Page 20 of His First Time
You shouldn’t, but you can’t help it. Your gaze slides back to the handsome man, the one in plaid. This time, your gaze flicks to his face. Maybe you can apologize. Maybe you can give him some sign it was just a misunderstanding. You weren’t imagining undoing his jeans with your teeth, kneeling in front of him and sucking his cock until he painted your face with his cum.
He’s still staring at you. A hard stare.
Your breath speeds up. Not good. Fuck!
He winks. A tiny smile unfurls at the corner of his lips.
Everything changes.
Your mouth drops before you can stop it, and Paul and Toby notice. They fuck with you, craning their necks, trying to see the girl you saw. They never notice the man, not looking for him, but he’s watching you guys. He’s laughing, and he keeps meeting your gaze, sipping his beer. He turns and angles his body just so. Even through the crowded bar, you can see the lines of his legs, his ass. His chest. His crotch, when people aren’t blocking the way.
Finally, he nods his head toward the back.Restrooms, a sign says.
“I gotta take a leak.” You push away from the table before Paul or Toby can sputter or say anything at all. Your cock is half hard, and you pray no one can tell. You wore your dark jeans tonight, and fuck, you hope that’s enough to conceal it.
In the bathroom, guys are pissing at the urinals and washing their hands, but you don’t see Mr. Plaid. You almost leave, but then you spot the feet under the stall at the back. No one ever goes in the stalls. No one cares about the stalls.
You follow the line of stalls and slip inside his.
He’s on you in a fucking second, pushing you against the wall and kissing you. He’s experienced in all the ways you are not. He knows how to be silent, how to conceal. He swallows your gasp as his lips cover yours, and he catches you as you curl around his touches. Touches that snake under your shirt. His fingers trace up your abs, over your chest, and find your nipples. He flicks, and his tongue traces the roof of your mouth.
You push him back before you collapse. Your cock is rock hard, harder than it’s ever been. But you don’t want your first time to be in a bathroom, shit-scared that you’re going to be found or rushed. “Not here,” you whisper.
He licks his lips. “I have a roommate.”
“Me too.”
Two closeted boys. Your breath shakes between your lips. Your cocks still grind together, hips thrusting. Toilets flush. Someone might see the two pairs of shoes facing each other. You’re shaking. You’re stepping on the bridge and the dragon is waking up.
“Follow me to my truck,” he says softly. “I’ll wait outside the bathroom for you.”
He slips out of the stall first. As soon as he’s gone, you nearly puke, almost double over at the toilet. Did you almost do that? In public? What happened tonever? What happened toshove it away?
Fuck, he felt so good in your hands. Having a man that close, for just a few seconds. You whimper and bite your fist. It’s what you want. It’s what you want so fucking bad.
You count to ten and slip out, making your way to the sinks to wash your hands. No one looks at you. No one seems to care. You feel like a fucking neon sign is over your head, but no one else notices.
Outside the bathroom, he’s leaning against the wall, arms crossed, chewing his lip. Worry creases his forehead, but when he sees you, he lights up. He smothers that smile fast, though, when other men follow you out of the bathroom. He nods toward the door, and you nod back. Yes, you’ll follow.
No time to tell Paul and Toby. Hopefully they’ll think you scored with some chick on the way to the bathroom. They’ll want details tomorrow. They’ll be ecstatic and jealous. You’re the no-luck loser who never gets a girl, even though you’re decent-looking. “Must be your penis,” Paul joked once. “Too bad about your penis and your personality.” Shy guys finish last.
You never lose sight of his shoulders as you follow him out of the bar, into the parking lot. The bar is the county watering hole, attracting college students from the nearby university, all five dry towns in a ten-mile radius, and the whole of the county seat. Pickup trucks and Jeeps cram the gravel lot and park in the field around the sprawling wooden bar. On the deck, groups of men and women smoke. One calls out to your companion. “Night, Justin.”
He waves back. “Night!”
You try to walk nonchalantly beside him, threading your way through the lines of trucks and cars to whichever vehicle is his. Outside, in the light of the one streetlight, he looks younger than you thought. College age. He must be from the university. Mosquitos drone in the light, and the shadows flicker over his face.
Your stomach twists. He’s younger than you. You never thought your first would be younger than you.
The gravel crunches under both of your guys’ feet. He’s wearing boots. You never dress to really impress, and you just have your jeans and nicer Converse on. Shit, do your socks have holes in them? What briefs are you wearing?
He guides you to a truck, a black Ram nestled in a long line of other trucks. Chevys and Fords and Dodges. “Get in,” he says. “We’ll drive somewhere.”
Somewhere. Your heart skips a beat. You shouldn’t get in the truck. You shouldn’t follow a stranger. You shouldn’t do any of this.
You get in the truck. You slam shut the door.
His hand lands on your thigh, strokes up. He stares at you across the seat, his eyes in shadow, only half his face lit by the buzzing streetlight. “I know a place,” he says softly. “We can park there for a while.”
