Page 59 of Saving Pookie

He lays down on his side, holding up his head with one hand. "What's on your mind?"

I force myself to look away, look at anything but him. I settle on a photo of the beach hung on the wall that's only barely visible through the darkness. The words come up like vomit—pained and jagged. "I'm scared."

"About what?"

"I'm not good at expressing things, so forgive me if this comes out wrong." I chew on my bottom lip. Vulnerability is hard. I've coded my entire existence to avoid it at all costs because it's uncomfortable. I've fucked my way through life, avoiding feelings. Still, as I work on the confession that's been brewing for longer than I care to admit, I can't bring myself to look at him. "I think I have a crush on you, and I'm straight, but when I'm with you, I don't feel very straight. It's like I'm gay for you."

He laughs quietly. "That's not a thing."

I turn to him with a furrowed brow. "A crush?"

"Gay for you isn't a real thing." He rolls his eyes playfully. "You can't just be gay for one person."

"Maybe something else then..."

"Bi or pan, or⁠—"

I let out a huff, cutting him off. Too much talking. Too much vulnerability. Labels suck. Feelings bad. "I don't really want to talk about it."

"Then what do you want to do?"

I swallow nervously, unsure of how to phrase the question I so desperately want to ask. That I need to ask. Fuckkkk.I drag my palms over my face and whisper, "Can you just roll over?"

He gives up with much less of a fight than I expected, immediately turning onto his side with his back to me. I shift onto my side, throw an arm around his chest, and scoot close. And even though I can't hide the raging boner in my boxers, sex isn't what this is about.

I scoot closer still, nudging my hardness against his cheeks and gripping his bare chest tighter. His heart beats erratically in his chest, but as the seconds tick by, it steadies itself.

This feels right. Feels comfortable. If I wasn't thinking so hard about it, I don't think I'd even be processing the fact that I'm spooning with a dude right now. That's the tricky part, though. A mind that doesn't stop turning, doesn't stop thinking. Always running on adrenaline and chaos.

Pookie offers the chance for something quieter.

I close my eyes and breathe against the back of his neck, feeling the weight of sleep approaching. What was impossible in my own bed is now imminent.

And as I drift off to sleep, I think there's no way I'm gay or bi, or whatever. I'm twenty-three years old. I'd know by now. I've surrounded myself with gay men my whole life, and I never once thought, hmmm, let me give that a try.

Until him.

Until Pookster.

And now, I don't know what I believe, but I know I'm not straight.

Who the fuck am I, and what if it isn't Pookie who needs saving?

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

POOKIE

The ocean waves crash onto the shore, the claws of the sea grabbing the sand back into its grasp as the dark, stormy night retreats into the Atlantic, replaced by the early morning sun. I'm bent over the balcony at the waist, peering down at the empty beach that'll soon be packed. My package bounces with every thrust from behind, but it's held in place by a yellow jockstrap.

Braxton's thrusts become erratic as he whimpers out unspeakable profanities. The next thing I know, he pulls out, and I feel the hot spray of cum coating my cheeks—a feeling that's become all too familiar over the past month.

I wrap my hands tighter around the balcony railing, because Braxton isn't done yet. He's outed himself as a cum connoisseur with the caveat that he only enjoys eating his own cum. The official excuse is that it's packed with protein, but that argument doesn't hold up to scrutiny when he refuses to put his mouth anywhere near my dick. That's one of two lines he claims he's not ready to cross, but promises he's working on it.

He brushes his tongue over my ass, lapping up every bit of his jizz like he's starving. He's nowhere close to starving. He stopped swearing every time was the last time about two weeks ago. Now, he crawls into my bed every night. It's even easier to do so when we're sharing a room on a group trip to South Beach.

A knock on the door sends a jolt through my heart. I cock my head over my shoulder as Braxton jumps to his feet and climbs into a pair of loose-fitting boxers.

"Shit," he whines, leaving me on the balcony as he rushes inside.