His pecs were solid and smooth, and something about the feel of them under Paul’s fingers had always wound him up inside, like a spring turning in his gut. Nine years later, in Trevor’s office with the man himself standing in front of Paul, just a little bit too close to really be considered not invading his personal space, Paul remembered what it felt like viscerally. Back then, when he had managed to get Trevor’s shirt off—always a bit of work in the back of a Corolla, or out in a pasture on a mildewy sleeping bag in the middle of the night—and run his hands over Trevor’s skin, it pebbled up under his touch, as if it were reaching up for him eagerly. Trevor’s breath had always caught, too. Paul had loved his nipples, even though they weren’t that sensitive, but they were large and they puckered under his fingers. Smooth light brown, in perfect contrast to Trevor’s pale-golden skin. As Trevor would come forward for Paul’s mouth, Paul would let his hands glide up and over Trevor’s collarbones, then sinew and trapezoids, until the hair on the back of Trevor’s neck prickled his palms.
What do You think about Love, Hypothetically[Theta Alpha Gamma 02 ]?
