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Chapter Twenty-Three

Andrew

Justin Morris wants me.

I wake up the next morning, and that’s all I can think about. It’s like a new piece of furniture in the room that you keep tripping over.

I stare at my ceiling, watching early morning shadows play across it while my mind replays last night’s kiss for approximately the seven hundred and fifty-sixth time.

The way it started with a gentle brush of lips. The way he tasted like everything I’ve ever craved. The way his lips had been so red and messy from our kissing.

I can’t do this.

Ethically, morally, I can’t take this further with Justin, can I?

I’ve already indulged Teenage Andrew way too much with the whole revenge plot.

He got the kiss. That’s the one bone he’ll get to savor, put in his little box of treasures to take out and marvel at whenever he wants.

Because Justin kissing me means his treatment of me in high school is extra screwed up. And I shouldn’t touch that with a ten-foot barge pole dipped in disinfectant.

Bones. Poles. My subconscious is really focused on phallic symbols at the moment.

Justin has said enough about his stepfather for me to know there’s more to his story than I ever realized. The way his voice changes when he talks about his stepfather feels like watching someone navigate wounds that haven’t healed.

I grab my phone from my bedside table. Justin’s message from last night sits there unanswered, the words burning into my retinas.

I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable. Can we talk?

My stomach clenches.

I know I need to talk to Justin. But what the hell am I going to say?

The truth? Can I actually bring myself to tell him the truth?

Hey, Justin, I really enjoyed kissing you last night. But there’s something you need to know…

The thing is, Justin likes Drew, not Andrew.

But it’s becoming increasingly difficult for me to tell the two apart.

I get up and make myself breakfast, but I can’t swallow more than a few mouthfuls.

After I’ve cleared up my breakfast dishes, I look around my apartment.

I feel…lost.

Usually, by now on a Sunday morning, Justin and I would be messaging each other. Planning our adventures together has been half the fun, especially when it often turned into Justin cooking me breakfast while we joked about the proper ratio of coffee to consciousness required for coherent conversation.

Instead, I’m sitting here pathetically still in my sweats, trying to figure out how to respond to a message that somehow manages to offer the thing I want and dread the most.

Can we talk?

I spend the next several hours in a state of suspended animation, like a character in a video game waiting for the player to press start. I clean my already-clean apartment. I reorganize my sock drawer by color gradient. I even attempt to read, but the words blur together like they’re written in a language I’ve forgotten how to translate.

The hands on the clock seem to mock me with their slow progression. By early afternoon, I’ve exhausted every possible distraction in my apartment and my anxiety has cycled from dread to resignation and back again approximately seventeen times.

To postpone making a decision, I video call my parents.

My mother’s face fills the screen, pixelated at first before resolving into familiar features. She’s in the kitchen, early morning light streaming through the window behind her, and I can see the edge of the Home Is Where The Heart Is sign that’s hung on the kitchen wall since I was a kid.

“Andrew! What a lovely surprise!”

“Hi, Mom.” I lean back against the couch, adjusting my glasses. “Is Dad around?”

“He’s out in the garage tinkering with something.” She peers at me through the screen. “You look tired. Is everything okay?”

Her observation brings an unexpected lump to my throat. How many times did she ask me that same question in high school, and I brushed her off with mumbled excuses about being up studying until late? How many times did I hide in my room, pretending to be focused on coding, when really, I was trying to stop myself from breaking down?

I’ve gotten so good at deflecting her worry that it’s become second nature.

Is that why we’re not closer now? All those years of keeping her at arm’s length created a distance I don’t know how to bridge.

“I didn’t sleep very well last night,” I say.

“Are you still trying to decide what to do next?”

“Yeah, I’m exploring some different prospects,” I say. “Just trying to work everything out.”

“Well, you could always come home for a while.” There’s a note of hope in her voice. “We miss you. And you’re not coming for Christmas…”

“Mom…”

“I know, I know.” She sighs, the sound making me feel like I’m ten years old again. “I just worry about you being so far away. Do you know how much longer you’re planning to stay in London?”

The question hits like a sucker punch.

