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“Holy shit,” he gasped, tensing under me.
I kissed his bare shoulder. “I want to do something for you.” Then I started to lower my face toward his lap.
“No, it’s okay.” He caught my shoulder to stop me, then drew my hand out from his underwear and brought it to his lips to kiss my knuckles. “You don’t have to do that.”
“What? Don’t you like blow jobs?” I teased, grinning mischievously.
Every guy liked blow jobs.
“Yeah, uh…actually…” He gave an uneasy laugh. “I don’t know. I’ve never had one.”
My mouth dropped open. “What? Really?”
“Hey, I’ve only been sexually active for two years. I haven’t quite tried every position yet.”
My return grin was immediate. “Well, trust me, honey. You’re going to like this.” I went for his dick again but he caught my shoulder.
“No,” he urged softly, stopping me again. “I don’t…I really don’t think I will.”
I stared at his face and took in the worry in his features before sitting upright and crossing my legs.
He shook his head and looked away. “Don’t. Stop looking at me with fucking concern.”
Shit, this was bad.
“Colton,” I said very slowly. “Why don’t you even want to try a blow job? Every guy wants to experience a blow job.”
He just kept shaking his head, not looking at me. So I touched his cheek, and he melted, closing his eyes and sighing his defeat.
“Fine. Here’s the deal. I saw something once, and it put me off wanting to try them ever. It’s not a big deal. I just…I don’t want one. Okay?”
Yeah right. Now I knew it was a huge deal. And he still wouldn’t look at me. I started to freak out a little.
“What did you see that put you off blow jobs?”
He speared me with a quick irritated glance before looking away again and admitting, “A boy. He was just a kid.”
I nodded. That was a start; it didn’t tell me much and didn’t seem so bad, but I knew it had to be worse, so I asked, “How old was he?”
“Thirteen,” he whispered. “I was eight. But he was thirteen.”
“Okay,” I said slowly. “So…what? You saw this thirteen-year-old boy get a blow job when you were eight?”
“No.” He shook his head and closed his eyes. “I mean, yes, but he didn’t want it. She was forcing him. He was crying and she—his mom—had him backed against this wall and—”
“Holy shit!” I screeched. “His mom? You saw a boy get molested by his mother when you were eight? What did you do?”
He pressed his hands to his temples. “Nothing. I…I didn’t do anything. I ran to my room and hid under the blankets in my bed. I didn’t tell anyone, I didn’t try to get help, I didn’t try to stop her. I just ran away and hid while he was just down the hall, getting—”
“Hey, hey, hey,” I soothed, grabbing his hands and kissing the palms. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”
“No. That’s the thing. It’s not fucking okay. I didn’t help him. I never helped him, and that fucker said he forgave me, like…like I actually deserved forgiveness, which I don’t. How could he possibly forgive me?”
“Maybe because you were only eight years old,” I suggested. “And you’re not the one who actually molested him.”
He looked up. His eyes were rimmed in red but he wasn’t crying. “Served me right that I’m the one who ended up with the nightmares. Not him.”
I smiled as I stroked his face, picking up pieces of his bangs and smoothing them where I wanted them to go. “But if you’d never had nightmares then you and I wouldn’t have had a reason to connect in the first place.”
