“That’s not true,” Trin protests, but he can’t meet her gaze. He’s never actually let any of the gunners f**k him just so he could hear Gerrick’s latest exploit. He’ll touch them, lick them, suck them, rim them, finger them, sure. Hands thrust into pants, lips on hard d***s, the taste of salty c*m lingering in his mouth, that he’s done before, just to hear Gerrick’s name. But now he’s here. It’ll be the man himself tonight, no one else. Finally.
The only other guy Trin’s ever put out for was a kid his own age, Monet, back before he even knew Gerrick existed. He was the darkest boy Trin ever met—his skin glistened in the sun like flints of obsidian, and his black eyes were red-rimmed slits in the high plains of his face. A beautiful boy who rode through Arens from one of the inposts, with
