Page 55 of Poetry On Ice
“Are you sure about that?” I’m not sure where I’m headed with this comment, but I don’t like my tone. It’s conversational and friendly. If it was coming fromanyone else, it would pass as flirty. “’Cause last I checked, you had a pretty big head.”
What the fuck?That was definitely flirty.
He doesn’t miss it. He nods, and the smile in his eyes changes from pretty boy to pure sex. “I guess it depends on which head you’re talking about.”
Thankfully, the server appears with our hot chocolates, placing them on the table with austere reverence. He steps back and observes us for a moment. When he’s satisfied we’re suitably mind-boggled by the works of art he’s presented, he disappears from view.
Our drinks look incredible. The hot chocolate is served in oversized bone China teacups with pastel roses painted on them. The soft pinks and greens provide a stark contrast to the decadence of chocolatey goodness they contain. There’s a dollop of freshly whipped cream on top with lashings of nuts and crushed truffles. The drink is so thick I doubt you could drink it through a straw if you wanted to. It’s clear at a glance it’s the kind of beverage you have to attack with a spoon.
McGuire dips the bowl of his spoon into his hot chocolate and scoops up a decadent serving. He levels it and smiles at it like it’s the exact thing he’s been missing all his life. He raises it to his mouth. His head tilts and his lips part, giving me a slight hint of teeth and tongue. Wetpink and white enamel. The spoon slips between his lips and they close gently around it. Soft flesh on chocolate and steel. His eyes slide shut when the taste finds him.
“Fuck me,” he says softly.
Don’t tempt me,says my dick.
I shake it off and have a sip of my drink as well, though I make a concerted effort not to make out with mine like McGuire just did. It’s a thick, hot, bittersweet combination that hits my taste buds and lights up parts of my brain usually activated by an entirely different set of stimuli. It’s a little harder than I thought it would be to stay silent as it runs down my throat.
“What about you? What’s your story? Family? Siblings?” McGuire asks.
Holy shit.I don’t think he’s fucking with me. I think he thinks we’re on a date.
“Uh, I…parents. I have two. No siblings.”
“You’re from Chicago, right? Do your parents still live there?”
“Yep. They love it there. Either that, or they’re so set in their ways they can’t tell the difference. They’ve lived in the same house since they got married. No way I’m getting them out of there in any way other than in an urn.”
I put myself on notice as I don’t love the urn talk or the fact I’m volunteering information for no good reason.
“Are you close?” he asks.
“No. Not really.”
“How come?” His eyes are big. Wide hazel circles with swirls of concern in them.
For a really weird moment, I can’t tell if I love or hate it.
Hate it.
I hate it. Of course I hate it. I don’t want or need his pity.
“Not for any major reason,” I say defensively. “Nothing big or bad happened. We’re just a random group of people who happen to share DNA. We don’t have much in common. It’s no big deal. They’re okay. My dad sends me screenshots of articles he reads about hockey now and again, and he follows my team like a hawk. He comes to my games when I play in Chicago, and my mom calls me every few weeks. She tries to stay in touch. We’re just both shitty at coming up with something other than the weather to talk about. It’s no one’s fault. It is what it is.”
McGuire looks at me, eyes still wide, unease etched deeply into them. His hand twitches on the table as though he’s considering reaching out to touch me and is having to actively stop himself from doing so. Concernripples and pools, forming dark shadows in mossy pools. He’s saddened by what I’ve said. In his world, families like mine don’t exist, and if they do, they need to be fixed.
“Do your family know you like dick?” I ask to deflect the weight of his gaze and aim it at anything other than myself.
He isn’t expecting the question, and it makes his hot chocolate go down funny. He takes another sip to smooth things down and says, “I didn’tknowI liked dick until the night you bit me. I’d wondered about it, thought about it a lot, you know, but I wasn’t really sure how I felt until you got hold of me.”
“Y-you weren’t?” The pitch of my voice rises worryingly. “But, but you said you’d sucked a ton of dick. You said…”
He grins and shrugs sheepishly, showing the palms of his hands. “I, uh, I’m not sure why I said that. It’s not true.” His voice trails off and is softer and quieter when he speaks. “I think I was feeling embarrassed, in case you could tell I hadn’t done it before…” His eyes blaze and fill with humor. “Or maybe it’s because you were kind of an ass to me.”
I scratch the back of my neck and cover my mouth with my hand as I race to organize my thoughts.
There’s a pit in my belly as a couple of feelings come rushing at me. A heavy weight tugs at my insides, gnawing uncomfortably. I was rough with him that first time. Heavy-handed and careless. I spoke to him in a way I’ve never spoken to anyone, and there’s really no other way of putting it. I fucked his throat with gay abandon. It was bad enough when I thought he’d been with guys before, but this makes it way worse.
The second feeling makes its home lower. It’s dense and hot, roiling inside me, and for some hard-to-explain reason, it doesn’t regret a damn thing. It likes the fact I was his first. It likes that I was the first man to lay hands on him. The first man to hold his dick in my hand. The first one to put my fingers, tongue, and dick in him. It likes that I’m the first man—the only man—to make him come apart at the seams.