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My fingers wrap around his cock.
He sucks in air.
It’s already hard.
“I might’ve been tipsy last night, sure,” I confess. “There was probably a time or two when I drank way too much and felt myself go a bit. But I remember it all. Every bit of it. And you know what detail stood out to me the most?” I give him a few strokes inside his tight black boxer-briefs, causing his cock to flex against my palm with urgency. Then I bring my lips to his ear. “Even when I was at my most wasted, you didn’t once take advantage of me.”
I feel his face tense up. He comes out of his daze. “Of course I didn’t. What the hell kinda man you think I am?”
“A better one than I thought before.”
He takes hold of my shoulders, then spins us both around and pins me against the door. My hand is still down the front of his underwear, as if keeping hold of my prized possession of his big, firm cock.
He presses a kiss deeply onto my lips as his hands slide down my body, then come to rest on my hips, where he grabs hold and thrusts our bodies together, grinding against me.
His face comes away from mine as he peers into my eyes. “I swear, boy, you make me so fuckin’ crazy.”
“Me too.” I give him another couple of teasing strokes, which is awkward with our fronts pressed together. “And that’s not just because I got my hand trapped inside your underwear.”
“Are you sure you can afford stayin’ longer? I don’t wanna be the reason the Famous Lance Goodwin gets fired from the runway.”
“That’s not really how it works. And yes,” I answer him with a smile. “I’ve never been more sure of anything.”
We kiss again.
And what was supposed to be a quick escape to his truck to get my phone and make arrangements turns into an hour-long ordeal in front of his door, and it ends with yet another explosion of bliss between both of us right there on his kitchen floor.
I doubt I’ll ever get enough Chad Landry before LA finally takes me back into its balmy, pincushion-wearing hands.
It’s nearly noon when I’m dressed (again) and reaching into Chad’s truck through the rolled-down window to grab my satchel. From it, I pull out my phone, tap a name, and slap it to my ear. No answer at first. I call three and a half more times before, at long last, my ear is greeted with: “Ugh, too early, too fucking early …”
“Salvador. I’ll be quick, then you can go back to sleep. Can you guys watch my apartment a little longer?”
“You do realize we’re two hours behind you, right? Wait.” He perks up fast, having heard my question belatedly. “You’re not coming home tonight? What happened? Are you in the hospital?”
He always jumps to conclusions. “No, no. Nothing like that.”
“I mean, don’t get me wrong, Richie and I will totally stay here. You might have a tiny, cramped living space, but you’ve got the best view for your buck, and this has been the best weekend of our lives. Shh, I’m talking to Lance. The windows at my place stare at a brick wall across a scummy alley. It’s the worst, but you get what you pay for. Richie … well, you know, he’s kinda between places. Anyway, I just love waking up to a park and the LA skyline here at your lovely, tiny abode. Shh, I said! It’s Lance!” He clears his throat. “So tell me what’s going on. Why are you staying longer?”
“It’s … Well, um … It’s …”
I glance back at the guesthouse. I can (somewhat) see Chad through the window, though the glare coming off the glass makes it difficult to make much of anything out. He’s in there feverishly cleaning the house—at his own stubborn insistence, I might add—to accommodate me for the next few days, or however long I stay. I imagine “cleaning his house” consists of a lot of kicking socks under the furniture, shoving piles of worn jeans into the back of his closet, and tossing his dirty boots into a bin.
I feel so weird, just crashing into his space like this, even after the crazy intimate night we shared.
Yet despite all that, even with the short amount of time that I’ve been back here in Spruce … “It feels like I never left,” I say, finishing my thought out loud into the phone.
“Um, what?”
“Spruce, Texas. It feels like I never left. I guess you might say I’ve …” I feel my cheeks slowly flushing, and it isn’t related to the harsh summer sun beating over my head right now. “I’ve sort of reconnected with someone.”
“Someone?” Salvador is beside himself. “What are you trying to tell me? You’ve got some cute farmhand tucked away in your sleeve out there?”
