Page 22 of Rule 3: Never Fake Marry the Coach's Son

Dmitri strides to the closet, utterly unconcerned about his half-naked state. He pulls out a luggage rack, metal clicking against metal as he unfolds it. The suitcase lands with a soft thud as he unzips it.

He turns, abs rippling with the movement. “Need help?”

“Um...” My brain short-circuits.

He’s still shirtless. His muscles are still everywhere. My mouth dries.

Then he unbuttons his pants and lowers his zipper.

“Dmitri?” My voice emerges as a squeak.

“Oskar?”

“You’re—” I gesture helplessly at his body, unable to form coherent words.

He tilts his head. “What?”

His pants drop down. He steps from them. Muscular thighs confront me. He’s wearing briefs, the fabric stretched taut over an impressive bulge.

Then he shimmies the briefs down too.

That’s his cock. Right there.

Not hard of course. But magnificent all the same. Substantial.

Not that I’ve seen many of them of course.

Or any of them, in fact. Not in person. My own is always at a different angle.

But there it is. Dmitri’s cock.

God, I—

I’m staring.

I swing around. My suitcase drops from my hand. It clatters to the floor. I shake.

At the next moment, Dmitri is beside me.

His voice is low and soothing. “It’s okay.”

“I-I dropped it.”

“Is fine.” He hauls the suitcase up easily, as if it’s as lightweight as a book. His dick swings with the movement.

“You’re still naked,” I choke out.

He blinks. “Is usually what happens when you change clothes, Oskar.”

“Right, but...” I force myself to look anywhere else.

“Besides, you’re gay,” he says matter-of-factly. “You’ve seen before. Is no big deal, huh?”

Dmitri clearly thinks I’m more experienced than I am. A reasonable assumption, since practically everyone my age has done more than I have.

He returns to his suitcase and starts dressing.

My heart skitters inside me, but I try to emanate some semblance of calm.