by Eli Easton
Andy licked his lips nervously. He was studying my face as if wary of my reaction. “I thought we might mix it up a bit. Like . . . we could try making out.”
I stared at him, unable to believe my own ears. “Making out?” I parroted like an idiot.
“Yeah, Jake. Making out.” There was a glimmer of amusement in his eyes now, but also more wariness. He folded his arms across his chest.
My brain felt like a clothes dryer full of tennis balls on the spin cycle. Why would he want to make out? He means, like, kiss? Is he talking about kissing? He wants to kiss me? Why? There’s no logical reason for that. I mean, if it’s just about getting off because of our hands . . .
Sure I wanted to kiss him. Badly. Could he feel the same way?
But why? My brain insisted.
“But why?” my mouth said. I cringed. I shouldn’t be making a big deal out of this, but I had to know.
He raised his eyebrows. “Because . . . I like making out?” he said, like I was being purposefully obtuse.
“But . . . me?” I managed, squeaking a bit. Great. I sounded like I’d inhaled helium.
Andy looked around. “Who do you think I’m talking to, Jake? You think I want to make out with the drapes? What’s the big deal? We’ve done a hell of a lot more than that. I mean, you’ve been swallowing my come for weeks now. Would it be that gross to kiss me?” His tone calmed me down. Not because of the jokey arrogance in it, but because of the insecurity underneath.
A lot of our friends swore Andy was never insecure about anything. But that wasn’t true. We’d shared late-night conversations about how he worried about living up to his dad’s expectations, about not being sure what he wanted, if he was good enough, smart enough, fast enough, talented enough. He was—all of those things, and I always told him so. He did the same for me when my ass was dragging. But right now I could hear his insecurity. Did he think I’d make fun of him for saying he liked to make out?
I hurried to reassure him. “No, that’s not it. I’ve done way grosser things than kissing you. There was that whole caterpillar thing,” I joked.
He didn’t smile. He looked at me, biting his lip. “So?”
“I don’t know if it’s such a great idea.” I swallowed, desperately wanting to step back, step away from the couch and him, put more space between us. Don’t ask me to do this.
I already was way too invested. If we started that, started kissing and touching like real lovers, how the hell was I supposed to walk away at the end of the summer? We had no possible future, even if Andy wanted one with me, which he didn’t. He might be less “all straight all the time” than I’d previously thought, but he was still mostly straight. This thing between us was only because of our current, totally bizarre and isolated situation. I had to cling to that. I couldn’t forget it.
He must have read the longing on my face, because he suddenly leaned back and put his arms across the back of the sofa, his face relaxed into a cocky smile. “Dare you, Jake. Come on. I dare you to kiss me. Tongue and all.”
Fucker. My blood thundered in my ears. There might be a universe where Jake Masterson could resist Andy Tyler, but it wasn’t this one.
“I hate you,” I said. “With the power of a thousand Foo Fighters concert amps.”
Andy blew me a sarcastic air-kiss. “Liar. You love me to pieces. Come and get it, baby.”
I laughed, but my body responded to the starting gun before I was even aware I’d agreed to the race. I found myself with a knee on the couch between Andy’s legs. He reached up to place a wrist on my hip, pulling me down toward him. His face was suddenly serious. I leaned down, my heart thudding. One part of my brain was still screaming that I shouldn’t do this. But it wasn’t loud enough to stop me.
“I hate you,” I muttered again just before my lips met his.
What are we doing? The thought echoed around my head, alarm bells clanging. But the noise got dimmer and dimmer as we sank into the kiss, tentative at first, and then not so much. Andy had a wide, hot mouth and his lips were firm. His chin was just a bit scratchy with end-of-day stubble. He sucked at me lightly, the tip of his tongue against my lips until I opened up. At the first taste of him—salty like the sound and vaguely popcorn flavored—I shivered. It was a totally involuntary spasm, head to toe. Andy made a whimpery little sound in his throat in response. He tugged, and I shifted until I was kneeling on the couch, my knees spread around his hips. We never broke the kiss. I couldn’t have moved away from his lips if the cottage had caught on fire.
