Winter Ball Read Free Page A

little smoother…. Oh! Oh yeah!
    “Skipper,” Richie begged, and Skip moved his hand back to where it belonged.
    Hard and a little slower, smoother. Richie’s every moan, every whimper, drove Skipper up another notch into the unexpected inferno of passion that had opened up in Richie’s Honda Accord.
    The music changed from Milky Chance to Mumford & Sons, and as the guitars and banjo and keyboard raced to a pinnacle, a sharp, pounding drive in Skipper’s stomach told him he was going to do the same.
    Richie gasped, and a spurt of hot precome scalded Skipper’s fingers. Skipper wanted… wanted… oh Jesus… he wanted so much from this moment, from Richie, from….
    He moved his hand off Richie’s hip to his jaw and positioned him for a kiss, a wild, passionate plundering. Richie kept stroking his cock, every callus a delicious bout of friction, every hard-handed squeeze exactly what Skipper needed.
    Uh… uh… oh God, Richie’s calluses caught on Skip’s ridge, and it felt so… so good… so….
    His entire body tingled, even his elbows and his scalp, and then his taint and his ass and his nipples and… tingling, tightening, cranked until breaking, and… oh… oh… oh….
    Richie came for real, his body arching and bucking until he broke the kiss and his come, sticky and creamy and practically boiling with the heat from that furious little body, ran down the backs of Skipper’s fingers, made his grip messy and smooth, and that did it. He arched his ass off the car seat, closed his eyes, and let the tingling take over his entire body, let it ride him, saw stars, and came.
    He kept his eyes closed while his breathing adjusted. When he opened them, Richie was right there, his face inches away, his mouth swollen with Skipper’s kisses, cheeks reddened from Skipper’s stubble, eyes wide and shiny and shaken.
    Skipper probably looked the same.
    They stared at each other for a weighted moment. Skipper let go of Richie’s cock at the same time Richie let go of his.
    “Here,” Richie muttered, reaching into one of the fast-food bags. He pulled out a handful of napkins and gave some to Skip. Skip looked at them dumbly. Richie, using gentle movements, took his own napkins and wiped off Skipper’s cock.
    “Oh,” Skipper said, feeling dense.
    “Here, Skip, lift up your hips.”
    Skip did, and Richie pulled his shorts up.
    “Thanks. Do you want me to—” He gestured vaguely with the napkins, and then realized Richie’s come was still running from his hand.
    He stopped, mesmerized, and then, almost like he couldn’t help it, he moved his hand to his mouth and sucked on the webbing between his thumb and forefinger.
    It was salty and bitter, just like Skip’s own come (boys tasted, just because), but something about how raw it was, tasting Richie like this, rocked Skip, cracked him open to the core, and he shuddered, almost pulling his knees up to his chest, because his groin ached fiercely, and he almost thought he could come again from the taste of Richie’s fluids on his hand.
    He opened his eyes and Richie was close in the confines of the car. He took Skip’s hand and searched for the places Skip hadn’t gotten, then started licking, very slowly, very deliberately, until Skip’s fingers were clean.
    Skip whimpered again. Oh hell. He wanted. He most definitely wanted again. But shouldn’t they say something? Do something? Oh God, he and Richie had just kissed and given each other hand jobs and…. Skip’s whole body screamed at him.
    We must do this again. We must do this again.
    “Richie,” he gasped, breathy because Richie’s tongue was still wiggling on the back of his knuckles. “Wh—” What do you want to do? What did we just do? Why haven’t we done this before? What are we going to do now? What does this all mean?
    “Bowling,” Richie said, like he couldn’t catch his breath either.
    “Bowling?” Skip’s chest hurt with the unspoken questions.
    “I’ll see you tomorrow,” Richie