“I’m not sure,” I say finally. “I’m still figuring things out.”

She opens her mouth to respond, but before she can, there’s a knock at my door. My heart immediately starts racing.

“Sorry, Mom, someone’s at the door. I need to go.”

“Okay, honey. Call again soon?”

“Sure.” I end the call, my hand shaking slightly as I set down my phone.

Another knock, more insistent this time.

I close my eyes. Because, of course, Justin would come to check on me when I didn’t reply to his message.

I take a deep breath and open my door.

“Hey.” Justin’s wearing jeans and a faded Houston Texans T-shirt that somehow makes him look younger and more vulnerable than his usual polished self.

I swallow to get some moisture back into my mouth.

“Hey,” I manage.

“Can we talk?”

I nod. With my heart thudding in my ears, I open the door wider and step back, letting him into my carefully curated fake life.

“I’m sorry I didn’t reply to you,” I say as he hovers uncertainly in my living room. It feels strange seeing him look unsure. Justin usually occupies any space with easy confidence.

“That’s okay. I don’t want to intrude, but I figure I owe you an explanation. For what happened last night.” Justin runs a hand through his hair, leaving it disheveled.

“You don’t owe me anything,” I say quickly.

“Yeah, I actually do.” He meets my eyes. “I’ve tried to deny this part of me. I’ve spent so long playing the straight jock, the man’s man, living a lie.”

His voice cracks on the last word, and something in my chest cracks with it.

“I’ve never told anyone I’m attracted to guys. I’ve never had the courage to live authentically,” he continues. “But since I’ve met you… You make me want to try. I really, really like you.”

Oh, holy bananas.

Actually, the bananas aren’t just holy right now. They’ve been designated sacred by the pope, blessed by every religious leader on the planet, and probably qualify for their own holiday.

I cannot believe this is happening. My breath comes in short gasps.

“I like you too,” I manage.

Because among all the lies between us, this is definitely the truth.

Justin steps toward me and my heart decides to take an impromptu vacation from its usual rhythm.

His eyes don’t leave mine as he lowers his head toward mine.

“I like you,” he whispers against my lips.

And forget about bananas being sacred.

It’s this kiss that is sacred.

This kiss, where Justin’s lips meet mine with devastating tenderness.

His hand cradles my face, thumb stroking along my jaw with a gentleness that makes my heart stutter.

No one has ever kissed me like this. Like I’m the thing they want most in the world.

Our kiss deepens slowly, and I’m lost in the sensation of Justin’s mouth moving against mine, how his other hand has found its way to my hip, fingers pressing into my skin like he’s afraid I might disappear.

Everything else fades. The past, the future.

Nothing matters but this kiss right now.

Just as I’m feeling I could float away on the gentleness of Justin’s lips, the sweetness ignites into something more desperate.

It’s like someone hit fast-forward on desire. His mouth becomes more insistent against mine, and our kiss turns messier, hungrier, perfect.

It’s gone from an acknowledgment that we like each other to a declaration of how much we want each other. We stumble backward, landing on my couch in a tangle of limbs and urgent kisses. Justin braces himself above me, his lips never leaving mine as his hands slide under my shirt.

Oh my god, Justin’s hands, the ones that can throw the perfect spiral pass, are touching me.

When his thumb grazes my nipple, a shudder rips through my entire body, and I can’t help the small groan tumbling out of my mouth in a puff of air.

The noise seems to break something loose in Justin.

Suddenly, he’s kissing me even more desperately.

Frantically. Fervently. Feverishly. Like a man dying of thirst and I’m an oasis he’s just discovered.

His leg is between my thighs, and his hardness presses into my hip, grinding against me in a rhythm that makes my vision blur at the edges.

His tongue does this thing that makes my toes curl, and I thread my fingers through his hair, tugging him even closer.

Oh my god. Oh my god.

Can I have sex with someone when they don’t actually know who I am?

My conscience is saying no. My libido is saying, “Hell yeah.”

Justin took so much from me in my high school years. Perhaps this is a chance for me to claw something back. Dignity. Self-worth.

In fact, isn’t this the complete full circle?

