His voice is soft and low like distant surf. “When you watch me from your window,” he purrs, his hand kneading me, working me hard, “do you touch yourself here?”
For emphasis, he squeezes again, his fingers closing around my shaft and under my balls. Suddenly my jeans are too confining, too tight, I want them gone.
“Hmm? Do you touch yourself when you watch me, Tommy? Do you imagine my hand doing this to you?”
I can’t reply. He rubs into me, his length hard against my buttocks, and if he asks now I’ll say yes, I’ll lead him up to my bed and I won’t let John’s memory taint what we do together. I won’t think twice about a roll in the sheets, I won’t let my conscience bother me. I can make it love, I can show him how great it would be between us, I can erase all the other boys he’s ever ha
