by Eric Shun (エリック旬)
illustrated by peparo
They say orange is the new black.
“They” were the fashion magazines Tray flipped through. The pages scented faintly of perfume and cologne flashed past his eyes in a blur of mismatched, vivid colors, but none of it motivated him for his assignment. He threw the issue of Vogue magazine onto the floor and its covers sprawled like a dilapidated tent, the pages crushed by the weight of its spine.
Then, mostly out of pity, he picked the most recent issue of Vogue back up and walked to the cashier where he paid three dollars for its uninspiring pages.
The problem with Vogue, he thought as he walked out of the store, and with all the other fashion magazines he looked to for inspiration, was that they were all useless to him. He didn’t want to copy the designs that had come fresh from Paris’ runway, nor did he find from those pages the motivation to work on his assignment. Tray sighed.
He hated his major in Fashion Design.
Ten years ago, at the tender age of nine, Tray had sewn together his first shirt. There he had been, creating something out of nothing! The endless possibilities had amazed him. How was it that a flimsy piece of fabric could be transformed into something so wonderful? His mother also had shared his excitement, although for a different reason: with his newfound skill, he could help her with her alternation business.
But now, there was nothing. No bursts of colors paraded in his head like a night of fireworks; no piece of fabric tickled his mind. His fingers could make a simple blanket at best, but not a dress, or a jacket, or even a scarf. His mind was completely rotted with stale, stagnated thoughts. And those type of things were useless to his studies.
Night completely smothered the city of San Francisco. Tray decided to cut through Golden Gate Park, despite it delaying his trip home by more than half an hour. This listlessness overwhelmed him. Why couldn’t he come up with a simple design? Anything to rev his mind and ultimately finish a new spring piece for the upcoming fashion show!
The trees that surrounded Golden Gate Park had an eerie quality about them. By day, they were quite beautiful; a sight he had experienced many times before as he swept through the park during his daytime breaks. But this was his very first time walking through the park at night. Off in the distance, a bell tower rang eleven times. As Tray looked at his watch, the dull hands inched into an acute angle, confirming that it was indeed eleven in the evening. Perhaps taking the scenic route home had not been such a good idea.
He turned back toward the bookstore with the intention of catching a late bus that would take him home. But as he turned, Tray noticed a slouched figure sprawled onto the park bench. It was a man dressed in a rumpled suit, his bow-tie barely clinging onto his collar. Not only was this man passed out, but he also reeked of wine.
‘Oh God!’ Tray thought, ‘What if he’s dead?’
The man must have been there for quite a while. The wind had blown his unbuttoned coat wide open and pieces of stray leaves nestled into the tangled strands of his dark hair. He did not seem to be moving.
Cautiously, Tray rolled his Vogue magazine into a tight coil, now grateful that he had bought it, and proceeded to prod the man. First Tray tapped him on the forehead, then brushed the pages of the magazine underneath his nose. The man’s nose crinkled and his hand sleepily swatted Tray’s magazine before turning his back to Tray. In the process, a heavy wallet feel out of the shallow pocket of his jacket and onto tattered grass. He must have been drunk. Very drunk.
Tray knew it was wrong to look through the man’s wallet, yet at the same time, felt as though he had no choice. An obviously not homeless man was sleeping on a park bench for who knows how long, wearing a double-breasted frock coat. He looked like he had appeared straight from a fairy tale’s happy ending and he would have fit in better dancing at a wedding instead of sleeping on a bench this late in the evening. Searching through the man’s pockets, Tray found an abundance of credit cards, crisp hundred dollar bills folded neatly to the side, a condom, and a driver’s license.
Robert Lebrunt, Telegraph Hill Boulevard. Hair: brown. Eyes: gray. Height: five-feet, eleven inches. 38 years old (making him 19 years Tray’s senior). The man in the card smiled charmingly. He was roguishly attractive with dark brown sweeping hair and thin trailing sideburns, which gave his face a princely touch. The man drooling on the bench, however, was drastically different from the one in the picture. This man had bruises on his face and cuts on his lip; the one in the license did not.
Tray tucked the wallet safely inside Mr. Lebrunt’s pocket before placing his magazine on top of Mr. Lebrunt’s sleeping face. It was such a terrible loss of dignity for a man this refined to be sleeping outdoors in a park, drunk. Tray bid a silent goodbye and walked on to the nearest bus stop. Tray had been drained by a day of classes and he really wanted nothing more than to go home.
