CLAM JAM

by RC Boldt

“Oh, he said he forgot about something he had to do.” I twist my lips in a slight pout. “Bummer, huh?”

  “Yeah.” She sighs. “I thought we were getting along pretty well.”

  Tapping her lightly beneath her chin, I wink. “Chin up, gorgeous. Want to see if we can snag some seats at the bar?”

  Brightening, she nods. “Sure.” As we turn, I hear her murmur, “We didn’t even get to exchange numbers before he left either, dang it.”

  Patting her on the back, I offer her some sympathy. It’s not genuine, but luckily, she doesn’t notice. “Bummer, Mags. Major bummer.”

  As I follow her over to the bar, a happy smile stretches across my face as I look forward to having Mags all to myself, once again.

  So far, my evil plan is working.

  Chapter Nine

  Maggie

  My birthday is a big deal. Like a really big deal. To me.

  Obviously.

  I love birthdays. Always have, always will.

  Some people hate birthdays, hate getting older, and hate the idea of moving closer to their expiration date on this earth. Not me, though. I love the excuse to have a celebration, getting my favorite people together, eating a little too much, possibly (likely) indulging in a few too many of the adult beverage variety, and getting presents.

  Sarah always gives me the best presents. But here’s the thing—she doesn’t go all out with the most expensive thing. She does things I would never think of. One year, she gave me a bottle of wine that had my own label on it. It was “aged” from my date of birth and had my photo on it. Cool, right?

  Also, I have to add that, being the stellar friend that she is, she chose a great photo of me for the label. One where I don’t actually have those deer-in-the-headlights eyes because I’m trying so hard not to blink at the camera’s flash.

  Another year, she had a calendar made that had a bunch of photos of us throughout the years. I still have that stashed away because I couldn’t bear to write on it and use it. It was just too awesome.

  Anyway, you get what I’m saying. She rocks at unique birthday gifts. So you can understand my anticipation when she, Ry, Jack, and I all got together at Sushi Thai for my birthday.

  After inhaling more Pad Thai than I thought was humanly possible and once the waiter cleared our dishes, Sarah pulls out a large, cylinder-shaped wrapped gift with an enormous grin on her face.

  After she hands it to me, I waste no time tearing off the wrapping paper. It looks like it’s a rolled up doormat of some sort. My eyes flicker to Sarah’s in question, but she just smiles. Sliding the large rubber band from around the mat, I unroll it and see that it has the outline of the state of New York on it and says Home is Where the Heart Is. Beneath that is The Finegan & James Family.

  See? Yet another year with another perfect, unique gift from her.

  “This is the coolest thing ever!” I turn the mat toward the guys to show them before thanking Sarah.

  Jack pulls out a thin envelope with an apologetic look on his face. “I’m shitty at gift giving, Maggie. Sorry in advance.”

  “Stop.” I flash him an admonishing smile. “I’m sure it’s perfect.” Opening the envelope, I pull out a gift certificate for a massage at the Gideon Putnam resort, which is pretty expensive.

  “Jack,” I breathe out, my eyes flying to his smiling ones. “This is too much.”

  He makes a face. “Please.” Tossing a thumb in Ry’s direction, he adds, “My princess doesn’t like massages, so it’s all good.”

  “And that’s my cue to present this.” Ry hands me a large gift bag. “I was afraid it wouldn’t be finished in time, but I lucked out at the last minute.”

  Digging excitedly through the mounds of tissue paper in the bag, my fingers touch on something extremely soft. Pulling it from the bag, I see that it’s a large, fleece throw blanket.

  But it’s not just any throw blanket. It has photos of Sarah and me, Ry and me, and of the four of us together printed on the fleece material. Looking over the captured moments—the specific photographs he chose for the blanket—I feel tears begin to prick my eyes. Because I know, without a doubt, I would have chosen the same ones. These photos are my favorites; ones that display just how much affection there is between us.

  Raising my eyes to meet Ry’s, I find him watching me with an unnerving intensity, and I swear there’s a hint of vulnerability in his features.

  “Ry, I love it.” Emotion is clogging my throat, and I feel as though I can barely get the words out.

