He shakes his head. I scoot close enough so I can drape an arm around his shoulders. Yeah…he’s breathing hard. I get a weird, tight feeling in my stomach as my hand rubs over his warm nape. “It’s all right.”
He nods.
“I wanted it. Did you?”
He nods.
“So we’re good, yeah?”
He nods again, but he won’t look at me. I try to think of what I like to do after I fuck around with someone new. “You got a cigarette?”
He rubs a hand back through his hair, and then, with his fingers bent around his brow so I can’t see his eyes, he shakes his head. “Got a joint.” His voice is rough and low.
“Let’s blaze it.”
He gets up, head down, eyes averted as he steps across the sitting area. There’s a box that looks like a large cooler. He opens and closes it before returning to sit by me—no closer but no farther than before—and I watch his hands as he lights a joint. The rolling paper flares orange-red at the tip as he inhales.
Fuck, he’s sexy. His bulky, muscled body is perfection, and that hair…I like the rusty gold of it. Makes him look angelic. With that troubled face, like a tortured angel.
He passes the joint to me, and I hit it, wondering if it’ll pump my dick up even more or have the opposite effect. I hold the smoke in my lungs…exhale slowly. Within a few seconds, I can feel my eyelids droop a little, feel the tension in my shoulders lessen. I give him a smile and a hoarse laugh.
“I was wanting that since you fixed my head.” High confession.
His eyes are dark, unreadable. He still won’t look right at me. From the side, I think he looks a little dazed.
“Where are you from?” I ask him. “What’s your name?”
I take another hit and pass the joint to him. His eyes dodge mine as he takes it. When he doesn’t answer, my chest tightens.
“Doesn’t matter. I don’t care. Just want to make you feel better.” After a second, I say, “If it bothers you—wanting my dick—it’s probably not your fault.”
I watch his stony face as he inhales. He looks like a Hollywood guy, I realize, like a leading man. He shuts his eyes, and I have to stop myself from leaning in and kissing his mouth. If he had a pussy, I’d do it. I fucking know he’d like it. But when I’m with guys—when I’m with guys who might not ID as gay or even bi or pan—I change the game…for their sake. Try to take things slower. Usually, anyway.
He passes the joint back. Our fingers brush. I catch his eyes. This time, his gaze stays on my face as I inhale. My cock’s half hard and growing as he watches me. My head spins pleasantly. I exhale and lean against the bench’s back, cupping the joint in my hand.
“I’m from Brooklyn. And I’m depraved. That’s why it doesn’t bother me. When I was younger—dumb as hell—we’d have these parties. Orgies.” I grin briefly, shaking my head. “Anyway, I liked it all. Wanted it all.”
He offers nothing in return, and pulls his gaze down to the deck. I pass the joint to him again, and this time, I can tell he’s careful not to brush my fingers.
His eyes shut on the inhale. When he’s ready to pass back, he holds it out for me without lifting his lids.
“I was engaged,” I tell him, taking it. “Just for a few months. She broke things off. It surprised me, even though I guess maybe it shouldn’t have. Anyway, she paid for this trip. Told me to have fun. So I’ve been fucking my way through the Caymans. Mostly women. It’s riskier with a guy, you know?”
He holds his head, and then he’s breathing hard again.
I scoot a little closer. “What can I do, man?”
He shakes his head.
Wait a second— “Are you married?”
“No.” The word is hard. One of his hands is kneading his knee like he’s trying to hurt himself.
“Good.” I’m not going to be some asshole’s sidepiece. Not even for one night. My mom was a mistress—my dad’s mistress. I saw what that shit did to her.
I inhale slowly. Let it out. If guy won’t bite on the conversation bait, I guess I’ve gotta keep casting the line. I try again. “Your parents around?”
After how tight-lipped he’s been, I don’t expect an answer, so I’m surprised when he rasps, “My mom.”
I press my lips together, and I see him looking at me out of the corner of his eye. “I wish mine was.” I swallow hard. “Cancer…three years ago.”
He lifts his head, looking at me carefully. I can see the compassion in his eyes as he murmurs, “I’m sorry.”
I’m surprised to find I can’t speak for a second.
“Sorry,” he says again, quieter this time. He scoots slightly closer to me. I hand him the joint. He lights it again, then passes it to me without inhaling. I take a long drag, lean my head against the back of the bench as I blow the smoke up at the black sky.