Chapter Four
Everett Young
It’s well past midnight by the time everyone has left, leaving just Skylar and me in his apartment. I’m shutting the door behind Henry—the last straggler—as he heads to his Uber, trying to imagine how the rest of this night will go.
I mean, we’ll just go to bed, right? That’s exactly what would happen on any normal night. It’s late, and there’s not much else for two male best friends to do at this hour.
Right?
Skylar is fresh out of the shower as I come into his room. He’s now completely clean of the drink I spilt on him earlier in the night, and in a pair of basketball shorts. He is not wearing a shirt.
Why isn’t he wearing a shirt?!
His hair is wet, a few curls dripping water down the nape of his neck as he digs through his dresser for pajamas that I can wear.
As he feels me enter the room, he turns to face me, his arm outstretched with a pair of briefs and gray sweatpants in his hand.
“Here,” he prompts. “You can wear this.”
“Thanks.” I take the clothes, making my way to the bathroom.
While I shower, I ignore the image of us sharing a bed, the same way I ignore the image of his bare chest and hard nipples. Neither of these things are new to me; in fact, both are very frequent in my life.
They are only significant because of… the kiss.
Sleeping in Skylar’s bed or seeing him shirtless never meant much before.
Sure, it was nice being close to him, and sure, sometimes I would lie awake and stare at the smooth skin of his chest and imagine it under my fingers—but now I know what the inside of his mouth tastes like, and sleeping next to him sounds a lot more intimate than it did before.
I’m getting dressed post-shower as I tuck myself into the waistband of my borrowed briefs, unwilling to acknowledge how affected I am by my own thoughts.
Skylar is sitting on his bed, scrolling through his phone. He looks up as I enter. “Hey, ready for bed?”
I nod, keeping my gaze away from his chest, albeit a bit painfully, and drop down next to him on the mattress. He clicks the bedside lamp off and lies down.
As I lay in the dark, in the quiet, my mind wanders back to the bathroom earlier in the night. To Skylar’s voice, his eyes, his mouth—the little groans and his hips pressed to mine.
Skylar has always been a very confident guy, maybe even a bit overconfident. I imagine he’s the same in all areas, including… intimate ones. That thought alone is driving me nuts.
I need therapy. Maybe some kind of conversion therapy. Do they have therapy like that? To keep you from wanting to lick your best friend?
I turn my head, trying to find Skylar in the dark, only to find his blue eyes already trained on me from where he’s lying on his side to face me.
“Hey,” I say, startled.
“What are you thinking about?” he asks.
If I want to lie, I’ll need to be very convincing to fool him. Which, if I’m honest, I can’t really do. So, instead, I’ll skirt around the truth. “Nothing I’m supposed to be thinking about.”
This makes Skylar laugh, a soft and breathy sound. “You’re such an asshole; you can never directly answer a question.”
I settle on shrugging, watching his eyes follow the movement before they shift back to mine.
“So annoying,” he adds.
“Happy birthday, Skylar,” I say in lieu of a response, because yeah—I can never answer a question directly.
Not these kinds of questions, anyway. Not the kind that digs that deep, that reveals that part of me that’s wrong and dirty.
“Where’s my present?” His tone is soft, coated in a faux sweetness. Or maybe a real one; I can’t really tell anymore.
But what I do know is that it feels like he is asking me for something other than a birthday present.
I leave the bed and grab my bag from where it lies next to the door, trying my best not to wobble as my vision blurs just slightly. I pull out the small box, bringing it back to him as he sits up, taking it from me hesitantly.
Skylar opens the keychain—the number 4, his jersey number, with a paw print that represents his nickname. Both are gold-plated.
“For your keys,” I tell him, leaning toward where his sits. He stares down at it where it sits in his palm.
For a long moment, Skylar is quiet. And after considering the gift, he turns those expressive eyes onto me. “Thank you.”
We’re staring at each other again, assessing. I watch him watch me, and I realize he’s feeling around for a boundary. Some part of me heats up, and I can feel myself starting to hope that he’s testing the waters for more.
For a path that leads back to my mouth, my hands, my words against his skin.
“Evie,” he calls out quietly, setting the keychain on the mattress. “Tell me something.”