  “Really?” he asks softly.

  “Without a doubt.”

  And that’s when it happens. For the first time in my life, I experience a movie fade-out.

  You know, a movie fade-out where one of the main characters—usually in a romantic movie—sees the object of their affection and the rest of the world fades away. The other person comes into sharp focus and all the music—there’s usually music in the background, by the way—fades or becomes extremely faint, and the two of them have a moment. And you’re like, Awwwww, so sweet!

  That’s happening to me right now. The only problem is that I’m having that particular kind of moment with my roommate.

  My gay roommate. While his boyfriend is sitting right beside him.

  This is the point where you want to slap some sense into me, isn’t it?

  Tearing my eyes away from Ry, I catch sight of the look Sarah’s giving me, and it appears as though she’d also like to get in on that little slap-some-sense-into-Maggie thing.

  Get in line, sister. Because right now, I feel like I need to slap some sense into myself.

  Chapter Ten

  Ry

  “Thanks again for everything, Ry.”

  Wrapping my arms around Maggie, I press my lips to the top of her head, her silky soft hair brushing against them.

  “You’re welcome, Mags. I hope you had a great birthday.”

  She leans back to look up at me, her eyes shining. “Are you kidding me? It was the best one yet.”

  Gazing down at her and the way she’s looking at me with that easy, soft smile makes my breath hitch. When her eyes drift down to my lips, I see her own lips part, tongue darting out to wet her bottom lip, and I inhale sharply.

  “Mags.” My voice sounds hoarse, raspy even.

  “Yes?” Her eyes remain focused on my lips.

  “Happy birthday.” I dip my head down, my lips dusting lightly over her own before I quickly relinquish my hold on her. “Good night.” Slipping into my room, I close the door and lean against it with a sigh.

  Running my hands over my face, I internally laugh because I know what I’ll be doing to close out Maggie’s birthday celebration tonight.

  Glancing down at the slight tenting of my jeans, I thank God she didn’t notice the effect the sight of her tongue wetting her lips had on me. That wouldn’t have gone over well.

  Hearing the soft sound of Maggie’s bedroom door close, my shoulders relax slightly, and I quickly unbutton my shirt, tossing it into my laundry bin in the far corner of my room, and my undershirt, jeans, socks, and boxer-briefs follow suit.

  Pulling down the covers of my bed, I slide between the cool sheets. Closing my eyes, I wrap my hand around my cock and think of her. Of Maggie’s lips, of how good it would feel if she were in here with me right now. If her lips were to trail a path down the center of my chest, down to the base of my cock.

  My hand’s moving in fluid strokes—not too fast but not too slow, either—and I feel myself harden further at the thought of Maggie’s tongue on me. Licking and tasting me. The tip of that tongue darting out to taste the tip of my cock, to lick the pre-come from it.

  “Fuck,” I breathe out in the quiet of my room. “That’s it. Taste me.”

  My thoughts take over as I imagine Maggie’s tongue darting around the base of my cock again before pressing her lips to it and sucking gently.

  My body arches at the thought of it, and another surge of arousal flows through me as moisture gathers at my
tip.

  Maggie’s lips wrap around my cock before she begins sliding her mouth up and down my thick shaft. Her hair falls against my inner thighs, and my hands fist it as I guide her to stroke me with her mouth. I guide her in to take me as deep as she can, and her hot, wet mouth feels so fucking good. The way her mouth sucks my cock hard, my toes curl at the way she loves me with her mouth.

  I throw my head back against my pillow as I feel the tightening in my balls and know that I’m close. Thinking about Maggie’s mouth, thinking about her swallowing my come, I imagine her eyes watching me. When I feel the telltale tingling, just before I find my release, I imagine looking down and seeing Maggie watching me as I come in her mouth.

  “Fuck, yes,” I expel on a whisper-groan, shooting my release all over my stomach. I lie there, allowing my breathing to even out.

  I’ve just had a fucking hot-ass fantasy about my roommate. The one who’s just begun to date again. The one I’m in love with. While I’m supposedly gay.

  God, I’m fucked up.

