“Thanks.”
He pulls in a long breath of air. “I said all sorts of dumb shit that night, Ashford. Who gives a fuck?”
He tried to kiss me that night, and said we should fuck. I shoved him away, because I wasn’t going to take advantage of a drugged person.
And I wasn’t going to let my first kiss be with someone who wouldn’t do it sober.
That night was the first and only time that a person had asked to fuck me. I’d wanted to hear those words so badly, for so long, yet the first time it happened it was all artificial.
No thank you.
I want my first time to be real.
Raw.
“Whatever,” I finally tell him, massaging my wrist where he held me down.
“I’m sorry for the… outburst,” he finally says, and something has shifted in his eyes. “But I don’t trust you.”
“Makes two of us.”
There’s a potent mix of guilt and bone-deep pleasure knowing that I get to look in his eyes after watching so many videos of him where he had a mask over them.
The truth is that I’m not justawareof his CamboyChaos account. I’m full-blown addicted to Niko’s cock, and I’ve never even seen it in person.
I watch every single one of his videos.
Look at his endless explicit photos.
I found his account a couple of months ago, completely by accident.
Because I always.
Know.
Too. Fucking. Much.
I recognized that it was him from one of his tattoos, and now I’ve seen him naked more times than I can count. I’ve watched him come. I’ve listened to him talk into the camera, saying how badly he needs to fill someone up, all behind the iridescent mask he wears in those videos.
And when I heard him saying he wanted to hate-fuck his former hockey rival…
I knew he was talking about me. When he said it, it was almost like he was reaching out through the screen and saying it directly to me. It made me come way too fucking hard, and afterward I was flooded with that familiar mix of deep shame and secret pleasure.
If I think too much about it I’m going to be hard for the rest of the party.
I look around, trying to focus on the carved wood above the fireplace, staring at anything other than Niko’s eyes.
A voice comes from beside us and relief floods me when I see that Noah is walking back over toward us. I feel like I’m a kid in high school again, rescued at the end of class by a dinging bell.
Noah strides over, nodding at me.
“Fuck machine. Let’s get this night back on track. I’ve got a snifter for you,” Noah says, approaching again.
Seeing Noah next to Niko is a contrast.
Noah’s style is full-blown Abercrombie, and he’s in a preppy jacket like mine. He’s clearly very drunk, and he’s going into friendly mode with Niko to try to soften the situation.
“What is asnifter?” I ask him.
