The kiss deepens in my imagination. Ryan’s mouth opens under mine, hesitant at first, then eager. I swallow the small sound he makes—surprise and pleasure tangled together. His body presses against me in the water, slick and warm, and I feel him hard against my thigh.
God, the thought of Ryan hard for me. Wanting me. Letting me be the first person to touch him, to taste him, to make him feel better than good. I stroke faster, my hips lifting off the mattress to meet my fist while my toes curl into the sheets, anchoring me.
The fantasy quickly morphs into something more intense. We’re not in the pool anymore. We’re in my bed, and Ryan is spread out beneath me like an offering. His khakis and button-down are long gone, replaced by nothing but bare skin and flushed cheeks. His hazel eyes have gone dark with want.
“I’ve never—” he starts, and I silence him with another kiss.
“I know,” I murmur against his lips. “I’ll take care of you. I promise.”
My free hand rests on my thigh as the other works my cock with increasing urgency. I’m fully hard now, aching, my balls drawn up tight. The fantasy has taken on a life of its own, playing out behind my closed eyes in vivid detail.
I imagine trailing kisses down Ryan’s neck, feeling his pulse jump under my tongue. He’s been alone for so long, convinced that he’s not worth someone’s time and attention. I’d spend hours proving him wrong. No, days. Whatever it took.
In the fantasy, I take him in my hand, and he arches off the bed with a cry that goes straight to my cock. He’s trembling, overwhelmed, and I slow my strokes to let him adjust. “That’s it,” I whisper. “I’ve got you. Just feel it.”
I twist my wrist on the upstroke, mimicking what I’d do to Ryan, and my legs tremble.
The fantasy fractures, then reforms. Suddenly, I’m thinking about the night after the championship. The guy who was pounding into me while the party raged below. We went at it three times, and each time was satisfying and exactly what I needed after nine months of nothing. But now, in my imagination, it’s not Frat Guy inside me. It’s Ryan, learning my body with careful attention.
Ryan, whose hands shake slightly as they grip my hips, not from nerves but from the effort of holding back.
Ryan, whose voice breaks when he becomes overwhelmed by the heat and the tightness.
I imagine his moans to be high and desperate. This Ryan is undone, unraveled, and I’m the one who did it to him.
My hand flies over my cock now, chasing the building pressure at the base of my spine. “Come for me,” I imagine telling him. “Want to feel you, buddy. Want to be your first everything.”
The pressure crests. My feet slide off the bed as every muscle tenses. My eyes fly open, and the orgasm tears through me, whiting out my vision. “Oh, God! Ryan!”
His name rips from my throat as I come, spurting hot and thick over my fist, my stomach, my chest. It keeps going, pulse after pulse, until I feel wetness hit my collarbone, before soaring higher and splattering all the way up to my hairline.
Holy fuck.
I lie there gasping, my hand still loosely wrapped around my cock, cum cooling on my skin in streaks that map the force of my release. The music continues to play, incongruous now, too hostile for the boneless satisfaction spreading through my limbs.
I fumble for the tissues on my nightstand, cleaning myself upas best I can. My hair is going to need washing—there’s definitely cum in it, which is either impressive or concerning depending on your perspective—but that can wait until morning. I don’t mind rocking theThere’s Something About Marylook.
What can’t wait, apparently, is my brain’s insistence on replaying the fantasy in excruciating detail.
Ryan in the pool. Ryan in my bed. Ryan inside me, losing his virginity to someone who actually cares about him, who sees him as more than a conquest or a curiosity.
I want that. I want…him.
I’ve had crushes before, hookups, even a few attempts at something more serious. But this feels different. Bigger. Like the beginning of something that could actually matter.
I pull the earbuds out and set my phone aside, staring at the ceiling in the darkness. Gerard’s theatrical moaning has finally subsided, replaced by the low murmur of conversation and what sounds like Elliot’s dry laughter. Good. They’re in the afterglow phase now, which means I might actually get some sleep.
Tomorrow, I’ll see Ryan again. We’ll sort through more dusty archives, face-to-face in that dim corner of the basement. I’ll make him laugh if I can, listen if he wants to talk, simply exist beside him if that’s all he needs.
And I’ll try very, very hard not to think about what I did tonight.
17
OLIVER
For the last twelve hours, I’ve been trying not to think about the fact that jerking off to thoughts of Ryan resulted in getting jizz in my hair. But every time I see his face staring at me from across the booth, I remember, and my dick twitches.
“So your dad is stationed in Germany?” I ask, wrapping my hands around my iced latte. Ryan nods; his own drink is some complicated tea concoction with honey, sitting untouched in front of him.