I nod. “Okay. What?”
He leans forward just slightly and asks, “Did you like it?”
I think I’ll die right here. I might just suddenly combust. You see, I know what he’s asking; I just wish I didn’t.
“Like what?” I deflect.
Skylar rolls his eyes at the question, a blush filling his soft cheeks. Being the one to provoke such a sweet reaction in him makes me feel like more of a man, and I have no idea why.
“Did you like… kissing me?” he elaborates. I can’t seem to speak anymore, so instead I nod, ignoring the pounding in my chest, the heat in my stomach, and the screaming in my head. “Do you want to do it again?”
I truly am a masochist. This time, I don’t need words to answer him. I don’t have any to give, anyway.
Softly, I press my mouth to his, feeling the caress of his fingers against my jaw. It’s a sudden motion—I’m acting on impulse, ignoring logic.
I’m kissing him again.
If he opens his mouth, I’ll be able to taste him, and like an addict, I want to. I fucking want it so badly, and I hope to god he doesn’t give it to me. That he doesn’t fuck me up any further by showing me this road I could travel when I know how off-limits it is.
But because Skylar is horrible and mean and cruel, he does. His tongue slips into my mouth like he’s done it a million times, easily finding his way onto my lap where he straddles my thighs.
I gasp into him, my arms finding a home around his waist like they’ve craved to do for so long now. I can feel the length of him pressed against the length of me in a painful, hot tease.
The taste of him is overwhelming every sense I have, and my entire world has narrowed down to this singular moment, this singular man.
“Everett,” Skylar breathes out, “praise me.”
I swear to god I’m coming undone. I think I truly will die here tonight, right here in his bed.
“What do you want to hear?” I ask him, leaving open-mouthed kisses along his jaw, his neck. My hand grips his hips; they’re narrow, but not in the way a woman’s are, not in the way I’m used to. It’s intoxicating. “How beautiful you are? Because you are; you are so beautiful, Skylar.”
He groans, loud and needy, head tilting back to offer me more of him. “Tell me more.”
I nip at him. “So beautiful, and so soft. You sound so sexy telling me what to do; you always have. You’re so demanding, so bratty.”
Skylar’s hips begin to rock into mine, and I wonder if he even notices he’s doing it. His breathing becomes ragged and harsh.
Bursts of pleasure are erupting inside of me—lighting me up from the inside out as he works himself over my lap, our clothes acting as a much-needed barrier. I’ll take whatever I can get to keep me from freaking out at the intensity, the reality of what we’re doing.
“That’s it, puppy. Keep going; you’re doing so good,” I tell him, feeling him shiver from his place on my lap.
“God, you’re good at that,” he groans.
This makes me chuckle as I reply, “Thank you.”
Slowly, his hips come to a stop, his hazy eyes focusing and landing on mine, hands cupping my face softly. Long fingers brush my ears.
“You do this a lot?” he murmurs.
I cock my head, staring up at him. “What do you mean?”
I’m going crazy underneath the heat of him; under the weight of my own lust and how this direction of conversation is steering me far too close to clear-headedness.
“Praising people,” he clarifies.
I can’t read him. And not from the lack of lighting—Skylar is just that good at hiding sometimes.
“I guess so,” I say, because yeah, I have done it quite a few times with the girls I’ve fucked before.
Skylar watches me for a moment before he abruptly pulls his hands away and crawls off of me. “We should sleep; you have to go home tomorrow, and you’ll be hungover.”
The sudden switch in the atmosphere is giving me whiplash. I stare at the back of his head where he’s turned away from me, wanting to reach out and touch him.
“Oh, okay,” I whisper. “Good night.”
“Good night.”
I lay down, staring up at the ceiling as I try to calm my racing heart and my aching dick. What the fuck just happened?
Everything around me is shifting too quickly, throwing me off balance. But one thing is for certain: we just crossed far too many boundaries.
How will we face each other tomorrow? Will he hate me once we’re sober? How will I explain my physical reactions? My words?
I won’t be sleeping tonight, that’s for sure.
But as Skylar’s breathing evens out and the moon rises higher and higher, the question that seems to take priority over all others is the hardest one to stomach: will I ever get the chance to touch him again?
And if I don’t, who will?