Page 18 of Save the Game

“Really? You’ve never spent the night with someone like that?” There go my hopes for going back to my place, fucking his brains out, and then spooning him until morning.

“No, I have…it’s just been a long time, is all,” he says, looking embarrassed.

All right Luke, change the subject. I lean toward him over the table. “So, tell me, do you believe in alien life?”

Max drives us back to my place the same way he drove us to the restaurant: slow and careful, radio low and his eyes firmly on the road. I wait until we’re parked in the driveway, his car tucked in behind mine, to unclip my seatbelt and turn to him.

“Do you want to come inside?” I ask. He stares out of the windshield, hands resting in his lap. His chest expands underneath his shirt, once, twice, three times before he speaks.

“Yeah. I do.”

I bring him in, bypassing the shared spaces of the house and leading him straight down the stairs to my room. He stands awkwardly by the door once we get there, as though he wants to have swift access to the exit. He seems nervous. I sit down on my bed, mentally patting myself on the back for remembering to put fresh sheets on this morning.

“You don’t have to stay if you don’t want to,” I tell him, because he looks like he’s fighting some internal battle. Instead of looking mollified, he looks aggravated.

“I want to stay,” he says, sounding like the words are painful to speak. “I do.”

“All right.” I wait, letting him come to me.

He walks forward, eventually, after toeing off his shoes and leaving them by the door leading upstairs. Before he can sit down next to me, I reach up and put a hand on his hip, directing him to stand between my legs. He’s standing above me, hands resting on my shoulders; he has the power when we’re in this position and I can see the exact moment he realizes this—he relaxes, stretching one thumb out to trace a line down my throat.

I pull him toward me at the same time he leans down to kiss me. His hands cup my face and mine splay across his hips, both of us gentle. I groan when he changes the angle and bends my neck backward with the force of his kiss; he kisses like it’s his last—putting everything in it and making me dizzy with desire. I slide my hands up into his shirt and he uses his body to push me back onto the bed.

The moment his weight is on top of me, I’m hard and straining against my pants. We’re the same height and our bodies fit together like puzzle pieces: hips locked together and hearts pounding in sync. I want his clothes to be gone so badly; I can’t even think of how to manage it. When my fingers find the waistband of his pants, I pull my mouth from his long enough to pant a request.

“Can I…can we…”

“Clothes off?” He asks.

Yes, Jesus Christ, yes, clothes off. He sits back, hands fumbling at his belt. I knock them away, wanting to do it myself. Pushing his shirt up, I lean in and kiss his stomach—his perfectly hairless, six-packed stomach. I could weep with happiness. He tugs his shirt all the way off and I apply myself to tasting every inch of that delectable abdomen. He rests a hand on my head and lets me.

When I run out of skin I’m able to reach like this, I unfasten his pants and let him step off the bed to take them all the way off. I prop myself up, tugging my own off, along with my shirt. We leave our boxers on for the time being which is fine by me. I want to take his off with my teeth. I scoot all the way back on the bed and reach for him as soon as he’s close enough for me to do so. So much warm, smooth skin. I want to kiss every fucking inch.

There is a dusting of freckles over the tops of both shoulders, like someone sprinkled him with cinnamon; they are the same copper color as his hair. Wrapping an arm firmly around his waist, I flip us so that his back is against the bed and lean down to taste them. He gasps, arching up against me in a way that has his tented boxers brushing against mine. Leaning down to kiss him, I brush a hand up his side and along his arm. I want him so badly, I can’t think where to start.

6

Max

Luke is beautiful. Of course, Luke is beautiful. There is no difference between the color of his arms and the color of his stomach—just one smooth expanse of caramel, broken only by a smattering of dark hair trailing downward from his abdomen.

“You have pretty skin,” I mutter, and immediately flush. What an idiotic thing to say. Luke smiles.

“Thank you. I take after my Puerto Rican mom. Come back here and kiss me.” He pulls me in and I smile against his lips.

My fingers itch to touch him and when I do, he makes a pleased noise that sends my heart rate galloping. I haven’t wanted anyone in so long, I’ve forgotten how potent it is; the desire to touch and be touched, and be wrapped up in another person.

I dive my hands into his hair, because I’ve wanted to feel it since the first day I met him. I trace my fingers around his ears and down his throat, marveling at the totally normal yet unbelievable fact of him. I bury my face into the crook of his neck and inhale; he still smells of sunshine. When he flips us, I gasp—shock momentarily distracting me.

He lowers his hips down against mine, and the pleasure of our erections rubbing together briefly outweighs the first spark of nerves in my stomach. He’s touching me, hands calloused and rough against my skin; a direct contrast to the softness of his mouth. His weight presses down against me, more firmly now, pushing me into the mattress. When he rocks his hips against mine, an unmistakable shot of fear travels up my spine.

“Luke,” I gasp, but can’t remember what I wanted to say beyond that. I feel amazing. I feel scared.

Heart pounding, I reach for his face, wanting to bring his mouth back to mine. Kiss me—that’s what I wanted to say. Kiss me so that I can’t think.

His mouth is gentle against mine, teasing my tongue with his and dancing his fingers across my ribs. I lose track of that hand as I let him kiss me into oblivion. He links our fingers and presses my hand against the bed, leaning his weight against me. I freeze. The fear—manageable before—floods my system, burning everything away. My chest hurts and there is something constricting my throat, making it hard to breathe; I have a single, insane moment where I wonder if he’s choking me.

“Luke,” I try again, and this time it sounds like exactly what it is: distress. I rock my hips upward, trying to dislodge him. Get off, get off, please get off.

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