Three weeks ago, I fell from a second-story balcony while taking down a drug runner who’d been getting young girls hooked on his brand of smack. I hit my head pretty hard, and Anders was there in a second with his flashlight, examining my eyes and saying the same exact phrase. I’d roughly pushed him off me and hid the subsequent dizziness and horniness.
Tonight, I let him look.
He examines the eye, having me look up, down, and side to side, then goes quiet for a second. He leans into me, pressing his half-naked body against mine as his lips once again brush my ear.
“No visible scratching,” he says, lightly kissing my jaw, my chin, my lips.
It’s nothing more than a teasing slide of his mouth over mine, and it’s not enough. I take control of the kiss, slipping my tongue into his mouth, which tastes of cinnamon. I grab his hips, and he kisses me back, dueling with my tongue, aggressive, sensual.
The music continues to pulse around us, and my hands greedily take in the muscled planes of his flanks and back. I’ve plastered him against the wall, and we’re grinding into one another, both cocks hard and ready for more.
“Want to take this somewhere else?” he asks, rolling his hips and erasing brain cells by the second.
Yes.
No.
Fuck my life.
I pause for a brief second, enjoying the weight of him against me, then curse myself and push him back.
“I can’t. Sorry. Gotta get home.”
He smiles broadly and crosses his arms.
Shit.
“So, Omar,” he says, smirking. “You’re at least bi, then. I’m going to have to tell Odd to pay up.”
Ibne-sharmouta.Son of a bitch. I wonder how long he’s known it’s me.
For weeks now he’s been asking if I’m ace or demi, straight or bi. What Anders Fucking Bash does not know and cannot know is that I’m super fucking gay. Like, hookup-app, not-opposed-to-getting-blown-in-the-bathroom, don’t-know-how-many-men-I’ve-fuckedgay. To be clear, I am not the least bit ashamed of who I am, but who and how I fuck is simply nobody’s fucking business. Especially his.
My only real problem is that Anders used to be fuckable in an abstract kind of way. He’s beautiful, his body is crazy fit, and he is, occasionally, funny. Everyone wants to fuck someone like that.
But now that I know how well his body moves with mine, now that I know how he smells close up…I find him fuckable in a way that is not abstract at all. I want nothing more than to find a dark alley and push him up against the nearest brick wall, rough-handling him until his toppy ass begs for my cock.
I am never going to give this motherfucker the satisfaction.
Squaring my shoulders, I blank my expression and steady my voice. “I’m sorry, I don’t know who that is.”
I turn around and walk directly, or as directly as one can in a thriving mass of humans, toward the exit, his pealing laughter following me into the street.
Anders
I knew it was him. I knew it from the moment I saw him on the dance floor. Though…I would’ve never guessed Omar could move like that. Fuck, his body is insane under all those clothes.
What’s funny is he really thought he had me fooled, which means he doesn’t know me at all. I bet I could’ve slow-played him, gotten something more than the hot make-out action. Maybe even a little bathroom action. See him try to denythat.
But noooooo. I had to show my cards, like an asshole.
I’ll be honest, I’m not exactly sure why I’m fucking with Omar, other than it’s so goddamn entertaining. I mean, if he’d just give in, admit he’s gay as a rainbow flag, and fuck me, we could move on to the fun part of our relationship.
I mean friendship.
Until tonight, I hadn’t fully confirmed that he was on the queer spectrum. It was just a hunch.
To be fair, my hunches are guided missiles, and tonight was no exception.