A few steps later (and just a few feet shy of the bus stop), Tray walked back to the bench. He could not leave Mr. Lebrunt there; what if he caught a cold?
The passengers riding the bus that night threw odd glances in Tray’s general direction. The random assortment of businessmen, old ladies, and young teenagers muttered quietly to their respective friends and colleagues, pointing at Tray and the man leaning heavily on Tray’s shoulders. Speculation arouse about the pair. After all, it’s hard to assume a clean and proper relationship with a boy so young and a much older man.
Tray’s eyes shifted nervously; a pleading look of innocence was no use for what the rest of the folks on the bus thought. After all, San Francisco was one of the gay capitals of the nation.
Getting off the bus proved to be much worse than the ride. The bus dropped them off at the bottom of Telegraph Hill. Tray groaned. The streetlights weren’t very bright, but having been here before, he knew what to expect. Mr. Lebrunt, the wealthy man that he was, lived in one of those lavish condominiums behind Coit Tower. The only problem was walking to those condominiums took a lot of effort.
The steep sidewalk made a formidable path toward Telegraph Hill, with grooves that were etched like cuts into the cement providing footholds for unsteady feet. With Mr. Lebrunt’s arms slung over his shoulders and Tray’s bag full of notebooks hitting against his thigh with every agonizing step, Tray hobbled his way up the sidewalk. Every now and then, he glanced at the crowded rows of houses that seemed to be mocking him from the other side of the sidewalk.
The steep sidewalk soon turned into a steep staircase that would take him to the tower. The view from atop the hill was spectacular! City lights streamed along the curvy roads of San Francisco and neon lights from various shops that had long since closed for the evening decorated the city. Off in the distance, Tray could trace the faint outlines of a Catholic church’s bell-towers hovering above Washington Square Park.
“Mister?” He lightly tapped the man on the cheeks, his warm hands against the cold wind-burnt skin. Mr. Lebrunt snored steadily, but otherwise did not stir. Tray dug his hand into Mr. Lebrunt’s pockets again and fetched the wallet. He recognized the address as soon as he saw it.
He had been to Coit Tower many times before, always stopping to buy a personal pizza from North Beach restaurant for lunch. Once in a while (usually on a whim), he skipped a few classes to think about thoughts other than fashion and merchandising, or planning designs for projects assigned for class. The living areas behind Coit Tower always intrigued him, especially the way the apartments blended effortlessly into the nature. Or did nature simply blend with the architecture? Vines etched themselves onto the walls and balconies of these apartments. The entire neighborhood seemed more of a paradise getaway than anything else. Tray would observe the inhabitants of these houses with envy, wishing that he lived in such serene place tucked away from the bustling city life.
He looked at his watch and noted that it was in fact 11:40. His body ached from dragging a full-grown man to and fro and part of him even wished that he could just simply leave the drunk man by the steps and hope that he would find his way back home. Tray knew this was unlikely; he couldn’t bear to do it, anyhow. Ever since he was a child, he found himself helping old ladies cross streets, soccer moms pile groceries into their cars, or little girls find their lost cats. It was as though something within him compelled him to help others, usually at his own expense. And Mr. Lebrunt was no exception. Taking Mr. Lebrunt by the arm yet again, Tray resumed the trek uphill.
One step, two steps, three steps, four…
The stairway, in addition to being very steep, was also very narrow. One side of the stairs was surrounded by a cement wall filled with weed-infested cracks, while the other side was imprisoned by a thin steel fence peering over a dry wasteland of a lot.
Twenty-five steps, twenty-six steps, twenty-seven…
Tray wondered what he would do after he took Mr. Lebrunt home. Should he leave a note behind or leave as silently as he had come? He wasn’t quite sure what he should do.
Thirty-eight steps, thirty-nine—
A loud squawk nearby startled Tray and he nearly lost his footing. His heart beat frantically at the sudden sound. Looking up at the trees he could make out the faint shapes of birds and their red heads, looking at him contemptuously. He smiled weakly. There was a flock of feral parrots that lived on this hill, a fact he had never paid much attention to in the past. Cautiously, he continued making his way up the rest of the steps (Tray lost count of how many there were) and toward the residential buildings.
