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“We made out once or twice. Got each other off.”
“How?”
“The usual. Hand jobs, blow jobs. You know.”
Miles did not know. He looked down at their joined hands. “Did you hold hands like this too?”
“Of course not. We didn’t feel that way about each other. Not the way I feel about—” Beckett cut himself off, his brows drawing together. “Hey, don’t be mad. It was years ago.”
“I’m not mad,” Miles said before realizing he was frowning.
He was not mad. He wasn’t jealous either. It wasn’t as if he had romantic feelings for Beckett.
Beckett was simply his best friend, his favorite person. And yes, Beckett was ridiculously attractive, and yes, Miles did like touching him, and yes, Beckett’s presence made Miles feel peaceful in a way he felt with no one else, but that didn’t mean Miles wanted Beckett in that way.
“Come, let’s sit down,” Beckett said, leading Miles to the center of the meadow where they sat down. Before Miles could say anything, Beckett pulled him onto his lap and kissed him on the mouth.
That kiss triggered something inside him. His veins felt as if they were suddenly filled with sweet, warm energy, and he kissed Beckett back eagerly. Kissing Beckett felt right, like it was written in Miles’s DNA, like it was a basic human instinct.
They kissed for a few minutes, hands joined, and only when there was loud laughter and approaching footsteps did they pull apart. Beckett’s pupils had dilated, and he had to blink several times for them to return to normal.
“We…we should probably…” Miles started.
“Yeah.” Beckett stood and helped Miles up.
They patted themselves down just as a group of middle-aged men and women arrived at the meadow. Miles and Beckett gave them polite smiles, then returned to the main path, heading back to the campground. At some point, they’d stopped holding hands.
*
After lunch, they changed into their swimming trunks and headed to the beach. Miles took sunscreen and his towel along with Beckett’s hoodie in case he got cold later.
Once they were in the ocean, they had competitions to see who could stay underwater the longest without breathing. Beckett suggested it because it’d also be a way to force them underwater and get used to the temperature. Afterwards, they splashed each other like they were children. Miles was good at splashing Beckett: he turned his arms and hands into scoops that propelled torrents of seawater over him, drenching him, and every time Beckett tried to get revenge, Miles slipped away.
He chuckled as Beckett grew more and more impatient. Something changed in Beckett’s expression, and he gave up splashing, opting to chase after Miles directly.
Miles shrieked, a little scared, and ran away. It was hard to run fast, though, with the waves pushing him back and his feet sinking into the sand. He could feel Beckett’s presence at his back.
Suddenly, Beckett picked Miles up and threw him over his shoulder. His hands held the back of Miles’s thighs, his stomach against Beckett’s shoulder. Miles let out a surprised yell—both because he’d been caught, but also because he was surprised Beckett could carry him like this. He knew Beckett was strong—that much was clear from the state of his body—but Miles knew he was heavy.
“Hey!” Miles said, slapping his hand against Beckett’s back.
“This is what you get,” Beckett said.
Miles waited for Beckett’s revenge, but it never came. Probably because Beckett realized that in this position, it’d be physically impossible to splash Miles without also subjecting himself to the spray of salty water too.
Miles suppressed a chuckle. Suddenly, Beckett seemed very cute.
“You could toss me into the ocean,” Miles suggested.
“That’s too mean.”
“And splashing you relentlessly wasn’t?”
Beckett didn’t respond.
Miles looked at the expanse of Beckett’s back. “It wouldn’t hurt,” he said. “Honestly, I wouldn’t mind getting thrown around by you.”
Beckett said something under his breath. Something like, Christ.
