would make out in Mackey’s mom’s room, with a McDonald’s lunch cooling on the end table and her little television on to cover the sounds they made.
Mackey learned to kiss long and lazy, and to slow down a little, ’cause for one thing, he had to listen for Cheever, and he didn’t want to be sucking Grant’s dick if his little brother woke up. In fact, most of the time it was just them kissing in the whir of the floor fan, their hands roaming on each other’s bodies until unfamiliarity gave way to sure possession. Coming was not the object of the lesson.
Yearning was.
At the end of July, Mackey had about enough of yearning.
Apparently so had Grant.
On the bed, Grant was moving his lips over Mackey’s neck, along his collarbone, and down the narrow divide of his ribs. Grant liked this part of Mackey’s body—once, after Cheever had run around in circles all morning and fallen asleep in the middle of his sandwich at lunch, Grant had gotten really brave and spent fifteen minutes just sucking on Mackey’s little nipples until Mackey left a hickey on the back of his hand in the effort not to scream. It took only Grant’s hand down the front of his pants and he’d needed to go change his shorts.
On this day in late July, Mackey and Cheever had gone to the library and not the park, so Cheever wasn’t as tired. There probably would be no shattering, no screaming into the hand, but Mackey thrust his narrow chest out, wanting… wanting… wanting….
Grant latched his mouth over the nipple again, and Mackey whined into his palm—
Right when they heard the telltale creak of the boys’ bedroom door.
That quickly they were sitting propped up on pillows, side by side, watching whatever the hell on television. Grant reached forward casual-like and grabbed his soda, wiping his mouth as he did so. Mackey pulled up his jeans and toweled off his neck with his bundled T-shirt, hoping he didn’t have any marks on his skin.
“Put it on,” Grant whispered, and Mackey did, seeing the purple mark around his nipple.
The bedroom door opened, and two sleepy brown eyes peered at both of them incuriously.
“How you doin’, little man?” Mackey asked Cheever.
The youngest Sanders brother had curly red hair and freckles. He looked like one of those cute kids from television, especially the really old shows his mom said she remembered from when she was a kid, but the kid was no angel. Mackey’s mom said it was because he followed the big boys and tried to be just like them. Mackey was pretty sure it was because the big boys had done so much bad stuff when they were little that God sent them Cheever to punish them early before they could have any kids of their own.
But as awful as he could be—and they didn’t have a wall in the apartment they hadn’t had to paint over because he’d found something to write with, and the poison control people knew the Sanders kids by their phone number—he was also Mackey’s brother.
He clambered up on the bed and leaned against Mackey, pliant with sleep, and Mackey draped a hand over his shoulder in spite of the sticky heat.
“So, Mackey,” Grant said, his voice so overcasual Mackey had to check to make sure there wasn’t anyone else there, “how would you like to take a trip with me?”
Mackey stared at him for a minute and ran a hand over his own hair so Grant would smooth his. Grant nodded and smoothed his hair back. It was thick and would probably curl if he let it grow, so a little rumpling went a long way.
“Where’d we go?” he asked now that Grant was squared away.
Grant looked at him and then darted a glance to Cheever, who was sucked right into SpongeBob .
“My dad needs me to switch cars with his brother in the Bay Area,” he said. With a quiet gesture, one Cheever couldn’t see, he smoothed Mackey’s longish hair back from his face and tucked a strand of it behind his ear. “It’s a five-hour drive. Dad figured I could stay in a hotel since Uncle
Mackey learned to kiss long and lazy, and to slow down a little, ’cause for one thing, he had to listen for Cheever, and he didn’t want to be sucking Grant’s dick if his little brother woke up. In fact, most of the time it was just them kissing in the whir of the floor fan, their hands roaming on each other’s bodies until unfamiliarity gave way to sure possession. Coming was not the object of the lesson.
Yearning was.
At the end of July, Mackey had about enough of yearning.
Apparently so had Grant.
On the bed, Grant was moving his lips over Mackey’s neck, along his collarbone, and down the narrow divide of his ribs. Grant liked this part of Mackey’s body—once, after Cheever had run around in circles all morning and fallen asleep in the middle of his sandwich at lunch, Grant had gotten really brave and spent fifteen minutes just sucking on Mackey’s little nipples until Mackey left a hickey on the back of his hand in the effort not to scream. It took only Grant’s hand down the front of his pants and he’d needed to go change his shorts.
On this day in late July, Mackey and Cheever had gone to the library and not the park, so Cheever wasn’t as tired. There probably would be no shattering, no screaming into the hand, but Mackey thrust his narrow chest out, wanting… wanting… wanting….
Grant latched his mouth over the nipple again, and Mackey whined into his palm—
Right when they heard the telltale creak of the boys’ bedroom door.
That quickly they were sitting propped up on pillows, side by side, watching whatever the hell on television. Grant reached forward casual-like and grabbed his soda, wiping his mouth as he did so. Mackey pulled up his jeans and toweled off his neck with his bundled T-shirt, hoping he didn’t have any marks on his skin.
“Put it on,” Grant whispered, and Mackey did, seeing the purple mark around his nipple.
The bedroom door opened, and two sleepy brown eyes peered at both of them incuriously.
“How you doin’, little man?” Mackey asked Cheever.
The youngest Sanders brother had curly red hair and freckles. He looked like one of those cute kids from television, especially the really old shows his mom said she remembered from when she was a kid, but the kid was no angel. Mackey’s mom said it was because he followed the big boys and tried to be just like them. Mackey was pretty sure it was because the big boys had done so much bad stuff when they were little that God sent them Cheever to punish them early before they could have any kids of their own.
But as awful as he could be—and they didn’t have a wall in the apartment they hadn’t had to paint over because he’d found something to write with, and the poison control people knew the Sanders kids by their phone number—he was also Mackey’s brother.
He clambered up on the bed and leaned against Mackey, pliant with sleep, and Mackey draped a hand over his shoulder in spite of the sticky heat.
“So, Mackey,” Grant said, his voice so overcasual Mackey had to check to make sure there wasn’t anyone else there, “how would you like to take a trip with me?”
Mackey stared at him for a minute and ran a hand over his own hair so Grant would smooth his. Grant nodded and smoothed his hair back. It was thick and would probably curl if he let it grow, so a little rumpling went a long way.
“Where’d we go?” he asked now that Grant was squared away.
Grant looked at him and then darted a glance to Cheever, who was sucked right into SpongeBob .
“My dad needs me to switch cars with his brother in the Bay Area,” he said. With a quiet gesture, one Cheever couldn’t see, he smoothed Mackey’s longish hair back from his face and tucked a strand of it behind his ear. “It’s a five-hour drive. Dad figured I could stay in a hotel since Uncle
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