Page 8 of Puck My Stepbrother

4

LEVI

Quinn had a hard-on, and I don’t mean your average, run-of-the-mill stiffy. I think a term like “raging boner” would be more appropriate. He probably didn’t notice, but my eyes shifted downward now and then, catching every glimpse I could of the powerful erection straining against his jeans. And I also noticed him trying to cover it with his hands.

Who was he trying to kid?

I’m not telling you this to make fun of him, just so you know. When I saw the tent he’d practically pitched in his jeans, I felt hot all over. Tingles danced across my skin. I would’ve licked my lips if that wouldn’t have been crossing a line (at least for the moment).

I dreamed of what the cock beneath those jeans looked like. I imagined taking it in my hand and stroking it. And why shouldn’t I? He was one of those guys who’d always looked incredible but seemed to get a little hotter with each passing year, like the guy version of a fine wine.

I hadn’t seen him in a few years, so he looked that much better when I saw him at the house. A total babe, in fact. Think of how your favorite meal tastes even better when you haven’teaten it in ages. Each time I saw him, something stirred inside me. I wanted to touch him, kiss him. Seeing him in the upstairs hall, fighting back a hard-on, made all of those desires that much harder to resist.

But I wouldn’t have to fight those urges forever. I’d told Quinn that I get what I want, and I meant it. I just had to make some adjustments in order to reach that end.

The next morning, I went downstairs to make breakfast and found Quinn hovering over a cereal bowl. Never too early in the morning for me to work my magic, you know. I grabbed a bowl, cracked a couple of eggs into it, and beat them before pouring the egg mixture into a skillet.

“You know, I should apologize,” I said.

“For what?”

“Our little misunderstanding the other day.”

He looked up from his cereal like I’d said the craziest thing on earth. He didn’t answer, just like he’d stayed mostly quiet at the dinner table. Only he didn’t pretend-ignore me now. This was something different. What was it? Embarrassment at having a major-league boner in front of me?

Whatever it was, I’d be happy to ease his anxiety.

“You mean about the bedroom?” he asked.

“Yeah, that’s what I mean. Sorry about the misunderstanding.”

“Wait, does this mean you’re giving me my room back?”

“Well, no.”

He threw his spoon down, making a clanking noise.

I didn’t budge.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“You’re fucking impossible, Levi.”

“How do you figure?”

“First you said you were sorry for taking my room from me, and now you’re refusing to give it back?”

“Whoa, whoa, wait, hold on. I never said I was sorry for taking your room.”

“Yes, you did. Just a second ago, you said you were sorry for taking it. Jesus, have you got amnesia or something?”

“No, I didn’t say I was sorry for taking your room. I said I was sorry for the misunderstanding.”

He paused. His natural follow-up question would be some variant of,Is there a difference?

“Look,” I said. “I don’t think you understand how this works.”

“No, I don’t think I do. Why don’t you explain it to me?”