Winter Ball Read Free

touches, impersonal probably, but by the time Skip had wrestled off the damned sweater, he was sweaty, breathless, and, irony of ironies, hard.
    He wadded up his sweatshirt and shoved it in his lap.
    “Hey!” Richie laughed, grabbing for it. “After all that effort, I’ll take the frickin’ shi—” His hand brushed Skipper’s crotch, and they locked gazes. “…irt?”
    Skip closed his eyes, leaned back his head, and moaned. “Please don’t think I’m weird,” he mumbled. “Please. Just… you were talking about sex and then—hey!”
    Richie stroked his dick through his shorts again, and everything in Skip’s body tingled.
    “Sorry,” Richie mumbled, but he didn’t sound sorry at all. “That’s just….” He took one finger and started at Skip’s groin, then ran a touch up the length of the thing as it was mashed to Skip’s body under the soccer shorts and Under Armour. Richie got to the tip and his finger caught on the ridge through three layers of clothing, and Skip moaned again, closing his eyes.
    “If you’re so sorry,” he whispered, “stop touching it! I’m embarrassed enou—”
    Richie caught Skip’s hand and brought it to his crotch.
    Before Skip even knew what he was touching, his hand closed around a hard cock pushing against Richie’s underwear just like Skip’s was.
    Skip’s eyes flew open, and he and Richie regarded each other tensely in the dim light. For a heartbeat Skip thought the moment was over—Richie pulled back just a notch, and his hand relaxed on Skip’s prick.
    And something in Skip must have really wanted the moment to go on, because his hand tightened. Richie closed his eyes and parted his full lips….
    Skip wanted to taste him more than he’d ever wanted to taste anything in his life.
    That first brush of lips was so soft it almost didn’t happen, but it did , and Richie didn’t jerk away or protest or complain, so the second one went a little harder.
    Richie’s lips were a little rough, but Skip teased the seam of them with his tongue, and when he opened his mouth, the inside felt softer, like a girl’s, but with this incredible heat .
    Skip was cold—he’d given up his sweatshirt, and he wanted that heat.
    He pushed forward, swept his tongue in, felt Richie’s response. A shudder racked him, taking no prisoners, and he clenched his hand around Richie’s cock, almost like he was holding on for dear life.
    Richie moaned and fumbled at Skip’s soccer shorts. Skip sucked in a breath, and Richie’s clever little hand slid inside and then beneath the Under Armour, which he flipped down with a tight elastic thwack . Skip’s cock sat exposed and quivering in the sensitizing chill.
    And then Richie slid his hot, rough hand over the cap and squeezed the shaft.
    Skip whimpered into his mouth, helpless.
    Richie pulled his head back. “Grab mine,” he commanded.
    Skip angled his body so he could use both hands to strip Richie’s shorts and Under Armour down under his ass. He held Richie firm with one hand on his hip and then snuck a peek to make sure he was giving Richie’s fireplug dick a firm and hearty handshake.
    Richie moaned and his cock pulsed in Skip’s hand.
    Skip closed his eyes again—he had to, because the shudder that rocked him at the feeling of warm flesh in his palm, that was too big to endure with eyes wide open.
    A breath of air caught Skip’s leaking cockhead, and the frisson of yearning that shook his body alarmed him on some level. I need. I need I need I need….
    He didn’t think he was the kind of guy to need. Amber had called him cold—he was pretty sure most of his girlfriends could agree with that. But Richie’s mouth was hot and open, and his cock seared the skin of Skip’s palm.
    Richie’s hand started to jerk almost spasmodically, but Skip felt the rhythm he was trying for. He whispered, “Sh… sh” against Richie’s cheek and took that small, bony, rough hand in his own and taught him to stroke, a little slower, a