The song was “Dance Naked” by John Mellencamp. Only Bella would have chosen this song.
Adam snapped his fingers to the beat, let his shoulders ease into it, then freed his feet to tap heel-to-toe in rhythm. He mouthed the lyrics.
Adam took Matt’s hand and pulled him into the dance.
Mellencamp’s voice was smoky, sensuous.
Adam lifted his arms in the air and spun slowly, his ass swaying like a slow metronome, his feet moving faster, tracking the counter-rhythm.
Matt forgot his inhibitions, leaned towards Adam, let his own shoulders move with the beat.
Adam smiled, beckoned for Matt to close the distance between them. He placed his hands on Matt’s hips, guided Matt into an erotic, rhythmic thrust. “Keep that up,” Adam whispered. “Maintain about 4 inches distance between our bodies.”
Adam waited for Mellencamp’s next chorus, then rotated slowly, until his back was to Matt, his arched ass bobbing to the beat.
Matt was in heaven! They were close enough he could smell Adam’s shampoo. Could discern individual freckles on Adam’s shoulders. And, if he strained his eyes down, he could see tiny droplets of sweat pooling at the base of Adam’s spine, catching in the briar patch of hair that poked up from his crack, then trickling down.
Their proximity—close enough for a flea to jump from one to the other—lit a fire inside Matt, a ball of molten, white-hot lust that made his throat go dry and his dick twitch like the needle on a Geiger counter. In any other setting he would not be able to resist the urge to slide a finger beneath the band of Adam’s Jockeys and root out his fundament—as the Victorians had called it—steep his finger in the musk, and then sniff it for a cocaine high.
Mellencamp strummed his guitar, sang “I want you to dance naked...”
Matt shared the sentiment, imagined the moment, less than an hour in the future, when he would explore Adam’s body with his tongue, his fingers, and finally his cock. When they would become “one flesh” whether God liked it or not.
Mellencamp faded.
Whitney Houston’s “I Wanna Dance with Somebody” began.
Adam’s arms pumped up and down, flashing tufts of pit hair that, Matt decided, would receive special attention later.
Adam was a pagan priest summoning the god of dance. His balls—ensconced in the pouch of his Jockeys—bounced and jostled. It was a mesmerizing sight. His downy thighs—which, mercifully, did not thicken as they neared his waist, allowed light between them, illuminating his dangling nut sack as though it were theclapper on a bell.
Matt, focused on dancing for—and to—Adam, executed his own gyrations, displayed the raw power coiled within his 6’1” frame. He doubted whether his movements were as exactly tuned to Whitney’s music as were Adam’s, but he was certain he had performed his part of the mating ritual.
In a dance that reached back to the primordial ooze, Adam had signaled that he was ripe for breeding. Matt had signaled he was the guy for the job.
Then it was midnight! Shouting and clapping and blow ticklers and noise horns! HAPPY NEW YEAR!
It was time for THE KISS. Who hadn’t dreamed of just that moment, especially a first kiss on New Year’s?
All around them couples embraced. Smooched.
Matt pulled Adam to him, placed one hand around the base of his spine, and leaned him back, supporting his upper body with his other arm. He bent over Adam, gazed into his eyes. Flecks of copper sparkled back from the hazel sea like eye-freckles, glitteringly bright.
“Kiss me.” Matt said. It was neither a question nor a command, just a statement of fact. They had both spent 17 weeks building to this moment. Pretending otherwise would be farce.
Adam’s full, bow-shaped lips parted, moist, inviting—the pistil to the stamen of Matt’s tongue, just as, later—surely—Adam’s ass would be the receptacle for Matt’s seed.
They kissed.
Matt tasted innocence and heartache. The 100-acre wood. Bonfires and boyhood. And the valley of death.
“Auld Lang Syne” began to play.
Matt pulled Adam to his feet, and they danced—no wobbling—to old acquaintance, forgotten; to drinking cups of kindness yet; to Auld Lang Syne.
They strode to their room in their skivvies, holding hands, carrying their sacks of clothes.
This was Matt’s first-time holding hands with a guy. He’d “shaken hands” with several guys (sucked and fucked and been fucked—and whatever you called what had transpired between him and Josh on the road trip), but NEVER THIS!