Come to think of it, the cottage was on fire. Or maybe it was just me.
I sat on Andy’s thighs. He put both his arms around me, hugging me close to his chest, his forearms and wrists firm on my back, his tongue hot and slick in my mouth, sweet and sensuous, perfect suction tugging at me. It felt like every nerve in my body was directly connected to that spot, and it had a secret hotlink to my heart as well.
God, I regretted his damaged hands just then. He was kissing me, and I wanted to feel his palms, his big hands and long fingers pressed against me. And, fuck, not being able to use my hands was a tragedy on par with the bloodiest things Shakespeare ever wrote. I wanted to touch Andy’s neck. I wanted to lose my fingers in his hair, brush my thumb along that gorgeous jaw of his as his tongue was in my mouth.
I groaned, desire and frustration bubbling out of me. I wanted to crawl inside him. I wanted to sink to the floor and die because it would never be enough.
Andy turned his head to the side, breaking the kiss. He stared at me, his eyes wide, his pupils huge, swallowing up the blue the way lust was swallowing me. I’d never felt like this before—my emotions so raw, physical need so thick in my body I could swear my actual blood had heated. At that moment, Andy was a black-and-white necessity to me, like air. Denise, Jeanette, Kevin . . . everyone I’d ever been with before all faded away into nothing.
Did Andy feel anything like what I felt when we kissed?
My nerves got the better of me and a joke burst out. “Wow, you have a dirty tongue. You talk to your mother with that mouth?”
He smirked. “You’re the one who rimmed me.”
Oh, so we were not pretending that hadn’t happened? Damn. I nodded, my face burning. “Emily put something in the sandwich that day. Some kind of psychedelic, I’m pretty sure.”
“Jake.” Andy’s face grew serious.
My chest thudded like a badly played set of drums.
“Can we . . . maybe . . . go to bed and kiss? You’re fucking making me lightheaded.” He attempted a laugh like he was kidding, but I didn’t think he was. God knew, I was lightheaded.
I looked for some sign on his face that this meant something to him, but he wouldn’t meet my eyes. And then I wanted to kick my own ass for wanting that.
“Yeah. Let’s go.” I managed to worm my way off the couch, Andy helping me with his elbows.
We went down the hall. I was in the lead, and I paused by his bedroom door. “Which room?”
“Mine. Better bed.”
I went in and he followed, not bothering to turn on the light. I had a momentary worry. Were we going to bed bed? Or just having sex? Should I put my PJ bottoms on?
We’d never slept together at the cottage before. Why did it feel like kissing changed everything? It didn’t. It changed nothing.
Andy sat down on the bed, not turning down the covers. “C’mere.”
I couldn’t make out his expression in the dim light. That was fine. Good probably. I knelt on the bed, and we worked around until we were lying side by side. My heart continued to pound like there was a predator in the room. But if there was a dangerous beast, it was inside me. Hope, maybe.
Andy leaned toward me and our lips met. It felt even bigger this time around, more like a choice. More like a statement. We were crossing a line that was more significant than any stunt we’d ever dared before.
He pressed me back and partially lay on top of me. And, oh fuck, that felt good. I wriggled under him, wanting
him to press me down, cover me all the way. He obliged, scooting onto me, bringing our hips and chests into alignment, his mouth still hot on mine.
He was rigid in his shorts, as rigid as it was possible to be. Do I really turn him on? I wondered for the hundredth time. Or was he just horny by nature? Hell, I couldn’t be bothered to think right then, not when he ground against me. His shaft rubbed over mine through two pairs of the silky gym shorts we were living in this summer. It was the sexiest, raunchiest thing ever. Pleasure pulsed through my cock, and my balls drew in, that awesome tightening coil. I made an embarrassing noise into his mouth.
He did it again and pulled away from my lips, sucking at my jaw, my neck, licking my ear. That was all new territory. I wanted to do the same to him, but I didn’t want to get in his way. I grabbed his hips the best I could with my wrists, needing to keep him there.
“Andy.” My face burned at the sheer desperation in my voice.
“God, this feels good. Why does it feel so good?” Andy sucked at my throat.