Justin has gone from treating me like I’m worthless to sliding his hands down my ribs, tracing every dip and curve like he’s trying to read a story written in my goosebumps and quickened breath.

My mind spins even as my body arches into his touch.

“Drew,” he rasps. And his voice is so splintered with need that it scrambles my brain. It feels like the only truth that matters is his hands on my skin.

If it wasn’t for one small, niggling fact.

He’s still saying the wrong name.

I wrench my lips off his with a gasp, my chest heaving.

When I meet Justin’s gaze, his eyes are half-lidded, pupils blown out with desire, mouth red and blurry from our kissing.

But whatever he sees in my expression causes his forehead to crease. “Is everything okay?”

The vulnerability on his face makes my heart stutter, and realization dawns on me.

If I stop this now, I’ll hurt him.

I’m the first guy he’s ever felt comfortable enough to kiss. How damaging would it be if I stopped this now without any explanation?

And I don’t want to hurt him.

Among all the desire pulsing inside me—and one part of me is definitely pulsing—that thought cuts through.

I don’t want to hurt Justin.

I can give him this. I can give my friend Justin this.

And okay, it’s not completely altruistic because I’ve never been more turned on than I am right now. I’ve never had someone’s touch make me feel like I’m simultaneously falling apart and being put back together.

Justin’s still staring at me, a small line between his eyebrows, and the vulnerability in his expression decides it for me.

“Everything is fine,” I say, stretching to kiss him again.

We sink into the kiss, and I slide my hands under his T-shirt to touch that golden skin.

The reality of this moment hits me—this is Justin Morris. Justin the golden quarterback, the class president, the guy whose smile used to light up entire hallways.

Now that smile is pressed against my mouth, those perfect lips moving against mine urgently like someone’s finally given him permission to reach for what he’s always denied himself.

I tug at his T-shirt, needing to feel more of him. He shifts to help me. Our movements are clumsy, like two people trying to undress while auditioning for Britain’s Least Graceful Dancer .

But it appears neither of us is willing to break contact for more than a second.

When we finally get his shirt off, I have to pause just to look at him. The light streaming through my window catches on his shoulders, turning his skin to gold.

He looks like he was created from honey and sunshine. His body is a testament to years of athleticism, broad shoulders tapering to narrow hips, ab muscles defined with a tantalizing V that disappears beneath his waistband like a promise. My mouth goes dry.

A scatter of freckles dusts his shoulders like nature couldn’t resist adding finishing touches to his perfection.

His chest rises and falls rapidly, and the vulnerability still in his expression makes my heart constrict.

I kiss him again, trying to show with my actions that he’s safe with me.

His hands are trembling slightly against my skin, and that small tell of his nerves does more to turn me on than any confident touch could.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” he whispers against my mouth.

“It’s okay,” I say. “We can take this as slow as you want.”

His blue-green eyes search mine. “I just… I want this to be good for you.”

“Trust me, you’re doing great so far.”

His cheek dimples at the corner. “Am I achieving a B-plus?”

“More like an A-plus. And I grade on a curve.”

He grins.

The teasing seems to relax him, so I decide to continue the lighthearted vibe.

“Though I do have one complaint,” I say.

His eyebrows shoot up. “What’s that?”

“You’re still wearing far too many clothes.”

His resulting laugh vibrates through me. “That’s definitely something we can fix.”

We continue to undress each other as if we’re participating in an extreme sport where style points don’t matter and enthusiasm counts double.

Justin’s hands continue to shake as he helps me out of my shirt. His pants tangle around his ankles while I nearly topple off the couch, trying to free myself from my sweatpants.

I can’t help stiffening as his eyes rake down me.

Because we’re both naked now, and the contrast between us could not be more obvious. My scrawny body contrasted against the most perfect specimen of masculinity ever produced.

But Justin doesn’t seem to be focusing on that. His eyes are full of wonder as they take me in.

“You’re gorgeous,” he says softly.

“Have you ever been diagnosed with an eyesight problem?” I ask.

Justin gives another soft laugh.

He reaches a hesitant hand toward my cock, which is not being particularly subtle about how turned on I am right now.

