A good time

Ashford

Recently, I find that I like a few things, and making Christian Thompson uncomfortable us quickly becoming one of them.

more like at the very top.

His sharp intake of breath, when I say those words almost make up for the inner turmoil I felt saying them.

The way he squirmed, under my unrelenting gaze, and his look of shock, almost makes me smile. Almost.

Contrary to the front I'm putting up with him, I'm normally not this open while hitting on guys.

Heck, I'm normally the one being hit on.

It's oddly refreshing and a bit debilitating to be on the giving end this time.

But I think to myself—it's worth it, because Christian is just my type.

Tall, dark and handsome. Not to mention older too. One look at him, and you'll know he knows exactly what to do.

It also doesn’t hurt that we have the same interest—soccer.

I won't deny that some of the guys I sleep with aren't even gay. They mostly just enjoy the rush of being with someone famous, and they don't do more than go down on me anyway.

Anything else and they might be too gay.

It's silly, and stupid in my opinion.

You feel attracted to a guy, as a guy, then you're gay.

All the labels everyone's so scared of means squat to me. I've always known that I'm attracted to guys.

It's just something that's been a part of me for so long, I didn't even know I needed to come out.

I can still remember the look on my dad's face when my prom date opened the door, and it wasn't a beautiful girl in a dress, but actually a guy in a tux.

That was the first time I knew something was different about me, and it wasn't just my obsession with football.

For the first time, I realized that I wasn't as normal as I thought.

Well, if normal includes forcing yourself to feel anything for women, when I absolutely don't.

And for a while, I even tried—I tried to tamp down my nature.

I tried to pretend like it was just a part of me I could switch off, or turn towards the opposite side.

When that didn't work, I thought they'd understand.

Try for me too, you know?

They hadn't.

Even the memory leaves a bitter taste on my tongue, but I've come to accept that it's just one of those things I can't change.

Who I love, who I see myself spending the rest of my life with, it's always been fixed.

And if they can't love me the way I am, then that can't be unfixed, can it?

But this man isn't my family.

He's different.

The glare Christian shoots at me could eviscerate someone off his path, but my smile only grows wider.

"What are you saying?" He grits out, an annoyed lift to his brows.

He has really beautiful brows—strong, full and thick too.

It's not every day I admire a man's brows, but everything about this particular man is captivating.

"Look, let's skip all the games. You're hot—" I freeze, suddenly wondering where all these word vomit is coming from.

I'm never this brave. Never.

"I think you're hot, and I'm up for a good time. Are you?"

Even to my own ears, those words sound foolish.

He's made it beyond clear that he's not interested—in fact, he's even been a little aggressive with it. So why can't I take the hint and just fucking leave?

Contrary to stereotypes, gay men aren't all that forceful, and we know how to leave straight people alone.

I don't think I've ever even been attracted to a straight man before, because my gaydar is just that good.

Which goes to say, Christian Thompson can't be straight.

I know what this sounds like—Oh, another gay dude can't take the hint and know when he's not wanted.

Absolutely wrong.

I have eyes. I can see the way he looks at me.

He's not wrong about me not even trying to hide it, and it's partly because my reaction to him is just so fucking strong.

The other part is because he squirms in such a beautiful way.

Looking everywhere but at me, like talking to me would give him gay cooties or something.

And that's amusing.

But there's also the way he looks at me, and I definitely am not the one imagining that.

The hard look in his eyes isn't just pure disdain, it's something more. I can see it. I can feel it too.

It feels like rubbing your hands over something hard but delectable, and I want to savor it.

I gulp, and meet his stony gaze.

"I've said it before, and I don't need to say it again. I am not interested." He punctuates every word like he's communicating something to a toddler, and I flush.

Fuck, I should leave.

Leave him the hell alone, and hope we never cross paths.

But that's not who I am now, is it? I don't back down from something I want, no matter how impossible it is to attain.

And I want Christian Thompson, that much we both know.

"You said you're not a faggot." I enunciate slowly, following his gaze.

Thankfully, his eyes don't leave mine, and I quite like his eyes on me.

There's something about the way it roams my skin, like he can't get enough yet hates himself for not being able to stop staring at me.

His brow furrows in confusion, and I lick my lips slowly, and cringe when I realize what I'm doing.

My lips have always been my biggest insecurity—too big and plump for my face, and I'm pretty sure I just looked like a silly goose doing that.

"I understand you're not a faggot, but that doesn't mean we can't have a good time."

Maybe he's one of those bigots who don't mind getting their cock sucked, but claim to be straight.

Gosh, I've turned into the world's biggest slag.

I'm practically thirsting for him, and he fucking knows it. Why else would I be twisting his words to mean something else?

His eyes widen, and he gives me a horrified look, but I shrug in return, acting as though he doesn't have the power to break me.