Tonight somehow he’s been kissing Mason for a half hour. Mason’s hands on his face. Mason loves the round pink cheeks. Mason told him more than once where’d your freckles go? They were. I liked them in the pictures.
It could always be this way, couldn’t it? A couple, long-term, committed. Somehow coax Roman into letting him give Mason a lifetime contract. He’ll suck the geezer off in his office if he has to, on his big beautiful boat, on his private jet. Anywhere—Who would stop him? They could be Chelsea for life on paper and he could have Mason soft and warm on his lap daily, and that thing chasing him would have to give up, it would have to.
Mason’s soft and warm on his lap now, his lips smelling his tongue tasting sweet and pink. Mason’s squirming. Mason wants but not like someone else his age probably wants. He thinks Mason wants the way he did back then. God, Mason. No one will ever touch him at Chelsea. Times have changed. He’ll make them change, he’s blue through and through enough. Mason will be able to do whatever he wants. He won’t have to pretend he enjoyed the blonde girls he got with in the past (he didn’t enjoy them, right—as Mason always said, that was nothing compared to what they had together, and he was going to make sure he and Mason’s paths would stay together always. Paved with the same stones. The same home off in the distance, always growing closer.)
