My stomach knots, hands stilling on his waist. What the hell is that supposed to mean? Is he trying to imply that I’m bad at this? Because judging by his boner, I’m doing a pretty damn good job.
“Why does it matter?” I snap defensively.
His face tightens. “Because I don’t hook up with straight guys. I’m not letting myself be someone’s experiment.”
“That’s not what this is,” I shoot back.
He searches my face, skeptical. “So… you’re—”
“I’m gay,” I bite out, my voice clipped with frustration.
Hunter blinks. “Oh.”
“I’m still closeted—at least in Claremont Shores. But all my friends and teammates at college knew,” I mutter. “Now shut up and kiss me.”
He hesitates for just a second before pulling me into another frantic kiss.
This one’s rougher. Messier. His hand trails down my chest, fingertips skating down the lines of my abs until he cups me through the damp fabric of my swim trunks. My hips jerk forward helplessly.
“Fuck,” he groans into my mouth, giving my cock a firm squeeze.
A smug hum slips out of me before I can stop it. I know I’m bigger than average. Still, the reaction never gets old.
His fingers hook eagerly around my waistband, but I catch his wrist.
“Hold on,” I sigh, putting some space between us. “Let me just, uh, get this out of the way first.”
I slip off my T-shirt, carefully avoiding the thin tubing at my waistline. I disconnect my insulin pump and gently set it on top of a barrel next to me. Hunter’s gaze follows me the entire time, watching my every movement. His eyes finally land at the infusion site on my stomach. Suddenly, I feel exposed in a way that has nothing to do with being half-naked.
“I’m type one diabetic,” I say flatly, trying to sound casual about it.
I brace myself for the inevitable well-intended ignorant comment.
“My grandpa has that, too.”
“That means you can’t eat sugar, right?”
“I read an article that said cinnamon cures diabetes!”
I’ve heard them all.
But Hunter just grins, soft and utterly unfazed, and says, “Alright. I’m going to suck you off now, if that’s okay.”
My brain short-circuits.
“Uh. Yeah.” I nod, maybe too fast.
He drops gracefully to his knees. His fingers hook under the waistband of my trunks and tug them down in one smooth motion. The fabric pools around my ankles, and my cock springs free—hard, aching, and already leaking.
Hunter licks his lips, clearly impressed.
Then he spits into his palm. Normally that would gross me out, but when he does it, it’s the hottest thing I’ve ever witnessed. He wraps his slick hand around me, stroking slowly. I gasp and buck into his grip, biting my lip to hold back the desperate sounds threatening to spill.
When his tongue flicks the head, my knees nearly buckle. My hands fly to his hair, fingers threading through the silky strands. Jesus, it’s so soft. What brand of conditioner does he use?
His lips seal around my cock, and all thoughts cease altogether. His hand works the base as he sinks lower, taking me deeper. He gags once, barely faltering, then keeps going, saliva spilling from the corners of his mouth.
He looks beautiful like this—on his knees, eyes closed, mouth full. I could get used to this version of him.