Telegraph Hill was like a swirling frozen yogurt cone with Coit Tower sitting at the top like a cherry. There was a little hidden walkway just behind the tower, followed by small, yet luxurious condominiums. Tray thought the path must make for a quite a romantic stroll for a pair of lovers during the day. Everything had a touch of Mother Nature to it, from the open park filled with trees to the flower pots which lined every single residence. Once Tray found the address, he rang the doorbell, hoping someone would open the door and relieve him of the wasted man. However, he had no such luck. Mr. Lebrunt lived alone.
Tray dug into Mr. Lebrunt’s trouser pockets to search for the house key, trying not to think of what his fingers might be brushing against.
‘Quick and painless,’ Tray told himself, ‘open the door, dump him in, and run out.’
Sadly, things weren’t as simple as that. For one thing, Mr. Lebrunt happened to have about twenty keys, some of which were labeled (‘G’ for garage, presumably, ‘C’ for car), but most of them were not.
Cursing, Tray shoved key after key into the lock, twisting and turning, yet each key ultimately failed in unlocking the door. Just as Tray was about to kick the door in frustration, he slid a slightly rusted, crooked key into the lock and the doorknob turned almost effortlessly.
The condominium was dark. It took a lot of fumbling around and scraping against walls until Tray finally found the light switch. Once the lights were turned on, however, the entire house took a very kingly feel. Curtains were arranged around the living room like majestic decorations belonging to a godly ruler. Tray fought the urge to wander around the condominium, the urge to open the doors and explore each and every room. Instead, he led the unresponsive Mr. Lebrunt into what he assumed was the master bedroom with its magnificent four-poster bed and oak drawers. He found it quite peculiar that this room had a wooden floor instead of a carpet, like all the other rooms. This room was also much messier, with a mountain of worn slacks and crumpled dress shirts discarded onto the floor and scraps of paper littered everywhere, even on the bed. It made for a stark contrast when compared to the rest of the tidy house.
He was only a few steps away from the bed when he felt Mr. Lebrunt’s body shudder violently. An alarmed look ran across Tray’s face when he saw that Mr. Lebrunt’s eyes were wide open and Lebrunt’s body began lurching forward in a violent motion as he gagged…
Apparently Mr. Lebrunt had had too much to drink.
Vomit splattered all over Tray’s front, soaking through his cotton vest and his white dress shirt. Pieces of food clung onto the coarse fabric of his overcoat and immediately, the nauseating smell began seeping into his skin. Just looking at the vomit—even smelling it!—made Tray’s stomach churn and he fought the urge to throw up himself.
Mr. Lebrunt’s eyes were glazed, but at least they were open. The man stared at Tray, who was still in too much shock to say anything. Lebrunt noticed the vomit on his sleeves and fumbled his way out of his shirt.
The clothes fell off piece by piece to reveal a chiseled body toned to perfection. Stepping out of his stained clothes, Mr. Lebrunt resembled a Greek god rising from parting clouds. Tray felt his heart thrash wildly within his chest, the strings of attraction pulled so tightly he could feel a slight discomfort between his thighs. Then Mr. Lebrunt’s hands made a sudden dart for Tray’s face, tilting his chin upward and examining the angles of his face. His expression melted into one of disgust.
“So you’ve come back, you bastard. Sick of your wife already? You left me for her, didn’t you?” He smiled sardonically as he shoved Tray onto the bed with the strength of a fighter, pulling away at Tray’s clothes. With a ferocious look painted in his dark eyes, Lebrunt balled his hand into a tight fist, ready to strike Tray at any given moment. Instinctively Tray raised his arms into a weak shield in a feeble attempt to protect himself, bracing for the moment when Lebrunt’s fist would pound into his jaw and crack his teeth. But that moment never came.
“What are you talking about?” Tray hissed as he tried to push Lebrunt away. He was caught rather off guard; moments ago Tray was dragging this feeble drunk man up a hill and into his house, and now Tray was getting ready to defend himself.
Instead, Lebrunt’s sweaty hands wrapped themselves around Tray’s neck, stroking his nape roughly; his lips first perusing Tray’s mouth, then moving down to trace the contours of the younger man’s throat.
Tray was dumbfounded, his entire body immobilized with surprise. Just moments ago, Tray had been dragging the drunken man up a hill and into his house. Now he was running the risk of being ravished by the suddenly revived man. It wasn’t until Lebrunt’s mouth trembled against the more sensitive parts of his chest as he tugged away Tray’s pants that Tray began to object.
“What the hell are you doing!” Tray shouted, trying to move away.
