14. Peter Gets To First Base
14
Peter Gets To First Base
K it’s mouth is magic, and I swear to god I’ll die if I can’t taste it.
I struggle to sit up with no blood where it’s supposed to be in my body. My head spins and my fingers and toes tingle like they’ve been asleep. I eventually manage to push myself upright and see Kit sprawled at my feet instead of kneeling, an adorably dopey look on his face.
I put that look there. Me, I think with a surge of uncharacteristic possessiveness. It’s not that I think Kit belongs to me, or that I own him in any way. Rather I’m puffed up with pride that it’s because of me Kit is relaxed nearly to the point of unconsciousness. I’ve melted the icicle shoved up his ass.
Kristoff, like all the Minola men, is extremely attractive, but when he’s relaxed, his face slips into beauty, like a sleeping Cupid sculpted by Michelangelo. Kit’s angular, chiseled features smooth out and he looks soft and sweet, rather than the sharp and bitter man I’ve come to know. I can’t help myself. I kiss him.
The kiss is as sweet and soft as Kit appears, spun from cotton candy. Then whatever spell he was under pops and Kit punches me. Luckily for me it’s on my shoulder and not my face because that fucker can punch hard.
“What the hell, man?” I shout. It’s a good thing we’re practically alone in the building.
“We didn’t negotiate kissing,” is Kit’s peeved response. Mr. Salty Bitter is back, and with a vengeance.
“Why would we negotiate kissing, for fuck’s sake? Who does that? You negotiate shit like bondage or getting the crap beaten out of you or… I don’t know… someone taking a shit in your mouth. Kissing is just… normal.”
Some indecipherable emotion passes across Kristoff’s face. “I don’t like it,” he says, putting on his spinster schoolmarm persona. “Kissing, I mean. Although I don’t want you to defecate in my mouth, either.”
“Are you actually comparing coprophilia to kissing?”
“I don’t like it,” he says again, but this time with a sharper edge. “You wouldn’t understand.”
“Try me,” I say.
Kit glares at me. “I don’t want your kisses, you idiot. Do I have to spell it out in big, block letters? Use me . That’s what I want. It’s all I want. Don’t make this into more than it is.”
Why is Kristoff like this? He reminds me of a man I fucked around with in college. He was trans and had severe body dysmorphia. There were so many places on his body he hated to have touched. That’s not what’s wrong with Kit, but there is something wrong.
I never understood why my mother couldn’t hate Kristoff for hating us first. When I would get angry because I couldn’t have something because the best of everything always went to a kid who wouldn’t give his family the time of day, she’d shake her head and remind me to be grateful for what I had, and you never knew what another person’s life was like until you’d walked a mile in his shoes. Or in Kristoff’s case, his hand made Italian loafers.
I picture his home, and that’s exactly what it is. It’s not some place where he just happens to sleep. All those books, and most of them with spines worn from frequent reading. The black and white picture of his grandparents at their wedding, and another, more recent one, showing them grown old. And in the middle, it’s them at Disney, with a young boy wearing mouse ears standing in front of them, a slight smile on his face. He looks about the age he had to have been when my mother married his father.
I was going to ask Kit about the pictures, but he distracted me. He’s good at that, I’ve noticed. A master of misdirection.
“I don’t believe you,” I say.
“What?” Kristoff is obviously affronted. “What is there to not believe about me not liking kissing?”
So, so much . But in this case, I don’t buy that the only thing Kit craves is to be used. Oh, he wants that shit, that’s obvious, but it’s not all there is. He’s buttoned up tight, like Pandora’s box, and I’m exactly the kind of idiot who wants to open that shit up and let it all fly free.
I think that what Kit both craves and fears is intimacy.
I’m even more sure that I shouldn’t be touching him with a ten-foot pole for more reasons than I can count.
“You’re scared,” I say. “Admit it.”
Kit puffs up at me exactly like a kitten. “That’s ridiculous. I’m not scared.”
“Liar, liar, pants on fire,” I taunt, then risk being bitten as I trace my finger against Kit’s perfect, pouty lips.
He pulls away from my touch and glares up at me. “What are you? Twelve?”
“Just your pesky younger brother,” I tell him cheerfully.
Kit smacks my leg, but not as hard as he hit my shoulder. “Don’t remind me.”
“Calm your tits. It’s not like we’re related.”
“Stop it right now,” Kit warns, but I’ve always been one to push my luck.
“And even if we were related, it’s not like I can knock you up. I mean I know incest is frowned upon by the better class of people, but when we’re talking two brothers—or two sisters—who’s being harmed?”
