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I thought I had taken the measure of him, but in here he feels massive, a foot taller than me and broad-shouldered enough to eclipse the only escape route. His lidded, hazel eyes study me as he brushes a hand through his slicked back blond hair. It doesn’t make me bi to think he’s fucking gorgeous. Anyone would.
He waits silently, his stillness like a deep, dark lake in winter and my throat so dry I don’t think I’ll ever speak again. I’m confident that if I want to leave, he’ll let me, because it’s glaringly obvious he’s just doing me a favor. He’d rather be balls deep in that John Adams biography than in a smartass kid from Iowa who should be sipping flat ginger ale in the back of coach class.
The thing is, I don’t want to leave. Even if this is the worst idea I’ve ever had.
When I don’t bolt, he reaches up to touch a plastic handle molded into the ceiling for people to grab during turbulence. “Hands here.”
My brain scratches and skips like a broken record, hung up on a ridiculous detail. “Um…” I show him my arms, my shaky upturned palm on one side, with my favorite paracord bracelet. And on the other side, nothing. He’s so tall I have to lean back to see his expression.
He frowns, and I can’t tell if he’s unhappy with me or himself. “It slipped my mind; I apologize.”
Forcing a smile, I hug my stump to my chest. I know it’s not my problem if I make other people uncomfortable, but that doesn’t make it fucking hurt less. It never has. “Before you ask, yeah, I shop at the secondhandstore.” My joke dies. He’s just staring at me, tension in the line of his mouth. “It’s all good,” I mumble. “But I understand if you don’t want to touch—”
“Stand up.”
I obey instantly. In the close, dimly lit space, our chests almost touching, I can sense the slow, calm rhythm of his breath. My heart seems to have fallen down through my ribs, throbbing low in my belly as I wait.
A small moan breaks in my throat when he finally touches my wrist, his skin warm against my pulse, and guides my palm up to wrap around the ceiling handle.
He keeps getting quieter, his mouth close to my ear. “Don’t let go. Do you understand?”
“Yeah,” I croak. “I mean, yes.” I almost call him sir, something about the suit and the overwhelming sense of disapproval, but then I remember that word belongs to the kinky people with the paddles and gags and human furniture. Wouldn’t want to give the wrong impression.
His gaze drops to my stump as he cups it casually in his hand, ghosting his fingers across it before resting it in the crook of my right arm so they’re both stretched above my head. Pressure grows behind my eyes, in the back of my nose, and I try to blink it away. Even nice people go out of their way not to touch my arm, like missing limbs are contagious. I didn’t realize how much I hoped he’d be different.
He leans back against the door and slides his hands into his pockets, like he’s admiring a painting he just finished. “Alright. Tell me what you want.”
Heat spreads up my neck as I stare at him.Seriously?He has to be fucking with me. “You already know, or you wouldn’t be here.” I straighten my back with as much dignity as I can find in this position and wait for him to do his job.
Instead, he starts to leave.
“Wait,” I yelp. If I waste this chance, I’ll never be brave or stupid enough to try again. “I want to know what it’s like to fuck around with another guy. Whether it feels the same as when I’m with a girl.”
The corner of his mouth curls up at that, a dangerous glint in his eyes. “In that case, let’s be specific. Tell me exactly what you think I should do to you.”
“You’re kidding,” I breathe. Of course he’s not. Goddamn it. I could have gone to some club in New York City and had a cute boy buy me a drink.
He checks the heavy silver watch hanging loose on his wrist. “I tipped the flight attendant, but it won’t last forever.”
“I don’t know what to say.” I study my dirty sneakers between his polished black Oxfords.
That’s not true.
Everything comes crowding to the tip of my tongue like he opened some kind of gate. Everything dark and hidden and hungry and shameful, everything that made me bawl into my pillow because I just don’t understand why I can’t be the son my parents proudly believe I am.
When I look up, he’s watching me with a challenge in the sun-dappled river of his eyes.
“I want…” I swallow painfully and try again. “I have these dreams sometimes. Can I just tell you about one of those?”
He tips his head expectantly.
“There’s this guy. And I’m there too, obviously. He, uh, I guess he unzips my pants.” I cringe, closing my eyes partly so I can remember better and mostly so I don’t have to look at him. “He starts touching me, and I get hard. He pushes my underwear down and strokes me fast, not gentle.” There’s an ache behind my fly, leaking and swelling. I lick my dry lips. “And he asks,does a girl get you this hard? And when I’m likestop, please, I’m gonna come, he doesn’t, uh, stop.”
“Do you come?”
I open my eyes. “Yeah, but please don’t be offended if you can’t…you know. You’re very attractive. It’s just that I’m pretty sure I’m—”
“Straight?” he finishes for me. His eyes work their way down my body, then back up to my face, and his brows furrow. Paired with his glasses it’s kind of cute, like a perplexed nerd. “I’ll be honest; you’re not selling it.”
