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“Have you ever been to New York City during Chr
istmas?” I asked, pulling his shorts and boxers down.
“Of course!” Ryan laughed. “You won’t find a New Yorker who hasn’t. Not a true one, anyway.”
“Then take me…” I whispered, sinking to the floor. I was on my knees now. Kneeling between his legs. “Please?”
I looked up at him seductively, putting on my best pair of innocent doe-eyes. His cock was only inches from my face. Through my peripheral vision I could see it slowly rising, like a loaf of leavened bread.
“Really? You want to go to New York for Christmas?”
I nodded my head, while sliding one hand around the base of his manhood. I could feel it coming alive in my hand. All thick and warm…
Ryan guided my head over until he was pressed against my lips. Our eyes met. Silently, an agreement was made.
“Convince me…” he sighed, leaning back on the couch.
And so I did.
Thirty-Nine
RYAN
Going ‘home’ had never occurred to me, simply because I never had a home to go to. New York was nothing more than the place I grew up. Brooklyn, the streets I ran on, screwed up on, and ultimately, left.
But as we returned to the same old neighborhood I used to stir up trouble in? Nostalgia kicked in. I began remembering everything; from the narrow alley where I’d stolen my first car, to the cement stoop of the brownstone where I’d stolen my first kiss.
All of it was somehow special, and I didn’t even know it. I’d jumped so headfirst into the Army, quite literally, that I’d forgotten this place. I’d done my best to put everything here out of my head.
Now suddenly, it was beginning to grow on me again.
“Show me the house you grew up in!” Sammara said excitedly.
My reply came with a smirk. “Which one?”
She cast her gaze downward, realizing her mistake. It was an honest one though, so I let her off the hook.
“How about I show you my favorite?”
Five blocks later there we were, standing before the last house in a series of identical homes. The Bradfords had fostered me here until I was seventeen, along with three other boys. The time had gone quick — maybe a year and a half — but they’d treated me well enough that I still kept in touch with them. I still wrote them from time to time, although they’d moved south together years ago.
Because it was the least chaotic of my foster homes, the place held a special charm for me. There were more good memories here than bad ones, something which wasn’t true at most of the other place I’d lived.
“You’ve never wanted to look up your actual parents?” Sammara was asking. It was a question she’d put to me before. One she never seemed to accept my answer for.
“No.”
“And why not?”
“Because they left me,” I said. “Abandoned me at a young age to be cared for by strange people.” I looked at her with a frown. “Real parents don’t do that.”
She accepted that answer, at least for now, as we walked arm in arm through the snow-capped streets. I took her to the older part of the neighborhood. To a place I knew she’d geek out looking at some of the original buildings and architecture. We spent some time there, but she was more interested in leaning against me. In stopping for hot chocolate and snuggling up to me and basically just enjoying the feel of being close.
Crossing to the next block, I watched her eyes light up as she scanned the sign above a nearby subway station.
“I want to see Coney Island!” she said suddenly.
“Now?”
