Summer Sons(98)

Sam knelt above him, looming. No mistaking how hard he was at this angle, the fat swell of his cock bulging at the thigh-seam of his jeans. Andrew palmed the length, groped at the heat of his balls through the denim.

“You’re fucking thirsty for it, huh,” Sam said with a laugh and grabbed his hand, holding it in place to grind into the grip suggestively. “Done any of this before, Andrew?”

“No,” he said, shifting to skim his own pants off while Sam did the same, racing against his clamoring fear of the immensity of the moment. His briefs were soaked and slimy; he tossed them off the bed and adjusted his cock, stuck at the uncomfortable period between soft and hard. “Have you?”

“A few times,” Sam said with a wicked smile, batting his hand free and closing a big, hot fist around Andrew’s package.

He flexed his fingers in a rippling squeeze. Andrew yelped, hips jumping with streaks of painful pleasure, overstimulated. Sam had his underwear on, and Andrew fumbled for it, tugging the band down without finesse. His dick bounced free. He hesitated, ankle knocking against Sam’s shin, unsure of where to move.

“How do you want it, then?” Sam asked.

“Fuck, I don’t know,” he said, staring. He swallowed, hyperaware of his tongue, his spit, all the porn he’d ever watched in his life. “Put it in my mouth?”

Sam lay on his back and pulled him, gripping hair and shoulder, down between his legs. “Do what comes natural, then, princess. Unless you want me to fuck your pretty face?”

“Jesus, god,” Andrew muttered, shaking, so hot it hurt to breathe.

His hands mapped out the velvety-slick length, base to tip and carefully down again, tracing a path for his mouth to follow. Sam was uncut, extra skin he didn’t entirely understand how to maneuver. The hand around the side of his jaw offered a helpful guide, and he went down, thinking for the briefest, sharpest moment about first times and lost chances.



* * *



Birdsong and skewed covers greeted him in the morning, like a movie scene, alone in his roommate’s bed. The fitted sheet was strangling him. He sat up and considered the mess of his scattered clothes, the washcloth dried out on the hardwood floor, his nakedness. He snorted a slightly hysterical laugh and rose from the bed. His calves cramped at the press of his feet on the floor; he stretched through the pain. Noise from the kitchen filtered through the vents, a running sink and music. In the shower he catalogued the bruises that bloomed across his ribs, the odd passion of a bite mark imprinted over his knee, the raw soreness on the inside of his lips. His cock, chafed tender. He expected to feel ashamed, or frightened, or like he didn’t know himself. Instead he floundered in a curious free-falling simplicity, almost pleasant.

The fact that his clothes mostly lived in trash bags in the foyer remained an issue. He came downstairs with a towel wrapped around his waist. At the base of the steps he stopped. Sam stood shirtless in last night’s boxer briefs, washing dishes, suds to the middle of his forearms. His tan highlighted the massive, tooth-bruised hickey on his neck. Though he glanced over, he let Andrew take a quiet minute to catalogue him without interruption, from shorn buzz cut to the dense swell of his biceps to the faint roll of flesh at the band of his underwear. He had unexpectedly bony, large feet.

“You good?” Sam asked.

“I think I am, yeah,” Andrew said.

He knotted the towel secure. Sam’s posture held an uncertain wariness, which he supposed was natural, given the circumstances. Andrew fortified himself with a held breath and cupped his hand around the other man’s waist, nakedly intimate. He closed the remaining distance to lean deliberately against Sam’s broad, inked back. The catch of his left nipple against skin hurt, but a sweet sort of hurt, sore from thorough abuse.

Sam said, “I’m waiting for you to flip out, but I’d rather you didn’t.”

“Haven’t yet, think we’re in the clear,” Andrew mumbled, partially joking.

“Good,” he said, packing the word with expectation and vulnerability, far from on-brand for his provocative kingship.

Andrew inhaled again. He was twenty-three, Eddie was dead but lingering, and he’d fucked his friend Sam. What next, he thought once more.

The door croaked open; a comedic stillness swept through the room. Sam dropped the glass he was washing into the water with a plop.

“Oh Jesus, Mary, and goddamn Joseph,” Riley said.

“You’re not even Catholic,” Sam replied.

Riley passed them with his hands over his face and stumbled up the steps.

The quiver in Sam’s shoulders evolved into sniggering laughter. He leaned into Andrew and whispered, “Five seconds til—”

“Get the fuck out of my house, Sam!” Riley shrieked from his room.

Sam cackled with childish glee. Andrew ignored the reflexive burn of dampness that sprang to his eyes at the domesticity of the morning in favor of the fresh wonder of smooth skin under his cheek, magnetic and allowed. Life coursed through him with each thud of his pulse. He had no idea what he was doing, except that it fit. Sam pulled him apart one notch at a time to release the horror he held under his skin.

“What’s your next move?” Sam asked.

Ghosts lingered in the gaps of the house on Capitol, and in Andrew too. Maybe Sam could exorcise some of them without judgment.

“We figure out who else Eddie told about the Fultons.”