But before he touches it, he gazes back up to meet my eyes.

“You need to tell me if I’m doing anything wrong,” he says.

“What? Do you think that because I’m out, I must be some kind of sex expert?”

The smile that overtakes his face is somewhat sheepish.

“Yeah, I guess.”

I can’t help the smile on my own face. “Pretty sure there’s no gay certification program. Though that would make an interesting addition to LinkedIn.”

Justin’s resulting laugh comes out shaky, but some of the tension leaves his shoulders.

My breath hitches when he wraps those perfect fingers around my cock so gently it almost undoes me completely.

Oh my god. This man’s touch could ruin me.

He explores me slowly with just the right pressure, his thumb catching the sensitive spot under the head that makes my toes curl. His other hand splays across my stomach, steadying me as I writhe under his touch.

Holy hell, I have to touch him back.

It’s a need, an ache, an urge that feels like discovering a new hunger I never knew existed.

I trace my fingertips across his hip, keeping my touch featherlight before I trail my fingers lower, following the cut of his hip until I can take his cock in my hand.

Fuck. Because, of course, this would be another part of Justin that’s completely perfect. The weight of him, the feel of him… It’s just perfect.

Justin gasps, and those blue-green eyes meet mine and hold such raw need that I suddenly can’t breathe.

I’ve been thinking about how this is something I can give Justin. A moment of complete acceptance when he doesn’t have to hide anything.

But as Justin strokes me, kissing me deeply as he learns the ways to make me gasp and shiver, I realize it’s also about receiving something from him.

It’s more than just physical pleasure.

It’s trust. Complete, unguarded trust.

The thought makes something warm unfurl in my chest, even as guilt threatens to choke me.

I vary my strokes, paying attention to how his breathing changes, how his fingers tighten on my skin. When I brush my thumb over his tip, gathering the wetness there, his moan vibrates against my mouth.

I file that reaction away, repeating the motion until he’s trembling against me.

This is what I can give him in return for his trust. I can give him a first time with someone focused completely on him. With someone who will do anything to make him feel safe, to show him how good this can be.

He pulls back from kissing me.

“I’m going to…” he gasps.

“That’s it, come for me, baby,” I say because, apparently, I revert to a porn script when I’ve got my hands on Justin Morris’s cock.

Justin starts to come, and I’m torn between watching his face and watching his cock, each pulse matched by a flutter of those ridiculous eyelashes, like his body’s orchestrating its own symphony of pleasure.

Holy shit.

I did that. I made Justin Morris come undone.

I’m the reason his expression has transformed into something almost transcendent, his usual golden-boy charm stripped away to reveal raw, unfiltered bliss.

I don’t have time to dwell on it, though, because Justin’s mouth is back on mine, and his hand wraps around my cock with newfound confidence, like he’s determined to make me feel as good as I made him feel.

The combination of Justin’s tongue in my mouth, his hand on my cock, and my memory of his expression is enough to send me hurtling toward the edge.

Justin breaks our kiss, kissing down my neck, making my skin feel like it’s learning a new language of sensation.

“I want to see you come,” he rasps into my ear.

Oh, holy shit. Those words hit fast-forward on my orgasm.

I come so hard my vision actually whites out for a moment, Justin’s name catching in my throat.

Justin collapses half on top of me.

Oh my god. Oh my god.

I know endorphins are flooding my body right now, but this feels like more than just a chemically induced high.

This feels significant in another way.

We’re both sticky and sweaty, but neither of us seems inclined to move. Justin’s breath comes in warm puffs against my neck, his heart thundering where his chest presses against mine.

I run my fingers through his hair, marveling at its softness.

His arm is draped across my waist, thumb absently stroking my hip in an unbearably intimate way.

Then Justin nuzzles into my neck, pressing his lips against my pulse point.

When he shifts to look at me, his expression is so open, so unguarded, it steals my breath.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

He exhales a shaky laugh. “I’ve never felt this right before in my life.”

Oh god. The sincerity in his voice feels like a knife to my heart. Because this feels right to me too. So right that it hurts.

But it’s built on a lie.