My Best Man Read Online Free PDF Page B

soft pink lips. The lack of beard or whisker stubble on her face makes her alien to me. She’s soft and perfumed, and I try to stay tender with her. She
     
    starts moaning and kissing me harder, her tongue moving freely inside my mouth. I feel the bed move and realize that Bart is rising off the mattress. I continue to kiss Amity, but turn my head, to watch him undress. Instead, he tucks his shirt in. He’s leaving. “Where are you going?” I ask, breaking from Amity. “You don’t need me now, cowboy,” he says slyly.
    If he only knew. My dick is softer than a warm stick of butter, and unless he stays and rolls his piece of corn on it, it’s going to stay that way. Why hasn’t Amity said anything? And why did she go along with this whole setup? Did they plan this together on the airplane today? My uneasy eyes slide their gaze to Amity, and she understands. “I think you’d better stay, Bart,” she says breathlessly.
    Bart stands there, doesn’t move. He closes his eyes, rubs his eyebrow, looks uncomfortable. For all his swagger and tease earlier, I can tell it’s something he can’t do. “Yes, I think you’d better stay, Bart,” I echo, rolling off the mattress. “And I’ll be taking my leave.”
    I walk past Bart, who gives me a single sexy nod of his gorgeous jock-boy head. “You sure?” he asks.
    “I’m sure.”
    Amity jumps up and walks me to the door, then opens it. “Are you OK, Harry?” she whispers. “I had nothing to do with this.”
    I’m embarrassed. I feel clumsy. “I’m fine,” I tell her. “He’s a stud. Go for it.”
    “Don’t worry. I’ll do you proud. He’ll be limping home to his stall, darling’.”
    I smile, step out into the hall.
    “You’re a good kisser, Harry. Are we still friends?”
    I nod yes.
    She kisses me again, this time on the cheek, and I head into the hall.
    I enter my room next door and fall onto the bed, full of conflict and question. The question isn’t whether I’m gay. I am. The question
     
    is whether I could have done it without Bart somehow ” and I think the answer is no. Minutes pass, but I can’t get thought of him out of my head. His thick wrists, the veins in neck, his tongue lapping at Amity’s face. What would his ass look like out of those Wrangler jeans? Do his feet really those big, wide cowboy boots? I’m aroused again, and soon erection is spurred on by the sounds coming from the other side the wall.
    I’ve got to hear them. I rip off my clothes and throw them the floor. Then I run to the bathroom, grab an empty water and return to the bed with it. I stand on the bed and place the on the wall, just to the edge of the huge framed knockoff of Gogh’s water lilies, and press my ear to the cold glass, absorbi the echo of Bart and Amity making love.
    “Ah, ah, ah,” he moans as if his horse is cantering on the lead over pavement. It’s a rough ride, but he’s thoroughly it.
    Amity breaks in, “Oh, baby, you drive me wild!”
    The bed creaks and crunches, and I hear one of their moving against the wall.
    “Yee haw, baby, Yee haw!” Amity whoops.
    Yee haw? Is he tiding on top of her like a horse? Is he on to her hair like reins, his big, sexy forearms flexing as he her right, then left, then pulls back on her? Is she some Trigger, rearing up into his big, sexy chest while he takes her behind? No, wait: She said he’d go to his stall limping, so is she on top? Is he stretched out below her, his muscled legs reachin for miles, his big arms holding her shoulders while she rides him: to the edge of the cliff in a full gallop?
    In my excitement, the glass slips from my hand, and as it falls toward the end table, I try to catch it, but in my haste I knock monstrous van Gogh off the wall, and it comes crashing down onto the headboard like thunder and flies sideways onto the end table,
     
    breaking the water glass and smashing into the phone, which flies off the table with a booming ring. I turn to jump off the bed and catch