“Fuck. Covey,” Aidan pants out as he thrusts into my fist. “I’m close.”
“Me, too.” I’m trying to savor these last few seconds, but my balls pull up tight, and I know I’m not going to last much longer. Aidan reaches down, his hand joining mine as it wraps around our cocks. He feels so good, his hand bigger than mine, with long fingers that encompass us both perfectly. “Come for me,” I say, the last words I’m able to get out before I fall over the edge. I drop my head to Aidan’s chest and groan as I spill over both our fists. Aidan strokes us a few more times before I feel his cock pulse against mine, his cum joining the mess spreading over our hands and bellies.
The room is quiet, save for our heaving breaths, neither of us willing to break the spell. It’s hard to figure out what I’m supposed to say now. While the cum is drying is not the right time to ask questions about our new arrangement. Fake-boyfriend-slash-friend-with-benefits is a bit of a mouthful, not that anyone will get that whole explanation.
When my heart rate returns to normal, I offer him the only rational word I can come up with. “Shower?”
CHAPTER 15
AIDAN
Well, if there was any doubt that we’d be able to sell this whole story to our families, showing up to Thanksgiving dinner wearing Covey’s clothes will do it. Could I have gone back to my house to change this morning? Absolutely. But I had no desire to leave, and Covey offered.
We might also have been running a little short on time after our… escapades.
And yes, I’m very much aware that whatever crush I’m developing on Covey is not made better by frotting and dressing myself in his clothes. Even if I’m enjoying smelling a bit like him, it’s a combination of his laundry detergent and body wash. Maybe I’m still a little off-center from yesterday, searching for comfort wherever I’m able to find it.
And let me tell you, it’s not in Covey’s family’s sitting room. His relatives are… loud.
“Aidan, tell us more about what it’s like to teachkindergarten,” his cousin, Marina, asks. I hate answering those kinds of questions. There’s no good answer to them, and they typically end with people either saying how they’d never be able to do it or how it’s so lovely that I get to play with kids all day. There’s no in between.
“It’s great. I love the school that I’m at, so that’s a big help.” Do I like every aspect? Of course not, but no one loves everything about their job. It’s been my dream since I was a kid, and I’m grateful every day that I get to live it out. A little less on the days when there’s vomit, but still.
“Are the kids terrible?” She leans in like I’m about to spill some serious tea. Well, she’s mistaken. I like the children, and even if I didn’t, I wouldn’t say anything to break their trust. That’s between me, other teachers, and the drinks at Eddie’s.
“The students are fantastic and work really hard in class.”
“But aren’t they five?” She wrinkles up her nose at the thought.
“Five and six, but they still work hard. There’s a lot they’re expected to learn before they’re ready for first grade.” People forget how challenging all these skills are when they’re first taught.
“What, like coloring?” Covey’s aunt, Kerry, butts into the conversation, and I hold back a groan. I could give a long lecture about how coloring is essential for motor skill development and that it helps them learn colors, sharing, and a whole bunch of other things, but it’s a holiday, and I’m supposed to be on my best behavior.
“That’s one thing we work on,” I say through gritted teeth.
“Isn’t teaching usually a woman’s job?” And Covey’s uncle, Paul’s, question is my least favorite in the whole world.I know there are very real issues that concern people, but the assumption under that question is that there are only negative reasons that I would want to be a teacher. Add to that my queer identity, and well, it’s a recipe for being undera microscope for no good reason. I might not win any awards, but I’m good at my job, and calling that into question on the morning after one of my students went missing is repulsive.
I’m about to answer the question when Covey’s aunt chimes in again. “Do the parents know you’re gay?”
I swear, I actually see red.“I’ll have you know—” Covey comes up behind me and wraps his arms around my waist.
“Schatje,” he says barely loud enough for anyone but me to hear. “Could you help me in the kitchen for a few minutes?”
God, he smells good. His proximity draws me back from my anger. All I want to do is wrap myself around him and breathe in his scent. “Sure, baby.” I hate the endearment as soon as it leaves my lips. It’s not right, but in all our preparations—including the extracurricular piece this morning—we didn’t cover what we’d call each other.He’s started using some word I don’t know to refer to me, but I keep forgetting to ask what it means.
The whole room stares at us, silent, including my mother, who’d been engaged in a side conversation that seems to have died off. I swear there aren’t that many people here, but suddenly the room feels crowded. Covey grabs my hand and pulls me through the house, weaving between various people, before tugging me up the stairs.
“You okay?” he asks, tugging me into his bedroom.
“Are they going to wonder why we aren’t in the kitchen?”
“Maybe.” He shrugs. “But you could use a break.”
“Thanks.” I sink onto his childhood bed. It reminds me of all the times I slept over when we were kids, sometimes sharing the bed, sometimes pulling out our sleeping bags and camping on his floor. Back then, it all seemed so innocent, the exact opposite of this morning.
He sits down next to me, a little closer than I expect, his thigh brushing up against mine. “They can be a bit much.”
I snort. That’s the understatement of the day. “Nothing I haven’t heard before.” I stare at the place where our bodies are connected.
