When Everything Is Blue(59)

“Only if you do.” Having this conversation with anyone else would be completely mortifying, which makes me wonder how other couples get through their first time, perhaps by not talking about it.

“How?” Chris asks, placing a light kiss on the center of my chest.

“I think it involves our….” I nod to the downstairs department.

He pinches my nipple so hard that I cry out. “I know that, T. I mean, who does what?”

“I don’t know. I figured I’d let you decide.”

Chris is quiet at that. Strangely quiet. He looks like he’s been called on in class and is trying to come up with the right answer. He licks his lips, and I watch the slow, careful path of his tongue, wishing to lean up and intercept it with my own, but he’s deep in thought and it doesn’t seem right to disturb him.

“What is it?” I ask, worried I’ve freaked him out again.

“Nothing. I’m just really turned on at the thought of it.” He presses his boner against my thigh to let me know how aroused he is. My heart races at the prospect.

“You think we’re too young?” he asks.

“For butt sex?” Chris nods. “I don’t know. Maybe if we were talking about hooking up with strangers, but we’ve known each other forever.”

“I think about it all the time.” He rests his chin on my shoulder with his mouth turned toward my ear like it’s a secret. He draws one finger along the inside of my arm, and I shiver down to my toes. I want to know all his secrets.

“Me too,” I confess.

“I want to touch you,” he says in a husky voice.

“You can.”

He reaches for the button on my pants and unfastens it, plunges his hand inside, and grabs hold of my cock. I can sustain an erection for a pretty long time, one of my many marvels. In any case, this is some sort of record. My breath goes ragged as he strokes me up and down. I love the way he touches me. Possessively. Passionately. Like I belong to him. I moan and curl inward, gripping his back with one hand and the fabric of his comforter with the other. The wave builds toward its apex and my body is full of it, a thimble in a fire hydrant. I didn’t think it possible, but this make-out session just got better. “Chris—”

“Christiano.” Paloma cuts me off, her singsong voice coming from down the hallway.

“Shit,” Chris mutters, and we both jump off the bed like our pants are on fire and grab our shirts off the ground. I button up my pants faster than you can say hand-eye-coordination. We’re in the process of pulling on our shirts when Paloma opens the door, glances from me to him to me to him, down to Chris’s raging boner straining against his shorts, and then over at mine.

“Biscuits are ready,” she says and quietly backs away, shutting the door behind her.

“Shit,” Chris whispers and starts to panic, pacing his room.

I grab his shoulders and give them a little shake. “Relax, Chris. Paloma’s cool. She won’t care.”

“What?”

“Go downstairs, tell her we’re together, and bring us back some food.” I settle down in front of his television and adjust myself so my junk knows good times are over for now.

“Should I?” he asks, his mind likely working over all the possible outcomes.

“Yeah.”

“Come with me.” He nudges me with his foot. I remember the Dr. Giggles incident, when he made me come down with him to tell his parents what happened with the shower. He knew they wouldn’t get too mad if I was there with him.

“Okay.” I hop up while Chris rakes a comb through his hair like he’s getting ready for a date, then freshens his pits with body spray.

“You look fine.” And smell even better.

“I don’t want to look sloppy.”

“Like you just got done making out with your boyfriend.” He gives me a look. “You don’t.” Except he totally does—all wild-eyed and flush-faced. I bet if I pressed my palm to his chest, I’d feel his heart still racing. I did that to him, I think with satisfaction.

It takes another five minutes for him to work up the nerve to go downstairs. When we do, Paloma is in the kitchen putting away dishes from the dishwasher. Chris and I sit down at the counter, and she retrieves the biscuits and sets them down in front of us without a word. Before Chris can grab for his, I push away the plate and give him a pointed look. He glares at me. He hates being separated from food.

“Paloma,” he calls, because she’s trying to pretend nothing’s out of the ordinary.

“Yes?” she asks without turning.

“Theo’s my boyfriend.”

She sets the dish gently on the counter and crosses the kitchen to perch delicately on the stool across from us. “Theo’s your… boyfriend?” She tilts her head, like maybe she didn’t understand him and is giving him the chance to correct her English.

“Sí, mi novio. I’m gay, but Mom and Jay don’t know yet.”

“Oh.” Her mouth makes a little O shape, and she says it again in a different key. “Oh.”

“It’s cool, though. I’m going to tell them.”

“Yes,” she says with a nod. “Yes, you should, Cristiano. Soon.”

“Very soon,” he says.