Kristoff pulls his knees to his chest and hugs them. “You’re disgusting and I hate you.”
“I know,” I say, then tweak his nose. It’s a good thing we don’t live together because I’m sure if Kit had the opportunity to kill me in my sleep, he’d take it.
“Are we done here?” Kit asks with glacial hauteur.
I give him a look like he’s gone truly insane. “Fuck, no. What gave you that idea?”
Kit gestures to my naked flaccid cock. “You came. In my throat. Remember? It just happened.”
I want to kiss the prissy look off Kit’s face but there’s a very real possibility he’d bite my lips off. “You have a severely screwed up idea of how sex works. We’re not even close to done.”
Kit eyes me warily. “I don’t want… not yet… I’m not ready. It’s not off the table, but—"
Reading between the lines, I’m sure he means bottoming. Based on the look on his face, it’s something he’s looking forward to even less than kissing. Interesting that having his ass fucked isn’t a hard no for him. Hopefully he doesn’t have his heart set on topping. I don’t bottom. It's not my jam. Maybe it’s not Kit’s jam, either. Or maybe this is something else he’s scared of.
I lean forward to look Kit in the eyes so he knows I’m serious. “When and if I take your ass, Kristoff, you’ll be more than ready. You have my word on that.”
Kit’s expression says it all. He doesn’t believe me. Fair enough. It’s not like we’re really lovers. We’re not even friends. Hell, he won’t even let me kiss him.
“I want to make you come,” I tell Kristoff. I’m not sure why we even need to have this conversation. “Sex is more fun when all the people involved participate and have a good time. That doesn’t have to mean someone’s tab A has to be put into someone else’s slot B. Or C. Hell, I once went to an orgy where the only thing off the table was penetration. It was a hell of a lot of fun, actually. All those mouths on me was fucking fire.”
“All?” Kit’s eyes are wide as saucers, however wide that is. Wide enough I can see the whites all around his irises.
I shrug. “I’m not poly averse.”
If anything, Kit’s eyes get wider.
“Keep your panties on, princess. Poly isn’t my goal in life. It’s not a hard no, either. That means I’m open to fucking a couple, or a whole party, and I have. It doesn’t mean I’m going to start pimping your ass on a street corner. You need to calm the fuck down.”
“I am calm,” Kit announces, but he’s not fooling anyone.
“Look, stop trying to make this complicated. It doesn’t have to be complicated at all.”
Kit gives me a look, complete with a raised eyebrow. “You started the complicated when you kissed me. And I think fucking my fake boss, who is also my stepbrother, is extremely complicated.”
I grin because I can’t help it. “It’s not that complicated. And we haven’t fucked yet. You’ve swallowed my cock twice and haven’t taken your pants off either time. All I did was kiss you. That’s barely first base. I don’t even know what your dick looks like.”
“Do you want to see me nude?” There is a glint in Kit’s eyes that I don’t completely trust. And who the fuck—besides Kristoff, obviously—says nude?
“Ye-es,” I answer slowly, looking for some kind of hidden trap. “Are you deformed? Is that the problem? I promise I won’t laugh at your deformed dick.”
The glint in Kit’s eyes gets steely. “I’m not deformed, but what if I was?”
“I’d still want to see your cock. And your hideously malformed ass, too.”
Kit starts pouting, which I’ve already figured out is a good sign. Kit pouting is the closest his tight ass can get to flirting. “My ass isn’t hideously malformed.”
“Prove it,” I taunt.
“You’re such a child,” Kit says disdainfully.
“I showed you mine, you show me yours.”
“I haven’t seen your ass,” Kit says with a sniff. “ You might be the malformed one.”
“Excellent point. Too bad you’ll never know.”
“What?”
I tsk at him. “Show me your junk and I’ll show you my ass. Fair’s fair.”
Kit puts his aristocratic nose in the air. “Who said I even want to see your ass?”
“You did, just now. Come on, Kitten. Show me what you’re packing in there.”
“It’s a penis,” says spinster schoolmarm Kit. “I’m sure you’re familiar with what they look like. And stop calling me Kitten.”
I take note that he’s stopped bitching about Kit. Score one for me. “I want to see what your penis looks like. Not just some random penis off the street.”
That glint is back in Kit’s eyes but this time it’s dancing with honest to fuck mischief. Where did that come from, and can I keep it around by feeding it cookies or something? “So you really want to see my cock,” he states.
“Fuck, yeah, I do. One hundred percent, baby.”
Kit’s cheeks are flushed red. That’s either a really good or really bad sign, and I’m about to find out which. “Okay,” he says. “Then make me.”