Mr. Lebrunt smiled, looking at Tray with sad, pained eyes. Meanwhile, Lebrunt’s hands had a life of their own, deftly slipping into Tray’s pants.
“Move it!” Beating against Lebrunt’s broad shoulders, Tray cursed.
“Oh Jacob, your lips say no, but your body says yes, yes, yes—” A sly smile curled onto Tray’s member. Tray screeched, frustrated and scared. His heart throbbed and even though his mind was racing with objections, he found his hands clutching tufts of Lebrunt’s short hair, his hips pushing deeper into the older man’s mouth. He could feel Lebrunt smirk, his teeth scratching against his skin, tongue swirling against his tip. In the back of his mind, Tray vaguely wondered who this Jacob was.
A finger slipped into Tray’s body, scraping his insides as it wriggled around. Tray grew tense with pain, yet he could not stop another finger from entering his body, followed by another. Everything inside Tray was displaced, pushed around by invasive fingers. Lebrunt’s lips grazed against Tray’s trembling erection. Tray tried to get used to the intrusion, breathing in short bursts. His precome came in a tiny dribble at first, but as Lebrunt’s fingers danced along his skin, moving at an alarming pace, it grew into a steady stream.
And as abruptly as Lebrunt’s sensuous mouth had enveloped Tray’s member, it was gone, replaced with the heavy weight of Lebrunt’s hand. Not in a good way. Tray’s eyes shot open, distress written in his eyes as he felt himself build with tension with nowhere to release himself.
“Take it off,” Tray hissed. He unsuccessfully tried to remove Lebrunt’s fingers.
“No. After what you did to me, you deserve a little torture.” Lebrunt smiled wickedly, his tongue running along his lips hungrily. His grip on Tray tightened and he twisted. Pain seared into Tray’s body.
“Stop, stop! Let go! It hurts!” Tray shouted, spots of red blinding his eyes as he felt himself about to explode.
“If I let you come, you’ll have to do me a favor.”
Tray’s body shook violently.
“Whatever you want me to do, I’ll do it!”
“What a good boy you are.”
Tray came violently. It spewed all over the two of them like white paint, clinging onto the bed sheets, too. Tray reclined into the bed, letting out a sigh of solid relief. But just when Tray thought it was all over, Lebrunt touched his entrance and hovered for a few seconds before piercing inside, digging deep into his body. Lying on his stomach, Tray could feel Lebrunt push further into his body. The thrusts came in sets of three, ripping harshly into his body.
Tray could smell the musty scent of sweat, pungent come, even the faint smell of vomit. The older man’s nails dug deeply into Tray’s back, tearing his skin into shreds, making the younger man cry out.
But Lebrunt pried further into Tray’s aching body, his lips planting bruises along Tray’s shoulders, making even more prominent marks with his teeth.
It was hard for Tray to breathe. His lungs hardly had room to take in air with such a heavy body lying on top of him. With his head spinning and in a state of panic, Tray elbowed Lebrunt between the ribs with desperate jabs. Lebrunt tore out of Tray’s body and punched him twice in the face, sending him to the floor where he lay feebly, clutching his head.
“Jacob, you fucking twit!”
Being called ‘Jacob’ angered Tray even more, so much so that he temporarily forgot about the pain of having been raped and the iron taste of blood that flooded his mouth from an earlier cut. “Who the hell is this Jacob!” Tray barked.
He balled his fists and went after Lebrunt, hitting him right above the eye. Lebrunt pinned him against the wall, hitting Tray’s face with his punches. The two fought like pit bulls, bruising each other until they both collapsed onto the bed, exhausted.
“I don’t know what your problem is,” Tray huffed, “but I should have just left you on that damn park bench to freeze to death! Maybe get mugged in the process!”
Lebrunt shot a glare at him, perhaps looking at Tray for the first time. “Who the fuck are you anyway? For all I know, you broke into my house!”
Tray let his face sink into the soft pillows. The blood from his lip left a vibrant red smear on the fabric. “I am—was—a good Samaritan until five seconds ago. I should have listened to my mother and stayed out of other people’s business, but I couldn’t believe someone would be so irresponsible as to pass out in a park! And what do I get for trying to help? Raped and beaten into a bloody pulp!”
“Normally, good Samaritans don’t invite themselves into other people’s homes! How did you get into my house? This is private property you know, I can sue—”
“I’d sue you back for rape.”