Oh thank God. He feels it too. “Because I’m just that hot?” I hooked my calves around his thighs, opening myself up, unable to resist. And then he was pushing into me at the base of my dick and balls. Dear God. What would it be like to have him fuck me?
Lust shot another hot gush through me. My entire body was heavy and full and oh-so close to coming.
He made another sexy moan and attacked my mouth again, his thrusting hips tormenting me. Then there was nothing but his mouth and the escalating pressure. His thrusts got faster, grinding harder. I wasn’t going to be able to stop. Didn’t want to.
I broke away from his lips long enough to gasp. “Gonna come.”
He made a noise of agreement and took my mouth again. His tongue plunged deep inside me as I began to shake. My eyes squeezed shut. The orgasm was like a freight train. My body clenched tight, only held to the Earth by his weight on top of me.
He made a strangled gasp in my ear and tensed against me. I felt his dick jerk against mine as he pulsed. Oh hell. That was hot, even better than when he was in my mouth, because in this position we could have been lovers.
After a while, when all that remained was the sound of our ragged breathing, he rolled to the side and shuffled until he lay on his back. His shoulder was still pressed against mine. I stared up at the ceiling.
Damn it. Fuckity, fuck, fuck, fuck. I was so head over heels in love with him.
“Wanna sleep here tonight?” he asked, his voice thick.
“Okay.” Sleep sounded like a safe refuge. My eyelids were heavy and my body totally buzzed from coming so hard. Most of all, I didn’t want to think about the day this would all be over.
I scooted out of my gym shorts though, because they were sticky with come. “I feel bad for Emily having to do our laundry. I may never be able to look her in the face again.”
Andy grunted in agreement. “Maybe we can invent a story about spilled ice cream or something.”
“Yeah, she’s pregnant, bro. I think she’s gonna know come when she sees it.”
We both got naked, leaving our soiled clothes on the floor, and crawled under the covers. Andy turned his back to me and went to sleep instantly. But I lay awake for a long time, thinking about kissing him and worrying about how much of a train wreck this was going to be in the end.
Andy
I wanted to kiss Jake all the time. I mean, all the time. It was pathetic. And a little bit scary. Not that I had much to distract me at the cabin. And we were together twenty-four seven. But still. I shouldn’t want him like that. Shouldn’t crave it. It was dangerous, and not in a good way either. The danger felt like a worm I’d swallowed, some flesh-devouring parasite that had moved into my stomach to eat me up from the inside.
We’d be sitting on the dock, watching boats go by and browning in the sun despite the thirty SPF lotion Walter slathered on us every morning. And I’d glance at Jake and want badly to lean over and taste the bead of sweat on his lip.
Or we’d be in the kitchen rummaging around getting into one of Emily’s precooked meals, and I’d have an almost uncontrollable urge to back him into the counter and kiss him until we were both coming in our shorts.
Or we’d be watching TV on the couch and I’d want to lie down with him against me as we watched.
I didn’t do any of those things. We were still having sex at least twice a day. And once we agreed that was what we were doing, and moved into one of the bedrooms, all the walls fell. We always kissed, it was the first thing we did, and we kept kissing all the way through sex unless one or both of us moved to do oral. But most of the time we didn’t sixty-nine anymore. Mostly we rubbed off against each other because that way we could keep kissing.
That was fucked up, right? What guy preferred a dry hump to a blowjob? But I did. I was starved for his mouth. A blowjob was a blowjob, and Jake’s were particularly fine, but kissing him was . . . intense. It soothed that itchy place inside me. I loved the way his tongue moved against mine, Jake’s tongue, Jake’s mouth. It ramped me up like nothing else I’d ever experienced. Maybe because I knew I shouldn’t want it. I shouldn’t want to kiss Jake, press against him, be that close to him, that in tune. That was way gayer than a blowjob. But knowing I shouldn’t want it made me want it all the more.
Still we kept it to the bedroom. Only the bedroom.