  Just as I reach over to grab some tissues from the nightstand beside my bed, I hear something—something that makes me immediately go still. Cocking my head to the side, I listen because if I didn’t know any better, I’d think I heard Maggie through the bedroom wall. It sounded almost like a keening cry.

  Waiting another moment, I don’t hear anything more, so I shrug it off, going about my cleanup and then pulling on some pajama pants so I can head across the hall to shower.

  In the back of my mind, though, I wonder what the hell that sound was that I just heard.

  Chapter Eleven

  Maggie

  Ry’s lips against mine. That’s all I can think of as I return to my room, closing the door quietly behind me.

  My brain goes off on a tangent, imagining Ry’s soft lips brushing against mine, teasing me, before his tongue sweeps inside to taste me. Leaning my back against the door, I raise my fingertips to graze my lips.

  Is it possible to have kisser’s remorse? You know, like buyer’s remorse except, in this case, you’ve kissed someone and are really regretting the fact that it’s over? If so, I’m pretty sure I have a serious case of it.

  It might be terminal.

  Walking over to my dresser, I slide open my top drawer—the one I keep all of my underwear and bras in—and slip my hand to the back. When my fingers wrap around what I’m looking for, I get that tense feeling. Like the time Sister Margaret caught me throwing away my salami sandwich in the second grade. Dang woman had eyes in the back of her head, I tell you.

  Shoving that nagging feeling to the back of my mind, I reach for the two batteries, quickly inserting them before snapping the lid shut and laying my vibrator on my bed while I undress. Once I’m naked, I slide beneath my covers and turn it on, praying the covers muffle the noise enough that Ry doesn’t hear—doesn’t realize what I’m doing.

  Doesn’t realize I’m thinking of him while I touch myself. Oooh, yes, that’s right. Naughty Maggie has come out to play. My mind begins to run rampant with scenarios. One, in particular, takes hold …

  Suddenly, my bedroom door opens, and Ry’s silhouette is in my doorway.

  “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “I … um,” I stutter, knowing I’ve been caught red-handed.

  He steps farther inside my bedroom, and I notice that he’s wearing only a pair of boxer-briefs, the outline of his cock pressing against the fabric, and he’s hard. So hard.

  “Are you touching yourself, Mags?” His voice is raspy, like he’s just as turned on as I am. And the fact that I turn him on is just all sorts of hot.

  “Yes,” I breathe.

  He moves closer, standing beside my bed. “Show me.”

  Sliding the covers back, I allow him to see my naked body, watching me as I guide my bullet over my clit. The vibrations of the small toy mingling with my slightly staggered breathing are the only sounds in the quiet bedroom.

  His gaze turns molten as he watches, and my eyes drift down to see him growing harder.

  “You want to see me?” My eyes dart up to meet his; he obviously caught me staring at him. I can only nod in response. His thumbs tuck beneath the waistband of his briefs, tugging them down his legs before he kicks them off from around his ankles.

  Standing there, beside the bed, my eyes are riveted to the sight of Ry’s large fingers closing around his cock, sliding slowly from the base to the tip. His thumb circles the slit, gathering the moisture there before reaching out to lower his thumb to my mouth. I greedily open my lips, sucking the pre-come off his thumb. My tongue caresses his flesh as I watch his gaze grow heavy-lidded with lust.

  “Mags,” he groans as he watches me, scorching heat in his eyes. Withdrawing his thumb from my mouth, his hand returns to fist his cock, running his thumb across the top once more before giving me another taste. I grab his wrist, holding him steady as I suck his essence from his thumb, feeling myself grow even wetter.

  When the bed dips with his weight as he slides beside me, he props his head in his hand while watching me. I can’t resist reaching out to graze his hard flesh with one fingertip. When it jerks, my eyes fly to his.

  He takes my hand in his, wrapping my fingers around his shaft, and guides me on how to stroke him, on what he likes. Watching our hands together, wrapped around his cock and moving in even strokes makes my breath hitch, and another flood of arousal flows through my body.

  “Keep going.” He nods toward where my other hand is running the vibrator over my clit. His voice is gravelly, hoarse with arousal. “I want to watch you come undone.”