“—You’ve ruined my expensive silk sheets.” Lebrunt readjusted himself onto the bed, moving like a rusty gear, defeated by Tray’s much stronger threat. He reclined steadily until he was lying on his back.
“Go sleep in the living room,” Tray growled. “I don’t want you near me.”
Reaching over to his nightstand, Lebrunt made a lot of noise as he dug through his drawers, finally pulling out a pack of elegantly packaged cigarettes. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but you’re on my fucking bed and this is my fucking house.”
“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but you have a potty mouth. And don’t smoke while I’m here; I don’t want to die of lung cancer.” Tray wormed underneath the heavy blankets, settling himself as close to the edge of the bed as possible to distance himself from Lebrunt. He closed his eyes, breathing in the fresh clean scent of a recently washed comforter when he felt Lebrunt’s hands ruffle through his hair, gently caressing the temple of his forehead.
“Stop touching me.” He shot, his tone more annoyed than angry.
“You’re the spitting image of him. It hurts every time I look at you.” Lebrunt whispered.
“You’re a bit too close for comfort—”
“I went to a wedding earlier this evening—” Lebrunt began, ignoring Tray. His fingers gingerly touched the purple bruise forming under Tray’s eyes and the younger man hissed in pain.
“—and found out he was marrying my younger sister. My sister and I were never that close; we haven’t seen each other in years. But when I saw the two of them standing at the altar, smiling into each other’s faces as they recited vows of everlasting love, I snapped. I ran up there and shocked the minister by giving the groom a nasty bruise. Everyone started throwing fists after that.”
Lebrunt’s eyes were blank again, his face hollowed out by bruises and cuts. The unlit cigarette dangled between his lips. Tray sighed, finishing the story for him. “And then you ended up at a park well after dark, drunk as a sailor.” Tray felt a pang of sympathy for the man, despite his earlier surge of violence.
Lebrunt said nothing. Instead, he merely turned off the lights, enshrouding the room in darkness, then rolled out of bed. Just as he was about to leave, Tray caught him by the wrist, pulled him back, and enveloped him in an embrace.
“I suppose a one-night stand can’t hurt. You can even call me Jacob when you come. Just…don’t tell anyone about this. I’m not a prostitute by profession.”
Lebrunt paused, glancing at Tray as if trying to gauge how Tray really felt. Satisfied with what he saw, Lebrunt proceeded to pull back the covers with a wicked smile. His lips grazed along Tray’s small frame, gingerly exploring the contours of his chest, caressing his temples, his fingers dancing beside his lips. The kiss was slow, sensual, and Tray knew, completely meaningless. But still, it felt so wonderful. Lebrunt’s lips were soft and pliant when before they had been harsh and unyielding.
Tray moaned, letting Lebrunt press against his body. “Only because I pity someone as pathetic as you,” Tray muttered. “That’s the only reason why I’m letting you get away with this.”
This time, they rocked at a moderately slow pace, their hips joined together like a flawless clockwork of gears, moving in perfect unison. As they made love, there were times when Tray felt Lebrunt’s hands caress him, touching him lovingly as though he were his, the only person in the world that mattered. This type of love and attention was foreign to Tray, who was unaccustomed to such gentleness. Tray was aware that his body was only a substitute. But it was a chance to heal a broken heart, although Tray wasn’t sure if he was merely fueling Lebrunt’s passion or actually helping Lebrunt cope.
Tray found himself anticipating the delicate kisses Lebrunt brushed against his skin. Lebrunt’s tongue swept between Tray’s parted lips and Tray licked it, tasted it, before allowing it to run around the nape of his neck, roam down the length of his spine and pry into the depths of his body. Tray reclined onto the bed and every now and then, he’d run his fingers through the older man’s hair with all the tenderness of a lover’s touch.
Tray woke up a few hours later, and instantly felt inspired. Red! White! A refreshing current of motivation compelled him to pull out his sketchbook and begin working on the designs he had so avidly procrastinated on before. He looked at Lebrunt who laid next to him, his arm loosely wrapped around Tray’s waist. Something sophisticated! A Prince Charming-esque piece!! Concepts quickly raced through his head.
Tearing out of Lebrunt’s warm embrace, Tray sorted through everything that had been thrown on the floor hours before, searching for his bag. He fumbled around for a pen and hurriedly opened his sketch book, scratching lines onto the blank paper as the mishmash of chicken scratch formed into a design. In his mind, a swirl of shapes slowly pieced together. Clothes, clothes, clothes! All he could focus on was the energy brimming from his fingertips and the desire to design clothes!