Then one night we were watching a House of Cards marathon, relaxed on the couch. My arm went over the sofa. Jake scooted closer after putting down the remote, and my mitt rested on his shoulder. Next thing I knew, he was nuzzling my neck, and I got incredibly turned on. But there was no rush. We’d already gotten off twice that day. So we kissed a little and watched the show some more. I sucked on his ear, making him groan. He threw his leg over mine and ground his thigh now and then against my dick.
My heart pounded, knowing we were crossing another line. This wasn’t even about getting off, not really. But I didn’t want to stop.
After that, we touched and kissed most of the time while watching TV.
We didn’t talk about it. Of course, we talked, we talked about all kinds of shit. But we didn’t talk about what we were doing. We didn’t talk about what we were to each other. And we didn’t talk about the fact that it was almost August, and we were looking at the end of the summer the way a guy looked into the barrel of a mugger’s gun.
Jake
It was the end of July, and Andy and I had a doctor’s appointment. Walter had been doing a great job, and he acted pleased with our progress, but it was time for another formal checkup. On July twenty-first, he drove us to a doctor’s office in Barnstable.
Dr. Gallaway’s practice was in an upscale complex, and he was a soft-spoken man in his fifties. It was our third visit that summer, and the previous times he’d basically said “keep doing what you’re doing” and “keep the bandages on.” Andy’s dad’s insurance magically covered it somehow, even me. Maybe the doctor had agreed to a “twofer” since he only had to check our hands, and mine were in a similar state to Andy’s.
But that visit he unwrapped Andy’s hands, then mine, and examined each one carefully, holding them under a light and pressing gently on the skin.
The burns seemed healed to me. My palms and fingers were only slightly puffy, the skin that had been an angry red was now light pink, and the edges of the burn were hard to see. The texture of the skin was better too. It looked thicker, more like normal skin and less like a fragile membrane.
“This is good. This is good,” Dr. Gallaway muttered as he peered at Andy’s palm intently. He looked up at Andy’s face. “Any pain?”
“Not much. Only if I try to lift something heavy with my mitts. Or try to stretch my fingers. The skin is still itchy, but not as bad as it was.”
“Good, good.” Dr. Gallaway looked at me. “What about you, Jake?”
“What he said, pretty much. He’s always copying me. It’s so annoying.”
Andy nudged me with his shoulder, and Dr. Galloway smiled
at the joke. “Well, in this case, copying is good.”
In the past few weeks, we’d been able to use our hands more. Even though they were still bandaged, the pain had lessened to the point where we could pick things up between our palms and push and pull things like chairs. We could stroke each other’s back and hips, the bandages slightly scratchy and shiver-inducing.
Yeah, I didn’t think Dr. Gallaway would be interested in hearing about that.
“Um-hmm. Um-hmm.” He turned off the light and straightened up. “I think you boys are ready to leave the bandages off. But that doesn’t mean a free for all. Let pain be your guide. I wouldn’t try lifting anything heavy—no barbells, boxes, nothing like that. You can do light tasks again. Bathing is fine, doing dishes, getting dressed on your own. That sort of thing.”
“Jet skiing?” Andy suggested hopefully.
Dr. Gallaway laughed. “If you can stand the cold of the sound, sure. Don’t grip the handlebars too tightly or, better yet, wear gloves. But no lifting the thing in and out of the water.”
“We can get someone to do that part for us.” Andy smiled at me.
“The new skin is tender from the bandages and ointment, but the fresh air will toughen it up. In two more weeks, you should be pretty much back to normal. For now, proceed with a bit of caution. Okay?”
Dr. Gallaway smiled and held out his hand to me. I shook it. His grasp was light, but it was still a privilege just to be able to shake hands again. Imagine that! And on the way out of the office, I could actually open and close doors without needing to use my wrists or fumble around like a bandaged freak.
I supposed one of us could have driven, but Walter had brought us in his car, so I got into the back seat and Andy took the passenger side like before. Walter congratulated us, thanking God for our recovery and all of that. I was excited and happy. I kept turning my hands front to back and looking at them with wonder. Talk about taking something for granted! I would never, ever be less than appreciative for the ability to text, type, or eat with a real spoon. I didn’t have any permanent scarring at all. Damn, we were so lucky.
