something like that,” I explain, trying my best not to allow my exasperation to show. “You have to give a reason, or you come across as unreasonable.”

“I have a reason,” he says quietly.

When he doesn’t expand, I prompt, “Well, would you care to share it with the class?”

He rolls over, an untidy three-point turn that causes the whole bed to rock. It’s dark, but he’s facing me. I know because of the soft blast of his breath against my beard. He nestles his head into the pillow, my pillow, inching his face so close to mine I’m forced to turn my face to look up at the ceiling. It does nothing to stop him. He leans in even closer, cupping his hand over his mouth like he’s telling me a secret.

“My hole feels different,” he whispers into my ear.

A lump of concern gets stuck in my throat and the urge to wrap an arm around him and pull him close is almost overwhelming. “Did I hurt you?”

“No, I’m not hurt. My hole just feels weird.” The sheets rustle as he dips an arm under them. I can tell he’s reaching down. Back. Stroking the part of his body I just fucked open. My dick, which is still oversensitive and tingling, starts to swell again. “Feels smooth where it’s usually wrinkled. My ring feels a little puffy and open like it hasn’t gone back to normal yet.”

The way he’s talking is getting under my skin. There’s something so terrifyingly vulnerable about it that it makes me lightheaded. I’ve been with lots of guys. Guys that have been with guys before and guys that haven’t. I’ve never been with anyone like this though. Someone so open, so honest. So fucking talkative.

It’s messing with me.

“It’ll go back,” I murmur .

“D’you swear?”

“Yeah, I swear.”

“What about my chest?”

“What’s wrong with your chest?” I ask, even though a quiet voice in my head warns me not to.

“Feels like I have a big hole in my chest. Like there was something there before, keeping me together, that isn’t there now. I feel…undone. Like my heart is open.” With that, he throws an arm around me and burrows his face into the space between my neck and shoulder. “Will that go back to normal too?”

“Yeah,” I say, letting my arm snake around his waist and sighing helplessly as my hand moves of its own accord, following the line of his spine past his tailbone and even lower. I stroke his hole with the pad of my middle finger. I do it as gently as I’ve ever done anything.

He’s right. It does feel a little smoother than usual. Puffier too.

He inhales sharply when I touch him and lets out a long, low moan that gets into my blood stream and works around my body in a way that leaves me in no doubt whatsoever that something concerning is going on with my heart as well.

He throws a leg over me, crooking it at the knee, forcing my body to meld against his .

“D’you need anything? Advil or something?” I ask, trying to think of a way to get myself a little distance and some air. He keeps his grip on me firm and shakes his head, nose and lips rubbing against the sensitive skin over my jugular. “You gonna go to sleep then?”

He shakes his head again and says, “No. Not till you tell me a story.”

“I don’t know any stories.”

“Sure you do.”

Post-nut exhaustion is heavy and doing its damnedest to pull me under. On top of that, I’m fighting full-bodied panic over being buried under a guy I just fucked. I’m currently participating in an activity that can best be described as cuddling. And on top of that, we’re talking a lot more than I consider ideal.

Despite all that, I hear myself say, “Fine, what story do you want me to tell you?”

“Tell me the story about the first time you went skating.”

I groan loudly but try to stifle the sound before it leaves my mouth. It goes wonky and takes the form of an uneasy rumble that makes him smile. It’s dark, and I can’t see his smile, but I know he’s smiling all the same. I can tell from the edges of him. From the space around him, and somehow, that makes it worse .

“The first time I went skating, I was seven years old. Joshua Pullen had an ice-skating party and the whole class was invited.” I mean to stop there since it’s pretty much the whole story, but McGuire is mercifully quiet and has stopped the incessant blinking, so I decide to go on. “Now, I didn’t particularly like Josh, and I’m absolutely positive he didn’t like me. It was one of those situations where I’ll bet his mom said, ‘Well, Joshie, I’m afraid we’re inviting everyone and not leaving anyone out. We’re not those kinds of people, so Ant’s invited and he’s coming.’” McGuire smiles again, broader this time, so I raise the pitch of my voice slightly and tack on, “‘And that’s the end of it.’”

“Did you like it?” he asks.

“Nah. Hated it. Hated the skates. Hated being strapped into them and feeling like I couldn’t get them off or move my ankles properly. Hated feeling out of control and hated being around so many people. There were kids everywhere. They were hyped up on sugar, so they were screaming and zooming around like little bats out of hell. A lot of them were crash landing and taking the kids near them out as they went down.” McGuire’s eyes are still closed and he’s not smiling anymore. At least, I don’t think he is. He’s listening with an intensity that has mass. An intensity that’s a key in a lock. Metal on metal. “I was scared of falling. I clung to the side for most of the party and slowly made my way around the rink. Eventually, a man who worked there skated up and gave me one of those penguin skate aids. I was psyched. I was motoring along with my penguin feeling pretty good about things, when that little shit, Josh, yelled, ‘Hey, look, Ant’s using a penguin like a baby.’”

“ That dick! ” says McGuire.

“No, no,” I correct gently, “we don’t call kids dicks.”

“You just called him a shit. You literally just called him a little sh—”

“I know, but that’s different. Shit is fine, dick isn’t.”

“Well, I’m not changing my mind. I stand by my assessment of him.” An uncontrollable laugh swells in my chest and bubbles to the surface. I only just manage to suppress it. “What happened next? Wait, let me guess, you penguined over to him and kicked his ass, amiright?”

