Page 71 of Our Own Light

“Come on, that must have hurt a little.”

Floyd held up his thumb and index finger millimeters apart. Oliver let out a puff of air.

“That is very offensive.”

Without warning, Floyd took hold of Oliver’s sleeve and pulled him close, the force of the movement making him stumble.

“You show me how scrappy you are later,” Floyd whispered, the timbre of his voice causing the hair on Oliver’s neck to stand on-end.

“You lunkhead,” Oliver whispered back, wrestling his shirt out of Floyd’s hand. “Now I’ll be walking around with a half-hard piece in my pants.”

In response, Floyd flashed a wolfish smile.

“Jesus, stop that,” Oliver said with a warning look.

Oliver expected Floyd to relent, but instead, he said, “Maybe we ought to visit your place first.”

“Can we really?”

Floyd made that incredible half-hum, half-growl sound he made sometimes when he was aroused. “Don’t see why not.”

Holy hell. Suddenly, all Oliver wanted was to feel Floyd’s hard cock rocking against him. Every one of Floyd’s touches had become a confirmation of their ever-strengthening bond.

Oliver took off, walking with long, purposeful strides, while Floyd trailed behind.

“Hurry up!” Oliver called over his shoulder.

With a chuckle, Floyd picked up the pace.

After only a few minutes, they were inside Oliver’s house, and as soon as Floyd shut the door, Oliver shoved him up against the wood and pressed their lips together. Soon, Floyd’s hands were unbuttoning Oliver’s shirt and Oliver’s hands were unbuttoning Floyd’s, and holy hell, it was wonderful. Both of their work shirts fell to the floor, and when Oliver’s head started to swim from seeing Floyd’s broad, beautiful chest, the hair of which was only barely visible through the thin cotton of his sleeveless union suit, Floyd hoisted Oliver up into the air to carry him into the bedroom.

“God, sweetheart, you’re so strong,” Oliver breathed, wrapping his legs around Floyd’s torso. “I love it.”

Floyd’s reply was to capture Oliver’s mouth in another kiss. Their frenzied, hungry kisses continued on the way to the bedroom, only ceasing for a moment as they crashed onto the bed. Lying beside one another, they both worked to remove each other’s pants, and then they were in the last bits of clothing. For Oliver, that meant his custom-made silky drawers, and for Floyd, it was his sleeveless union suit. Oliver’s hands found the top buttons on Floyd’s undergarment.

“Do you want to?” Oliver asked, tugging on one.

Even though Oliver had plenty of fun fucking Floyd through his own silk underwear, he still craved so much more. He wanted to see what Floyd’s cock looked like, to feel him, to taste him.

“Not yet,” Floyd said, pulling Oliver on top of him. “Soon.”

Floyd wasn’t ready. Of course he wasn’t ready. Self-doubt wrapped around Oliver’s nearly naked body, making him feel as though his skin was on fire. Aware of the mortifying blush that had probably come to color his face, Oliver lowered himself to nuzzle Floyd’s cheek, hoping to hide the embarrassing evidence of his shame. But Floyd must have sensed it.

“Ollie.” Floyd caught Oliver’s chin and tried to force Oliver to look at him. “Soon.”

“No, I know,” Oliver said, still not able to meet Floyd’s gaze. “I know.”

“Look at me,” Floyd said, his tone tender but stern. Oliver’s face was still burning as he forced his stupidly teary eyes to look at Floyd’s. “I want you.”

“I know.”

Somehow, fourteen years of schooling had resulted in Oliver only being able to say two fucking words. Shame twisted inside of him. Why was he so upset—so tore up, as Floyd would say—about this? He knew Floyd cared for him. But God, Oliver couldn’t rid himself of the feeling that Floyd was still holding part of himself—part of his heart—back.

“I want you,” Floyd repeated, the urgency in his voice nearly enough to coax Oliver out of this pathetic spiral of self-reproach until Oliver’s eyes found the still-fastened buttons of Floyd’s union suit and insecurity started clawing at him again. Floyd continued to try. “I want to feel you rub up on me, to make me come for you.”

“I know,” Oliver said, cringing. Floyd’s broken phonograph would have been a better conversationalist.

“Let me see your hand,” Floyd said. Oliver held it up, and Floyd took it, bringing it low and pressing it to his erection. “Do you feel that? Do you feel how bad I want you?”

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