  Dipping his head to my ear, while still guiding my hand in long strokes on his cock, he says, “I can’t wait to hear you come.” His lips brush against my ear, his teeth latching onto my earlobe and tugging gently. “Can’t wait until you cry out my name.” His tongue darts out to trace the outline of the shell of my ear.

  My eyes are closed, my breathing becoming labored as I work my vibrator over my clit, feeling my entire body tighten in anticipation of my release. All the while, he continues to guide my hand, and I continue to feel his cock pulsing beneath my ministrations. His tongue and lips are wreaking havoc on me, trailing a path from my ear down along the column of my neck to nibble on my collarbone.

  My movements become more frantic. I’m on the precipice of release, circling my clit before, finally, it hits me.

  “Ry,” my voice sounds faint, like a keening cry as I arch, my body pulsing with my orgasm as waves of bliss roll through me.

  When I finally come down from the high, I realize that I’m fisting the covers in one hand. The same hand that I’d imagined was grasping Ry’s cock.

  “Oh, holy crap,” I groan, throwing my head back against the pillow, wincing at what I’ve just done.

  I’ve just molested my roommate. And came calling out his name.

  Sister Margaret was right about me. I really am trouble.

  * * *

  “So you work at the firm on South Broadway?”

  He’s into me. Like, he’s really into me. My inner dork is doing one of those happy-clap-bounce-up-and-down things. But I remain calm, cool, and collected.

  On the outside.

  “Yes, I’ve worked there ever since I graduated with my bachelor degree. It’s stressful at times, but I enjoy it.” Translate that to: My boss is Satan reincarnated, but the pay is good, and I get a lot of perks with the job, so that’s why I stay.

  But I don’t need to unload all of that on him—on Stephen with a “ph.” Yeah, I asked because, you know. Guys like being asked questions about themselves.

  Says the girl who’s been celibate for the past year and just read that in an issue of Glamour magazine. Listen to me. Who the heck am I kidding? I feel like a total fish out of water here. Like a kid whose parents just took off the training wheels—too early—even after the kid told them, repeatedly, that they weren’t freaking READY!

  Whoa. Clearly, I have some issues to work out. Sorr
y about that. Back to Stephen with a “ph.”

  “So you work in marketing?”

  Gah! What the hell? I’m going to start snoring at my own conversation questions. Just when I’m about to laugh it off and toss out my “deal breaker question” of Breakfast Club or Pretty in Pink (It’s both, by the way. You can’t actually choose between the two classic movies from the eighties, people.), someone interrupts.

  My roommate, Ry.

  Now, while I adore Ry more than anything in the world—well, not more than Max Londons’ white sangria because I’m not getting that crazy, now—he’s killing my game. Or something. I don’t know if I can even claim that I have anything close to “game.” Maybe a strategy? A faint idea?

  “Hey, you two! I’m Ry James, Mags’ roommate. Nice to meet you.” He holds out a hand to Stephen, and I wait to see if he falters at the fact I have a male roommate. When he doesn’t and instead shakes Ry’s hand with a kind smile, my shoulders relax with relief. Until the next words leave his lips.

  “Hey, don’t you work for Eastern Sports?”

  That right there? Not a good sign at all. It’s the equivalent of “Are you Brad Pitt? Could I have your autograph?” here in Saratoga Springs.

  Ry is the lead guy to oversee infrastructure for Eastern Sports and has one of those über cushy offices, too. My building is nice enough—we even have heated sidewalks that automatically melt the snow and ice during the winter—but it’s older. Ry’s office is a new addition on the top of an older, existing building across the street from mine, and if I time it right and look out my window when the sun’s glare isn’t reflecting off the office windows, I can sometimes see him in his office.

  Not that I do that or anything. Because that would be creepy and weird. And he’s not even remotely interested in women, so we’ll toss in the adjective of pathetic while we’re at it.

  Cue my internal exasperated exhale. Because, yeah. I have looked over at his office window. And I may have seen him at his desk, talking on his phone, gesturing animatedly with his hands as he often does when a topic gets him all heated. I may have noticed him loosen his tie while he listened to whoever was on the other line as he stood at the window, absent-mindedly looking down at all the people walking along the sidewalks of the downtown area.