“Damn,” he kept saying, like he couldn’t
think of anything else to say. I stood at the sink, my c*m-wet
T-shirt sticking to my crotch, and washed the spunk off my hands.
When I glanced at De’Andre in the mirror, he met my gaze and shook
his head, a faint smile on his face. The front of his jeans was
dark and damp, twin handprints on his thighs where I had pushed
myself up when I stood. “You’re cool, Nicky,” he finally told me.
“You’re aight.”
I leaned over the sink, soaping my hands, and
the hem of my T-shirt pulled up over my ass. I felt De’Andre’s gaze
on my backside and didn’t flinch when his hand eased between my
buttocks because I anticipated the touch. He thumbed along hidden
flesh until he found what he was looking for, then rimmed my tender
hole. “Come back to my crib,
