Page 96 of The Evening Wolves

“They already think I’m a sex addict and a reprobate,” John-Henry said with a shrug. “I don’t think they’ll be too disappointed.”

“John, today has been a lot. If you don’t feel—”

But John-Henry shushed him. He caught the hem of Emery’s shirt and turned him out of it. Then he knelt and unfastened the button on Emery’s jeans. He drew the zipper down, the slight stitch of resistance slowing him. Emery was hardening, the outline of his dick visible under the denim. John-Henry eased the jeans down. The black boxer briefs came next. Emery’s lengthening dick swung out to brush his cheek, and the smell of Emery’s arousal met him. He finished sliding the jeans down, and Emery’s dick dragged along the side of his face, the faintest hint of wetness marking its passage. When he got the jeans around Emery’s ankles, he laughed.

Emery twisted a hand in John-Henry’s hair and, in a guttural voice, asked, “Something amusing down there?”

“I forgot about your boots.”

Emery’s answering noise was indeterminate.

“Leave them on,” John-Henry said. “I want you like this.”

In response, Emery caught more of John-Henry’s hair and tugged him closer. John-Henry opened his mouth, taking the tip of Emery’s dick, rolling it across his tongue. The noise Emery made in his chest was deep and feral, and his fingers tightened until the pull on John-Henry’s hair bordered on pain. But it was the kind of discomfort that was arousing, too. It zigzagged like wildfire through John-Henry’s chest, down to the pit of his belly, between his legs, and he was hard. He kept his hands on Emery’s legs, stroking the massive thighs, following the curve of his ass. He took Emery deeper, and this time, Emery moaned.

John-Henry backed off. He stood and helped Emery to lie on the bed. It shouldn’t have looked hot, with his jeans bunched around his ankles, with the boots, like this was the kind of quick fuck that didn’t merit undressing completely. Or maybe it should have. John-Henry was past the point of knowing and way beyond the point of caring. He stripped, clothes and shoes, until he stood naked. Then he pulled on the letterman jacket. A little small, sure. But he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror, of how the jacket looked hanging open over his developed chest to reveal the ripple of abdominal muscles, the way the jacket fell to hit him at the deep vee carved from hipbones to pelvis. His own dick was red with his arousal.

When he saw the look on Emery’s face, a wave of fresh excitement washed over him. Emery was staring, his mouth slightly open, pupils dilated until the amber of his eyes was a dark gold. It was the raw, naked desire John-Henry remembered from the locker room. The desire that had lit a fire in him back then, that had made his skin feel electric, every inch of him alive with the energy ricocheting between them. He put a knee on the bed. Then he grinned and darted to the closet.

He put the Wahredua ball cap on backward and grinned, surprised that the goofiness didn’t lessen his arousal—if anything, it amplified it. Because he could be this, too—silly and fun and relaxed—with Emery. Because he didn’t have to be some porny stereotype of the ideal man. He certainly didn’t have to be perfect, the town’s golden boy. He could be himself. And being himself, right then, meant leaning into the fuckboy look a hundred and ten percent.

Emery lay propped against the headboard, his face unreadable. John-Henry crawled across the mattress to him. He straddled Emery’s thighs and took his dick. The hard weight of it in his hand felt like resistance, but Emery’s whole body responded to the touch, restless now, every part of him moving, reacting. Everything except his eyes. His eyes were fastened on John-Henry, and then John-Henry was aware of the ball cap on his head, of the leather and fabric against bare skin. Suddenly, he wanted this to be over.

He opened and closed his fingers. He slid his hand up and down Emery’s dick. Emery made a low, pleased noise, almost like he was stretching. And then he caught John-Henry’s hand and slowed him. Stopped him. He pulled John-Henry’s hand away. He was still looking at him.

“Do you want me to take this stuff off?” John-Henry asked. His voice sounded too loud; he could hear himself trying to speak normally.

After a moment, Emery shook his head.

The wool was starting to chafe. The seams of the leather sleeves scratched sensitive skin above his arms. The hat. The hat had been such a stupid choice, putting it on backward. He probably looked like a badly aging Bart Simpson.

Emery slid his hands up under the jacket until he found John-Henry’s hips. Then he sat up, and John-Henry had to shift to accommodate him. The new position still left him sitting higher than Emery. Their dicks brushed together, and John-Henry was surprised to realize he was soft. One of Emery’s hands shifted to the small of his back. He looked up, and this time it was a question.

“I already got off, remember?” John-Henry tried for a smile.

Emery made a noise that could have meant anything.

“Why don’t I suck you off?” John-Henry asked.

In answer, Emery leaned in and kissed John-Henry's collarbone. It was impossible to know if the kiss had been on ink or bare skin, but a part of John-Henry knew, without being told that, Emery had found one of the dark swirls. He kissed his way along the ridge of shoulder toward John-Henry’s neck. He slowed and licked once at the hollow of John-Henry’s throat.

“Why don’t you fuck me?” John-Henry asked, the words gravelly. “I want you to fuck me like this.”

That noise again, the one that could have meant anything. Emery kissed John-Henry’s neck, and John-Henry shivered. It was too much, the jacket scratchy and rough, the hard length of Emery’s dick poking John-Henry’s belly, the way the hair on Emery’s legs rubbed the sensitive backs of John-Henry’s thighs. His hand at the small of John-Henry’s back teased the cleft of his ass, and again, John-Henry thought, It’s too much. He pulled away. The rasp of Emery’s stubble lingered, lighting up the nerve endings of his neck. His breathing was raspy in the stillness of their bedroom. A detached observer inside his head noticed that it sounded like he was about to cry.

Nothing changed in Emery’s face. The hand that was still on John-Henry’s hip rubbed a circle. The hand at the small of his back seemed to be supporting him now.

“Let me lie down,” John-Henry whispered, but it felt like begging. “And I want you to fuck me.”

Instead, Emery leaned forward again. He didn’t go for John-Henry’s neck this time. He nuzzled aside the jacket and kissed a trail across John-Henry’s chest. John-Henry’s legs quivered. His brain catalogued the distance between what was going on inside his head and what was happening in his body: the awareness of attraction and desire, the touches and caresses of Emery slowly worshipping every inch of his body, his mouth latching on to John-Henry’s nipple now, and the complete lack of response. It was this fucking jacket. It was the fucking Bart Simpson ball cap.

Emery released John-Henry’s nipple and sat back. He was softening now too.

Cheeks hot, John-Henry couldn’t quite meet his eyes. “Why are you—what’s wrong?”

The silence lasted until John-Henry couldn’t stand it anymore. He raised his head. Emery was staring at him, his gaze hooded, scarecrow eyes telling him nothing. The memory came without prompting: a childhood winter, the sunset filling the horizon with bands of gold, the stubble of a wheat field covered in hoarfrost that glinted with the last light of day. John-Henry didn’t even remember why he’d been out there. His grandfather had taken him, he remembered that much, which meant it had been a long time ago. And he remembered the blackbirds taking flight, the dark scissors of their wings against the amber half-light.

Emery was still looking at him, but somehow, it was easier to speak now. “Sorry,” John-Henry said. He forced himself to meet Emery’s gaze. “I’m kind of a mess right now, in case you hadn’t noticed. I wanted to do this, but I guess somebody has other ideas.” He gave his dick a little shake. It was meant to be a joke, but Emery’s expression remained unreadable. The weight and heat of his hands on John-Henry’s body was grounding, though. The hand on his hip was still rubbing those little circles. John-Henry’s voice trembled as he made himself say the rest of the words. “I wish I could have had this with you,” he said. “God, we wasted so much time because of me. I wish I could have been this person for you when you needed me.”

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