Crisp dress shirts, slim vests, the core of British fashion! Tray could spark a revival, focusing his next project on that concept alone!
He imagined vibrant, colorful dresses for women with long, flowing kimono sleeves and pastel colors that harmonized together perfectly, then pictured elegant dresses that were loose at the bottom, but form-fitting at the top, covered in frills. Stitch by stitch, designs came to him. He wasn’t bound to just one particular style, either. Instead, he darted between many styles, from classic evening gowns to Gothic styled clothing to frilly Lolita-wear. Tray fervently scribbled away in his notebook like a mad scientist.
“What are you doing?” Lebrunt asked as he sat up, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.
“Don’t talk! You’ll ruin my train of thought!” Tray excitedly folded his sketchbook, tossing it back into his bag, then scoured the room for his clothes. Everything he wore yesterday was stained with chunks of vomit. Disgusted, he threw his once precious pants back onto the floor. “Dry clean those for me,” he commanded Lebrunt. Then as an afterthought, he added, “I’m borrowing some of your clothes,” and raided Lebrunt’s closet, pillaging through the endless sea of stylish dress shirts and expensive trousers.
“Wait—” Lebrunt reached for Tray’s hand.
“I have to go.” Tray pulled his hand away and briskly walked toward the front door.
“Wait!” Lebrunt’s arms wrapped around Tray from behind, pressing him tightly against his bare chest. Tray dropped his bag, his worn sketchbook and pencils tumbling out and rolling onto the floor. “Come back tonight.”
“Wasn’t a one night stand good enough? You’ve had sex with me twice already.”
“Come back again tonight.”
“You can’t use me as a replacement forever—”
“Who said I’m using you as a replacement?” His arms clasped around Tray’s neck, holding on to him possessively. “Okay, maybe I am. But I’ll make you feel good again—”
“I’m not a man-whore!” Tray shouted, pushing Lebrunt away. He turned to face the older man, his cheeks warm and flushed. Lebrunt reached out to him again, pulling Tray closer to his body. “You’re starting to scare me! Let go—”
Lebrunt stopped Tray with a kiss, slow and seductive.
Tray couldn’t pull away, his body pressed against Lebrunt as if the man controlled all the forces of attraction. His thoughts broke away from their stream of clothing designs and stitching patterns and trailed back to the night before. Having Lebrunt’s arms wrapped around his waist; the kisses that had trailed down his spine; the strong hands that had held onto his hips as Lebrunt thrust into his body; but most of all, the sweet, addictive sensation of having all the attention focused on to him. If he did come back, it would be for that special treatment alone.
He stood, immobilized by Lebrunt’s deft hands stroking at his member through the cloth of his pants. Already, he was stiff; already, he was tempted to crawl back into bed where he knew he would be worshiped.
“No, I can’t. It’s wrong and you say you need me, but what you really need is a new, healthy relationship. You can’t have that with me, not when I look so much like your last lover.”
“Come back again tonight.” Lebrunt purred into Tray’s ears as he slipped a key into Tray’s pocket.
“No, I told you. I can’t.” Tray’s mouth formed the words and his voice carried his protest, but he found himself facing Lebrunt, pulling Lebrunt’s body closer into his own. Tray could feel the angles of Lebrunt’s body against his, Lebrunt’s firm and well-defined abdomen, Lebrunt’s arousal poking into his thigh…
“I’ll buy dinner; take-out from a five-star Italian restaurant a friend of mine owns. I’ll spread the pasta sauce all over your hands and lick them clean, finger by finger. Then I’ll—” Lebrunt whispered seductively into Tray’s ears and Tray turned a deep shade of red.
“No. No, no, no, no, no! I really can’t! You’re how old? A lot older than me— I’m sure of that. This is bad. We shouldn’t even be doing this—Ahh!”
Tray’s shirt was inching up his chest as Lebrunt stuck his head inside, his tongue against Tray’s nipple, sucking it slowly. He was supposed to say no; in fact, he had to say no! But no matter how much he protested, his body seemed to act opposite to how he wanted.
“And then,” Lebrunt’s lips traced the outline of Tray’s ribs, “after dinner…”
“Fine!” Tray cried, pushing Lebrunt out of his shirt. “I’ll come back tonight, after classes. And that dinner better be good!”