At quarter to eight, Avery pulls away. “We better get going.” He flicks on the light before Jacob can protest.
Jacob’s shirt is open, his pants unzipped. He grips the seat of the chair as if he’s in danger of falling off. Avery suspects he’s closer to falling than he realizes.
Through his open fly, his white boxers are wet to an almost translucent shade. He’s leaning back in the chair, eyes shut. His breathing comes in quick, hurried pants. “Avery,” he whispers. “Please.”
When Avery stands, he shifts his own erection so it sits more comfortably along his leg. It hurts just touching it. He thinks his pants are going to rub holes right through his balls. “We have to get to mass.”
Jacob moans. “I don’t want to go,” he says. His voice is hoarse. “Can’t we—”
“We’ll get in trouble,” Avery t
