Oliver Jacoby is destroyed. His chest heaves, slick with sweat. His eyes are half-closed, glazed, his lips parted around breaths that come in short, punchy exhales. “Holy shit,” he manages.
“Was that okay?”
He laughs. “Was that—Ryan, that was—I don’t have words. I’m a communications major, and I don’t have words.”
“Sports management.”
“What?”
“Your major is sports management, not communications.”
“You just sucked my soul out through my dick, and you’re correcting my major?”
“Accuracy matters.”
Oliver surges upward, grabbing my face in both hands andpulling me down into a kiss. It’s messy and desperate, all tongue and teeth.
He has to taste himself on me. There’s no way he doesn’t. I just had his cock in my mouth thirty seconds ago.
I pull back an inch. “You don’t mind that I—you can taste?—”
“I know what I taste like.” Oliver’s thumbs stroke my cheekbones, his eyes bright and unapologetic. “Every guy has tasted himself at least once. Anyone who says otherwise is a liar.”
“That’s—”
“A fact. Now come here.”
He pulls me back in, and I stop questioning it. His tongue slides against mine, and there’s something deeply intimate about this—about Oliver kissing me, knowing exactly what flavor is still coating the inside of my mouth.
We kiss until my lips are swollen and my jaw aches for entirely new reasons. Oliver’s hands roam my back, my shoulders, my hair, touching me everywhere with a lazy reverence that makes my chest tight. When we finally break apart, he pulls up his sweatpants, tucks me against his side—my head on his chest—and reaches for the laptop.
“Elvis,” he says, hitting the spacebar. “We have a movie to finish.”
“You just had an orgasm, and your first thought is Elvis?”
“My first thought was actually ‘I want to marry Ryan Abrams,’ but Elvis seemed like a safer thing to say out loud.”
My face burns. I press it harder against his chest, hiding the smile I can’t suppress. His heart thuds steadily under my ear, slowing back to its normal rhythm, and his arm tightens around my shoulders.
On screen, Elvis throws his punch. Oliver watches with genuine interest, occasionally asking questions about the plot that I answer in a voice that sounds remarkably normal for someone who just gave his first blowjob. The cheese puffs reappear at some point, Oliver eating them one-handed while his other arm staysfirmly around me.
I can still taste him. Underneath the cheese puff dust on my lips, underneath the fading flavor of sparkling water from earlier, there’s Oliver. Salt and musk and something distinctly, irreducibly him. Every time I swallow, it’s there. Every time I lick my lips, it’s there.
I don’t mind. I don’t mind at all.
36
RYAN
Oliver
Wear a tux. I’m picking you up at 7. First official date as my boyfriend.
Iread it three times. Then a fourth time, just to make sure the words haven’t rearranged themselves into something else.
Oliver wants me to wear a tux.
“Jackson!” My voice comes out higher than normal. “JACKSON!”
