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than they are in books!” he said, sounding
    anxious. “They’re… aggressive and shit! One girl brought her own
    condoms and her own lube and just… just… got on her hands and
    knees, greased herself up and said, ‘Put it in there!’ And, well, you
    know. That thing’s pretty much got a mind of its own… it went!”
    Talker was giggling by this time, because Brian sounded so…
    so… put out by being asked to ass-fuck a pretty girl! “Yeah?”
    “Yeah!” Brain was laughing, but his ears were also pink. Talker
    wanted to kiss him, badly, but not as much as he wanted to hear the
    end of the story.
    “So… how’d it feel?”
    “Tight,” Brian answered promptly. “It was tight—and it felt really
    good.” He shrugged. “But it was the last time I heard from the girl,
    and she told me the sex was awesome, and she seemed to like it,
    but, you know….” He shrugged the shoulder that wasn’t pressed
    against the mattress.
    “No. No I don’t.”
    Brian sighed. “It was… it was like all the girls I was with. They
    were fun, and I liked their company, but their touch didn’t… didn’t
    make anything get warm. Didn’t make it pop or zing or ache.” That
    hand moved up to Talker’s neck, so that his pulse throbbed against
    Brian’s palm. “Didn’t make me feel any of the things I feel when you
    touch me or smile or… you know, sing in the shower or leave your
    Talker’s Redemption | Amy Lane
    57

    shoes in the hallway or have conversations with the rat when you
    think I can’t hear you.”
    “Mmm…,” Tate sighed, but better, and arched into Brian’s
    touch. And then refused to give up his bone. “But, don’t you miss…
    you know, fucking something?”
    Brian grimaced and then turned pinker, which meant he was
    about to talk dirty. Tate watched him try to find words with great
    delight. It didn’t happen often. “You mean besides your hand or your
    mouth or your thighs or pretty much any other alternative? Just
    because it’s not… not… orificial sex doesn’t make it, you know,
    unofficial sex, right?”
    Talker couldn’t help it. He laughed, the sound shaking him from
    his chest through his stomach to his balls. “Orificial sex?” he howled
    when he could find breath. “Orificial sex? Oh. My. God! Is that like a
    word you just made up or something?”
    Brian’s ears went from pink to practically purple, and he buried
    his face in his pillow in embarrassment, and Talker couldn’t help it—
    he had to kiss that delicate shell of warm, embarrassed ear. Brian
    wriggled underneath him, and he kissed it again, and then he used
    the tip of his tongue, and Brian wriggled some more.
    And then kissing Brian’s ear wasn’t enough. Tate moved to the
    nape of his neck (still pink, but turning blotchy, like Brian was
    aroused more than embarrassed) and nibbled on that for a minute.
    They had managed a shower the night before, and Brian tasted like
    shampoo and warm male. His hair was long enough to push aside
    so it didn’t prickle, and Tate kept kissing down to the neckline of
    Brian’s sweatshirt. Brian made a sound that was half giggle and half
    sigh, and Tate suddenly needed… oh, God, he needed.
    He groaned and arched his hips, grinding up against the
    hollow made by Brian’s upper thighs and his tight little ass. Brian
    groaned too, and pushed back, and Tate kept kissing his back. He
    Talker’s Redemption | Amy Lane
    58

    rucked up Brian’s sweatshirt and played peekaboo with the pale
    gold skin. Brian had three small moles on his back, flat and dark,
    ranged unevenly around his backbone, and Tate kissed his way
    between them in a game only he knew. He got down to the
    waistband of Brian’s sweats, and Brian pulled up off the bed to give
    him better access. Tate took it and shucked the whole works—
    sweats, tighty-whiteys, sleep-socks—down to the foot of the bed
    and off.
    Brian started to roll over then, and Tate stopped him.
    “Hold still!” he laughed, continuing

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