Page 94 of Puck the Coach's Son
“No.”
He's quiet.
“What is it then?”
I breathe out.
I don't know how to answer that. I don't have the words. I'm not a man with words. I've got hands and I've got a stick and I've got a mouth that says cruel things to strangers in hallways. I don't have the words for what this is.
But he's waiting. His chin is lifting up so he can look at me.
“It's…” I begin, then pause to think about what I mean to say. “I'm in it.”
“In what?”
I meet his eyes. Hold them.
“This.”
“Me?”
“Yeah.”
He looks at me. His eyes are the color they are when he's about to cry or about to come. Right now, it's not either.
“Okay,” he says.
“Okay?”
“Okay.”
And he kisses me.
It starts small. His mouth on mine. Soft. Morning-slow. His hand still over my heart. I keep my hand on the back of his neck where I had it. He tastes like sleep and like me and the smallest bit of toothpaste from the travel brush he must have used last night—and I don't know why that wrecks me, but it does.
His tongue touches my lower lip. I open. He goes in.
He's the one kissing me.
That's new.
I let him push into my mouth and take it, and I let him climb over me, and I don't flip him because he's doing something and I'm going to let him finish doing it.
He settles on my hips. The sheet slips. He's naked. I'm naked. My cock is already hardening between us.
He sits back. He looks down at me. He's flushed, his hair's a mess, his mouth is wet, and the bruise on his neck is the color of a plum.
“Can I?” he says.
“Yeah.”
He bites his lip. Flushes.
He reaches for the drawer. He fumbles with the bottle. He bites his lip while he works it. His fingers are shaking. I don't help. I let him do it. He slicks his fingers and reaches behind himself. His eyes go wide and he gasps, and his cock jumps against my stomach.
“Fuck.”
“Yeah?”
