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Milo tastes like fruit alcohol and kisses like an explosion, one hand tangled deep into my curls, the other gripping the back of my neck. Every part of us is connected, our hips, our chests, our lips. This is what I’ve wanted all day.
I slip a knee between Milo’s long legs, rolling my hips against his, toes curling at the pleasure sparking in my gut.
It doesn’t feel real. I’ve watched him do this same thing to so many boys over the years, watched as he picked them up at my dorm parties, and left with them.
I press impossibly closer, wanting to erase them from both our minds. Replace them with memories of this, of him clutching my waist like I’ll run away, of him tugging my hair, his teeth clicking against mine.
It’s over far too quickly. Milo pulls gently on the back of my head until our lips detach. He presses his face against my neck, running his other hand down my back, slow and soothing. I heave in deep breaths and the world rushes in all at once.
We’re on the ground at a motel and the sky above us is an oil spill speckled with stars. A stray guest could stumble out of the bar and catch us, but I don’t care anymore. It feels too good to stop.
“We’re too drunk for this,” Milo says against my neck.
“Not drunk enough.”
“Come on, man, let’s go. If you puke on me, I’ll never forgive you.”
I can’t help thrusting against his hip, just enough to take the edge off. “Sleeping sounds boring.”
“I’m serious, Cal.” He peels our limbs apart and gently guides me to my feet, clutching my shoulder to keep me upright. “Don’t do anything we’ll regret.”
Despite my hard-on, I force myself to step away. Even in my drunken haze, I know he’s right. What the fuck was I thinking? I should control myself better. Just because I have these… feelings about him doesn’t mean I should do anything about it. This was a mistake.
If he didn't before, he probably regrets kissing me now. What kind of friend would I be if I didn’t respect that?
I can still taste him in my mouth, like an imprint of a memory.
4
I groan for what feels like the fifth time in as many minutes, wiping my damp forehead with my discarded tee shirt.
Despite what the weather app said earlier this week, our motel room is humid and hot. The rickety AC unit outside the window does nothing to help, only circulating the muggy air. It’s so bad that we’ve stripped down to only our boxers.
It doesn’t help that my hangover is killing me. I can barely think through the steady pounding in my head. Even the carpet under my bare legs feels abrasive.
I woke up this morning with a headache and a dry mouth, Milo’s arm slung over my waist again. This time I slipped out easily, took a quick shower and got dressed before he woke up.
An itch has settled under my skin. I couldn’t help sneaking glances at him all morning, wondering if he regretted our kiss. I should regret it. It was stupid and could have ruined everything.
“Fuck, it’s too hot,” I say from my position on the floor, leaning against the bed.
Milo pays no attention to me, engrossed in his stretching routine. He moves through the poses fluidly, muscles sifting under acres of smooth skin.
His bare chest is distracting. Like this, I can trace the angle of his hips until the sharp bones dip into the waistband of his boxers. He grunts with each movement, breathing evenly until his abs ripple with exertion.
The front of my boxers is too tight, my cock straining against the fabric. I cross my legs, trying to focus on anything else.
Milo doesn’t look at me when he speaks, eyebrows pinching in focus as he bends into an upside-down ‘V’.
“You need to relax. Maybe you should stretch with me, it’ll clear your mind.”
“I’m perfectly calm.”
He laughs, shaking his head. “No, you’re not. I can hear you breathing from here.”
“Fuck off. You didn’t seem to mind my breathing last night.”
Milo’s steady balance falters and he sinks into a crouch, shooting me an annoyed look. Hot satisfaction rips through me.