“No. You’re wrong. I let go of the penguin and skated like I’d been doing it my whole life.”

“You did not.”

“I did too. I pushed off and glided like I was a pro… Got a good eight or ten yards before I saw my ass royally.” McGuire hoots in my arms, crumpling inward so his face is even closer to me than it was before. “It was ep ic. It was one of those wipeouts where your skates are at eye level for a split second. You know, where you actually have time to see them and realize you’re in the air, horizontal and about to crash land.”

“Ooh,” he hisses through his teeth in sympathy, “rough gig.”

“Yeah, when my mom picked me up, I told her what happened and swore I’d never so much as put a skate to ice again. I told my dad the same thing.” I crack a wry smile and shake my head at the memory. “He had me back at that rink the next day and took me down there every weekend for over two months. He signed me up for a mites club as soon as I could skate with a stick.”

“Did you love it? Hockey? Did you love it from the start?”

“Course I loved it, McGuire. Everyone loves doing things they’re good at.”

He blasts a puff of warm air against my neck that I’m pretty sure is accompanied by an eye roll. His body is pressed up against mine. We’re chest to chest, dick to dick, and it’s too much. Way too much. Too close.

I shuffle onto my back, but other than slightly loosening his grip on me and lifting his leg a little to allow me to roll over, he doesn’t move at all. His arm is still around my chest and his leg is still thrown over me, knee crooked, foot moving slowly up and down my calf.

I can hear the air entering his lungs and leaving them. I can feel his heartbeat against my ribs and his hair on my neck. It’s soft and coarse at the same time. Dirty-blond waves that spend their whole day hellbent on falling into his face.

The urge to run my fingers through it is almost too much.

“What about you?” I ask to distract myself.

“My sister Beth was into figure skating for a while. Usually, my dad took her to her lessons and I’d stay home with my mom because it was an evening class that ran pretty late. I guess my mom was away at a conference or something because I ended up tagging along one day. Beth’s coach asked if I wanted a turn, and of course, I said yes. I was in awe of the kids who were skating. I couldn’t wait to hit the ice and…”

“And you took to it like a duck to water, huh?”

He doesn’t answer, which lets me know that’s exactly what happened and then some.

“I was okay,” he says eventually. “After that first night, I planned on going to the Olympics and being a world champion. I wanted to skate with Debbie Webber. She was Beth’s age, and she was so good. I had this whole plan, we’d win gold and…”

“…you’d marry her and get a dog and live happily ever after.”

He laughs a soft, throaty laugh, and when I close my eyes, I see the corners of his lips pealing back and exposing his canines. It’s what happened earlier when he saw me at the airport. There were people all around us. The lines were busy and moving slowly. He’d been looking back when I arrived, almost as though he were waiting for me. The second he saw me, his whole face transformed. Not just his mouth. His eyes too. Fine lines appeared and fanned out. His cheeks creased and swirls of green and gold started to dance.

“Something like that,” he says. It takes me a little longer than it should to work out what he’s talking about. Debbie Webber. Figure Skating. Olympics.

“Were you good?” For some reason, I need him to say it. I want him to say it. I want to hear that it was easy and dumb luck.

I need it.

Maybe I need it so I can try to convince myself all over that he doesn’t deserve it.

“ I crashed a lot, like, a lot , a lot. I was fast as fuck though— obviously .” He jabs me lightly in the ribs, but I don’t give him the rise he’s after, so he continues, “My coach said I was fearless. Said he’d never seen anything like it. I thought it was a good thing. I’d been trying my best, so I was super proud, but then he added, ‘It’s not a compliment. You’re a wrecking ball, Robbie. You’re an accident waiting to happen.’ I was gutted.” The breath I now realize I’ve been holding twists and becomes a little uncomfortable. “Anyway, long story short, my dad pulled me out of the class and took me to a Vipers game a few months later. I was hooked within minutes. I felt like I was in heaven. Like I’d come home. It was amazing. I met Danny LeGrange after the game. Can you believe it?” Danny was the Vipers captain back then, and even now, he’s the kind of player people talk about in hushed, reverent tones.

“No way! He was like my idol growing up. I was obsessed with him. I still tape my stick the way he did.”

“He was my hero too. He was so nice. You know how sometimes you meet people and it shatters the illusion? Well, it was nothing like that. He signed my T-shirt, and when I told him I was going to play for the Vipers one day, he gave me the game puck.”

“No fucking way!

“Yes, way.”

“Do you still have it? ”

“Course I do. It’s my most prized possession.” His voice grows softer and the tempo of his words slows. “I begged my parents to let me play hockey after I met Danny. My dad was a little iffy about it because of the wrecking ball comment and how rough the game is in general, but my mom said it was fine as long as I played with a cage helmet forever.”

“Forever?” I chuckle at the thought. “Did you love hockey from the beginning and go to sleep at night picturing yourself lifting the Stanley Cup?” I ask quietly.

There’s a pause before he speaks, and his arm is heavier on my chest than it was earlier. “Yeah, I loved it. I loved it big time. Loved the game, loved being part of a team. Loved it all. It was fun. So much fun…” His voice trails off and he’s quiet for so long I think he’s drifting off, but then he adds, “I played for fun for years and years. Despite what I told Danny, it wasn’t until…later that I really believed I could go pro.”