Dante doesn’t want to leave him to wash off
his hands—Ryan doesn’t blame him, the last thing he wants is his
mother to run into his boyfriend in the hall, all smiles,
that would be horrifying. So Ryan pulls off his t-shirt and
gives it to Dante, who wipes his fingers on it before tossing it to
the floor. “Lie down,” he tells Ryan, curling up beside him on the
bed. His own shirt is still undone, his boxers open, the span of
his flesh dizzying. Ryan obeys, lying down beside him and trailing
a hand down that smooth stomach, over tight muscles, he likes his
own pale hand against Dante’s dark skin. Further, he slips down
further, until he touches cooling flesh and coarse hair, and Dante
rubs against him like a cat, responding to Ryan’s inquisitive
fingers. “What are you doing down t
