“I’m not afraid of you,” Colby said, and to his own surprise found that this was true.
“You can always tell me to stop,” Jason said. “Always, always, Colby, I swear. Um. I told you I want to know what you like. So. One hand. Touch yourself. Your chest. Your n*****s. I mean, if you, um, like that. But not your d**k yet. Okay?”
“Okay.” Very American, emphasized for an instant, an echo; this made Jason grin. Colby batted away one or two stray tendrils of insidious encroaching anxiety about not performing well enough, deliberately did not think much, and moved one hand.
He did not begin with his n*****s, though he did like having them played with, and they were inarguably interested. He pressed his one allowed hand over his hip, instead, and then let it drift upward: his stomach, his chest.
