Bromosexual

I glance down. Our hips are pressed together because of his hold on me.

Then I feel it. “You are, too,” I say and also discover at the same time.

He pulls away from me slightly to get a look for himself. To my surprise, he’s not only hard; he’s leaked pre-cum in his shorts. I can see the dark stain at his crotch.

“Well, shit,” he mumbles.

“Why’d you want to kiss me?”

Stefan meets my eyes again. “I … just wanted to try it. Now I’ve tried it.”

I blink. “So that’s it?”

He licks his lips—which I won’t even go into describing how sexy that is, thinking that he’s licking me off of his lips—and then says, “I sure hope not.”

His answer casts a flutter of excitement down my body and renders me motionless.

I sure hope not either.

“So,” I murmur, “is your … back still sore?”

A glint of hunger twinkles in his eyes. His voice is deep when he answers. “I think so.”

“I have an idea. To take care of that sore back of yours.”

He smirks. “I like ideas.”

“Come here,” I tell him, slipping out of his hold and heading for my room. Stefan’s heavy footfalls follow me as we make our way. I click on my lamp, giving the room a dim ambiance, and then I pat my bed. “Here.”

He doesn’t hesitate at all. He climbs onto the bed and sprawls out on his stomach, cuddling a pillow and getting himself comfy.

“Might want to lose the tank,” I tell him.

He quirks an eyebrow at me, twisting his head. “Yeah?”

“Yep.” I make another shoulder-massaging motion with my hands again. “Skin-to-skin contact. I can work you better. Get you deeper. Really grind my thumbs in.”

“Or you’re just trying to get your buddy’s clothes off.”

“Seriously? This is coming from the guy who walks around my house half-naked all the time.”

Stefan eyes me. I can’t even say what that sly little look does to me, the way it digs deep into me and grabs hold of my balls.

Then he sits up and peels off his tank top, revealing his bare chest I’ve become addicted to—smooth, tanned, and muscled. His tattoos dance down the side of his body and over his abdomen. I stare, hypnotized by the gorgeous sight of him.

As if totally uncaring of the fact that he’s driving me crazy, he plops back into position, cuddling my pillow with his face while lying flat on his stomach. His smooth bubble butt invites me to the bed, encased in those tight navy shorts with his semi-hard cock tucked beneath him somewhere.

I’m seriously supposed to climb on top of all of that like this is no big deal?

He snaps his fingers, as if calling for a servant. “Ready for my massage,” he sings, half-muffled by the pillow. “Back is sore and in need of your expert fingers.”

My eyes are glued elsewhere. Is your butt in need of anything?

I shake out of it and gently mount him, straddling his lower back. Feeling our butts against each other—even through the thin fabrics of the shorts we’re wearing—fills my mind with a bounty of horny fantasies I’ve long suppressed. I’m so distracted with the steamy thoughts that when I place my hands on his back to begin, I don’t even move them yet.

“Hey, that’s not fair.”

I flinch. “What’s not fair?”

“I took off my tank,” he complains, twisting his head slightly to eye me. “You’re still in your shirt.”

“Uh, yeah. I’m not the one getting my back massaged.”

“So you’re a chicken? That’s what you’re saying?” he asks, his eyes flickering with feigned innocence.

I must stare at him for a solid century after he says those words. A huge wave of self-consciousness renders my muscles tight. I feel cold suddenly, and I’m still wearing my shirt.

“It’s only fair,” he goes on to reason. “Come on. We’re on the same team. You didn’t pick shirts and I didn’t pick skins. We’re both gonna be shirts or both gonna be skins. That’s how this works. Together.”

Well, that’s some weird-ass logic if I’ve ever heard it. Still, I have a hard time arguing with him for some reason.

He’s a persuasive bastard. Always has been.

I’ve taken advantage of his current state of wide-open mind this much. Why not go all the way and comply with his curiosity?

Maybe I don’t mind him using me for his experimentations.

Even if it’s going to end after tonight.

I climb off of him, step onto the floor, then slowly take off my t-shirt. Unlike his careless little tossing of his own tank, I carefully fold my shirt and set it on the desk next to the bed, right by the lamp—our only light.

His eyes drift up to meet mine. A sudden, challenging look enters them, reminding me so much of all the nights we spent rivaling each other at our favorite video games. “Well?” he grunts from the pillow. “You gonna chicken out?”