Page 27 of Romance Languages

I said that for my own benefit as much as his. Just because I was getting harder with each second I spent around Julian didn’t mean I was suddenly gay, right? My bicurious itch was flaring up and needed to be scratched, preferably by Julian’s big hands.

Julian skimmed his warm hand over my bulge. My breath hitched in my throat as my erection quickly went rock hard. Kissing wasn’t needed to prime my pump, apparently.

My dick rose, responding to Julian’s grip. He tightened around me, moving to slow strokes up and down my shaft.

“How’s that?” he asked, his voice thick, his eyes heavy-lidded. The lustful side of my classy, intellectual friend came out to play.

“That’s…that’s good.”

I flopped back on the bed, eyes closed. A blissed-out smile perked on my lips. It’d been so long since I’d been with someone, I’d forgotten how good this felt when it wasn’t my hand doing the work.

A light moan escaped my lips. I clenched my lips shut. I didn’t know how much I was supposed to be enjoying this.

I pushed my hips up to meet his hand. Julian’s assured hand stroked my cock up to the head and down to the base. His free hand rested on my stomach.

“Is this okay?”

“Yeah,” I breathed out.

Julian moved up to my chest, fingertips gliding across my shirt. I flexed for him.

He gave my cock a light squeeze. Another moan escaped my lips.

“Are you enjoying this?” he asked, as if the moan wasn’t confirmation enough.

“Yeah. Is that weird?”

“No. It’s friction, like you said.”

Friction…right.

Speaking of friction, I couldn’t take any more over-the-pants action. I needed to feel his hot palm wrapped around me.

I popped open my top button and unzipped my fly. My cock twitched in anticipation.

Yet as I reached into my boxers, something shifted in the air. The bed became lighter.

The sounds of our breathing were replaced by the clomping of Julian running out of my bedroom.

And then the sounds of the bathroom door swinging open.

And lastly, the sounds of Julian wringing out his stomach.

9

JULIAN

Iwoke up to darkness. The glow of moonlight provided the barest illumination. I turned to my side, letting my head sink into the warmth of the pillow.

The pillow?

I looked down and discovered that I was lying on a bed. A bed that was not my bed. My bed had a billowy burgundy comforter. This blanket was thin and it’s-a-boy blue with a starchy feel under my fingers.

The steady sounds of breathing came from behind me. I turned to the other side, the springs of the mattress creaking under my weight.

Seamus was fast asleep on top of the bed, a small New York Yankees blanket draped over him. His toned arms and broad shoulders peeked out. Bare skin I’d dreamed about many times over was now in full view.

I peeked under the blanket to see how nude he was. He was clad in boxers. White boxers. The same ones I’d glimpsed last night before I gunned it for the toilet.

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