Page 54 of The Kiss Principle

“Okay, I’m figuring out one downside to being gay is the comparison thing.”

He slid his hands to the small of my back. “What?”

“Zé, you’re like, jacked.” I wasn’t ready to move my hands, but I flexed my fingers against his well-developed chest. “God, I don’t think I could look like you if I tried.”

“I thought Augustus was gay?”

“Yeah, so?”

Zé brought one hand around to caress my stomach through the shirt. I was painfully aware that there was, uh, some excess there. “You’ve got no idea, huh?”

“No idea about what?”

“How hot you are. When you told that twink to move today, the one who was blocking the sidewalk, you didn’t hear him say, ‘Yes, Daddy’?”

“He was—I mean—” I stopped. “He was being sarcastic.”

“No, he wasn’t. Jesus, Fernando. When I saw you in those booty shorts with those daddy thighs…” He made a sound like he’d tasted something he liked. Then he smiled again and rubbed my stomach again. “So, the comparison thing happens, sure. But I’d recommend not making that a big part of your focus. On the one hand, it’s not healthy. On the other hand, you don’t know what your partner likes. For example, I like you. I think you are, without exaggerating, the most attractive guy I’ve ever met. And I want you to take your shirt off, and I think I’m showing a lot of restraint by not tearing it off you right now.”

“A lot of restraint, huh?”

“I don’t want to rush you.” He wrapped his hands around mine again and, his voice lowering, said, “We’re spending a lot of time talking, Fernando. I want you to touch me. And I want you to kiss me.”

“I can do that.”

We went slow, and he let me take my time exploring his body. I knew part of that was because he was Zé, and he was so easygoing and comfortable, but I’d never gotten to do that with any of the girls I’d hooked up with—probably because most of those encounters had been so rushed. With Zé, I took my time. I traced the definition of his chest. I ran my hands over his back. He let me touch his arms, following the swell of his muscles. He flexed, and he looked like such a goof, but God, the man had arms. He liked when I touched his nipples, arching his back and making a low, guttural noise. And slowly, minute by minute, I started to feel—well, comfortable wasn’t the right word, but relaxed, maybe. Or more relaxed. Because yes, his body was different. But he was still a person. And he wanted to be touched and admired and caressed.

When I kissed a line up his neck, he made this broken, yowling noise, and I thought, for a moment, I’d hurt him. I pulled back and saw the glazed look in his eyes, and I realizedhe’d liked it, and a swell rose in me because I’d made him make that noise, I’d made another guy make that noise, and I dove down again and made him make it again.

“Fer,” he whispered shakily, pawing at my chest. “Oh shit, oh God, that’s too much, that’s too much.”

When I pulled back, he was trembling, his chest rising and falling rapidly. His nipples had hardened, and his pupils were huge.

I turned myself out of my shirt. I wasn’t thinking about it; I was ready to have it gone, and as soon as I tossed it on the floor, Zé’s hands were all over me. His mouth too, latching on to my nipple a moment later. None of the girls I’d messed around with had ever done that, but I’d seen it in videos, and I heard my own shocked exhalation of breath, and it sounded like somebody else said, “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

When my back started to hurt, I leaned against the wall and pulled Zé onto my lap. He grinned and rocked against my dick, and I swatted him on the ass. This position made it a lot easier to touch him wherever I wanted, and more importantly, it gave me easy access to his neck. I never lingered, but I went back again and again, leaving hickeys, chafing the sensitive skin there until it was red from my stubble. A few times, Zé took the initiative, but more and more, he seemed happy to let me lead. I was sucking on his neck when he brought my hand down between his legs.

His dick was hard and hot even through the board shorts, and he moaned as he wrapped my fingers around the fabric-clad length. I’d never touched another guy’s dick, but I figured they all worked on the same general principles, and I stroked him through his shorts. We did that for a while until he reared back, breaking the kiss with a gasp, and said, “Help me.” I figured out what he meant when he started fumbling with his shorts, andtogether, we got them down around his knees. I pulled them the rest of the way off. He was commando underneath, big surprise.

For a minute, I looked. He had a great dick; I’d seen enough in porn to have something of a scale, and his was a ten out of ten: long, thick, straight, foreskin already pulling back slightly to reveal the purplish-red head. I’d handled my own equipment enough to recognize somebody who was close. He had big balls, no surprise there either, and as he noticed me looking, he spread his legs. The smell was dick and balls, but somebody else’s dick and balls. A dude smell. But not, like I had been half-expecting, a locker room smell. Zé, but a more intimate part of Zé. I didn’t think I’d catch myself sniffing his shorts anytime soon, but I liked the smell, and more than that, I liked that it was Zé’s smell, liked the intimacy of it.

“Touch me,” he whispered hoarsely.

I chafed his thigh and nudged him to slide off me.

With a groan, he did, rolling to bury his face in the pillow. He had a full, muscular ass, by the way. Not much hair. Another learning point: apparently, I liked a guy with some junk in the trunk. As I scooted off the bed, I slapped his ass, and he squawked and flopped onto his back to scowl at me. If anything, though, his dick looked harder than ever.

I stripped: jeans, boxers, socks. It should have been nerve-wracking, I guess. I should have hesitated, felt awkward about being in front of a guy like this. But by that point, my dick was screaming to be free from my jeans, I was so horny I would have gotten naked in front of the Pope. Zé lay there, drinking me in. He reached up to touch my belly again. Then his hand slid down, skating over my thigh. He cupped my balls and then tightened his grip and used them to tug me forward until my knees hit the bed. Propping himself up on one elbow, he brought his face to my cock and inhaled. When he looked up at me, his eyes were hooded.

“I want to suck you off,” he said in that throaty whisper. After a beat, he added, “Please?”

I must have answered—technically, making a whimpering noise in your throat is an answer—because he pulled me forward again. He brushed the head of my dick against his lips. They were soft and wet, and I was wet, and my dick glided across them. I’d had blow jobs before, but not all that many; lots of the girls I’d hooked up with either hadn’t been interested in doing it or hadn’t enjoyed it. I’d always taken it as a stereotype of porn that gay dudes loved sucking cock and got off on it, but for Zé at least, stereotype or not, it was true. He was lying on his side, legs stretched out because of his knee, still rubbing my cock back and forth, back and forth, and he didn’t seem to be in any hurry to get it over with.

When he opened his mouth, I thought he was going to take me down, but instead he started licking. Little licks at the head, where I was sensitive enough that it was almost too much. Longer licks from the base to the tip. He took my balls into his mouth, one at a time. He tried to do both and couldn’t, and when he finally gave up, he shot me a sheepish grin and went back to my dick.

For some reason, that grin made me relax. I eased my weight forward, one knee on the bed, bringing my dick in closer for him—and at a better angle. I planted one hand on the wall for stability. The other, without letting myself think about it too much, went into his hair. I’d had fantasies, literally, about this: his mouth on my cock, my hand in his hair. It was softer than I expected, but the texture was exactly what I’d imagined—slightly coarse from salt and sun and whatever he styled it with, and so abundantly thick that half the pleasure was sinking my fingers into it, gathering a handful of his mane, giving the slightest tug to control his head. He moaned the first time I did that, and his lips opened, and I slid inside.

Hot. Soft. Wet. He bobbed up and down frantically, continuing to moan. He had a lot of sharp teeth.

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