Page 25 of Next Season

I nibbled his bottom lip as I gave in to temptation, allowing myself to touch and feel and fondle any part of him I could reach. He did the same. My hands were on his ass, his were in my hair. We sucked on tongues, swaying and pawing at each other as if in a trance.

A bark of laughter from behind the garden wall broke the spell. We jumped apart, panting like animals in heat.

Riley put his sunglasses on and bent to retrieve the bag. “Come over tonight.”

“I work late.”

“Doesn’t matter. I’ll be awake,” he said.

No, no, no.

That was a bad idea. A terrible idea. An idea that didn’t deserve a second thought. And there was only one acceptable reply.

“Okay.”

Oops, that wasn’t it.

Too late. Riley was gone…and apparently, so was my self-control.

5

RILEY

Jean-Claude showed up on my doorstep at midnight, wearing a dark jacket, black trousers, and a beanie. I’d joked that if he hadn’t knocked, I might have mistaken him for a burglar. He’d smiled wanly at my silly attempt at humor and informed me that he’d stopped by on his way home from the diner to let me know that he couldn’t come inside. It was best if we continued as friends only. His words, not mine.

I’d agreed because it had seemed like the correct response, then asked him about his evening and the special of the day. His eyes had lit up as he described a Quebecois dish calledtourtièrethat he made with a twist. I’d said it sounded delicious and when he quipped that it was better than tuna salad, we’d chuckled.

But as our laughter had faded, it was replaced by a potent silence, so thick with desire, oxygen felt scarce. I’d sucked in a gulp of the crisp autumn night and waved good-bye, but at the last second, I’d grabbed his wrist and pulled him into the foyer, slamming the door shut.

We’d collided like magnets, bouncing off the wall and rattling picture frames as we’d stumbled into the living room and fallen onto the sofa with our mouths fused. We’d humped and grinded as our tongues dueled, separating long enough to peel off a few layers of clothing. But with Jean-Claude on top of me, caging my head between his arms as he licked my lips and pressed his erection against mine, I hadn’t stood a chance.

Yeah, that was the night I came in my boxer briefs for the first time in nearly two decades.

We did a variation of the same thing the following evening, but skipped the initial coy “Are we really doing this?” song and dance.

The third night…same story. But by some miracle, we made it to my room and got mostly naked before we blew our loads.

Tonight was our fourth “sexy session.” We locked the door, shedding clothes like snake skin on our way upstairs. Naked horizontal writhing was kind of amazing, but it got even better.

It all started with curiosity and a vague sense of reciprocity. It just didn’t seem cool that he was doing all the work, and honestly, I wanted to see if I had the power to make him feel as good as he made me feel. Besides, his cock was right there, drooling precum on my shaft one second then nudging my balls. It was the perfect excuse to reach between us, adjust his angle andboom…I was holding his dick.

That was not a typo. Yep, I’d touched another man’s hard cock and I liked it.

A lot.

Jean-Claude rolled sideways to observe me as I took my first good look at his dick. Maybe I should have asked for guidance or a road map, and by unspoken agreement, we didn’t do much talking with our clothes off. Words were tricky, and one of us—okay, me—might accidentally use them to define this naked touchy-horny humping thing we were doing. No, thanks. I was a man of action.

I studied his cock, noting our differences. He was wider and a little longer than I was. I wasn’t small by any means, so let’s just say Jean-Claude was well-endowed. And get this…he had foreskin. I’d seen my share of flaccid penises in the locker room in all shapes and sizes, but never up close and personal…and hard.

It was an unexpected icebreaker.

“Your dick has a hoodie,” I commented, tentatively curling my fingers and rubbing my thumb around his crown.

“Yours is bald,” he countered. “He probably gets cold in winter.”

I snorted. “Don’t make me laugh. This isn’t supposed to be funny.”

“It’s not funny at all. It’s war.” Jean-Claude gripped his cock and tapped it against mine as if he wanted to instigate a juvenile game of swordplay. His serious expression cracked me up.