“I just… get caught up sometimes.” He remained silent, and I went on. “Like my head goes too fast. I wanted to say yes, but couldn’t.”
“Yeah?” Ryder said after a beat.
“Yeah. I was also afraid it would hurt. It didn’t so…”
Ryder chuckled. “Seriously. You about swallowed me whole. I always liked an experienced bottom, but I guess someone born to be fucked is even better.” He laughed again, then snuggled closer to me. “Was that it?”
“I mean, having sex with a man, and being the… born bottom is maybe a lot to take in.”
Ryder shifted and turned me around to face him. “I didn’t mean it like that. If it’s any consolation, I’m vers. You can fuck me too.”
Was he worried he’d offended me or something? My chest felt weird, and this strange buzzing filled my stomach. I needed to wipe that look off his face.
“No, no. I mean, yeah, I’d love to fuck you, but I just meant, like, sometimes I spiral. Or get like… paralyzed. It hasn’t happened since I was a kid.”
“Anxiety?”
“Something like that, yeah.”
“Have you ever talked to anyone about it? Been diagnosed? Tried treatment or medication?”
I laughed. “Are you ever not a doctor?”
Ryder’s face flushed, and he smiled. “Point taken. But the first question stands.”
“Once. When I was little.” Ryder’s face didn’t budge. “I used to get these crushing spiral things. I couldn’t do shit while it was happening. A coach of mine told me to just not think about it, and I stopped overthinking about stuff. I haven't had one of them in a long time.”
Several thoughts crossed Ryder’s face. “That’s not… so you just don’t… but you think it’s overthinking? Because that coach told you… That’s not how that works, man.”
“I don’t know. Seems to work for me.”
Ryder’s face changed. “You know what? I never knew that about you, but it makes sense.” He kissed me and pulled me tighter against his body. After a few beats, he said, “Do you get post sex munchies? I’m starved.”
I nodded into his collarbone, and we soon got up, got dressed, and he made me afternoon eggs. They were good, but nowhere near as good as the chef.
Chapter Thirteen
Ryder
Icouldn’t believe how shaky I was. It’d been a month and a half since I fucked Finn, but there I was, waiting for him to show up, with sweaty palms and pits. It wasn’t a surprise that he’d taken to bottoming so easily, and I still wanted him to fuck me, but every time we were alone together, my cock ended up in his ass. I’m not complaining, just to be clear.
We’d found a shocking amount of time to be alone in the past six weeks. I spent every day off I had with him. Which, let’s be serious, only amounted to a few days a week. But we also hung out when I had evenings off, like I did that night.
There was always the plausible deniability of doing something for the wedding. Finn only told Miles we were planning the stag night once. How much planning was needed to get a bunch of guys to a well-known college bar, slash club, slash arcade, slash mini theme park? So we moved on to helping himcraft his best man toast, which worked several times on multiple fronts.
Most of the time, we hung out at my place, where we fucked like rabbits, ordered shitty food, fucked some more, watched a movie or something, and maybe fucked again. He started sleeping over, too. I didn’t think I’d ever get sick of waking up to him in my arms, or kissing his head before extracting myself and heading to the hospital.
But we’d gone out too, always a few towns over. Twice to a bar, once to a chain place, another to get fast food… and then there was that night. I was waiting in the foyer of L’Interdit, a new French place more than a few towns over.
It wasn’t somewhere I’d take him to talk about the best man's speech. From the looks of it, or the foyer at least, it was very modern in an arty, expensive way. The people either looked rich as fuck, old as hell, or like they were celebrating something. Or, which was what made my palms wet, on dates.
Actual dates. Like couples who’d end the night with “I love you” or getting down on one knee. Finn and I were about to go on a full-blooded, garlicky-snail-infested date. Complete with fancy servers and champagne. But the worst, the absolute horror show of it all, was that it was his suggestion.
I couldn’t tell if Finn knew it was a date, or if, in very classic Finn fashion, this place was far enough away, and he took my comment about watching my macros and eating better to heart. I could see him having no idea about the romantic implications behind suggesting such a nice restaurant.
If he showed up dressed for Applebee’s, then this was just food for fucking later. But if he wore nice clothes, which I knew he was capable of, then I’d have my answer. His understanding that answer was a different question.
Of course, I dressed up. Slacks, a button-down open just low enough to show a little hair, and a casual blazer. I didbecause, other than Googling the place and not wanting to look like an idiot, I wanted it to be a date.
