His cigarette smoke wakes me up. Until last week, I hated the smell. Now, I associate it with this golden young man standing on my balcony in a soft, rumpled, baby blue T-shirt and nothing else.
I smile to myself, remembering how I hadn’t been able to care about stripping him properly before throwing him on the bed and devouring his plump ass. His briefs shackling his thighs, he’d moaned and pressed his hole onto my tongue. I’d gotten him wet and open before shoving into him as I held him down on his stomach. I’d collapsed on him as I came, pleased to discover he’d come without touching himself and was shocked by that.
I do so love firsts.
I get up, though, as one of his firsts jumps out at me again. I’m his first man. He’s twenty-four and he’s been with girls all his life. Reminding myself he came on to me last week when we met isn’t easing my worries anymore. I’m terrified I’m just a fling, just an experiment while he’s on vacation, because I’ve fallen hard for him, this kid half my age.
I only drag my eyes away from the sight of him lit by the sunrise over the ocean so I can relieve myself in the bathroom. I catch a look at my reflection in the mirror and try to school my features so I look more confident and less like I’m about to lose my boyfriend.
Missy Welsh writes gay, bi, and trans erotic m/m romance short stories, novellas, and novels.