The Flame Read Online Free PDF

years older than him. But every time she hands him a new tube of her favorite molding paste, she reminds him not to leave the stuff in when he goes to bed. Something about breakouts, she says. Letting the stuff smear across his face during a cross stroke probably isn’t the best for his skin either, he figures, so he makes it a habit to wash his hair whenever he’s about to hit the pool.
    Truth be told, Andrew couldn't care less about his skin, which wasn’t prone to acne even when he was a teenager.
    No, what matters most to him is that his wife took the time to find the brand that smells the best, that she makes it a point to leave her book club early so she can pick up a replacement for him when he’s running low. He doesn’t want her to stop doing either of these things because he knows the smallest indicators of love can be the most important, the most lasting, and he figures the way to guarantee this is by following her grooming instructions to a tee so she can see how much her little ritual means to him.
    Like now. For fifteen minutes. When she’s not even home.
    This is nothing, he thinks. The whole thing. Just a little Mardi Gras… He’s still trying to complete this thought when he catches his own reflection in the steam-splotched mirror beyond the shower door. He’s hard as a rock within seconds, a tendril of soapsuds dripping from the bobbing, glistening head of his cock.
    Dude! Getting wood over your own reflection? Seriously?
    But he stops laughing when he realizes what’s really got him boned. Lately, it’s become a trend, this whole not seeing himself when he looks in the mirror thing. Instead he sees the unconcealed lust that lights up Cassidy’s eyes, and then Shane’s, when they both catch an unexpected glimpse of his nearly nude body.
    His instinct is to flick the suds away with one hand. But he knows if he so much as grazes his dick with his pinky he’ll be instantly stroking himself to that hot but haunting memory from their trip to Bay St. Louis over Memorial Day weekend. A memory he’s done his best to suppress for a year now, until a few too many Kir Royales at The Roquelaure House brought it bubbling to the surface.
    A peaceful day at the Mississippi Coast, with the clapboard house bathed in the deep orange light of late afternoon and his family down at the beach (or so he thought). Just him, a nice long shower, and Ol’ Blue Eyes crooning out of the surround speakers in the front room. Andrew was so sure he’d had the run of the place he decided to dance through every room as he toweled himself off, badly singing along with That’s Life , before he barged in on Cassidy and Shane sipping coffee at the kitchen table while he polished his butt with the towel, his cock and balls swinging in the air in front of him.
    The whole thing was a regular crack-up, for sure. They teased him about it for weeks, even nicknamed him Mississippi Tarzan , a nod to his terrible, off-key Sinatra impression.
    But before the giggling and the friendly name-calling, there’d been a moment he didn’t quite have a name for. A moment when his wife and her best friend had looked up from their coffee cups and surveyed his heat-flushed, naked body in the exact same instant. The combination of desire in their stares caused a stirring in his groin so powerful and immediate that by the time he spun from the room, the towel he was holding over himself like an embarrassed little boy hid an erection as throbbing and relentless as the one he was sporting now.
    It wasn’t the first time they’d done it to him either.
    Freshman year at Tulane, the day he’d met them both. Officially met them both, after quietly stalking Cassidy for about a week. He just had to know more about the small blonde girl with the big, beautiful eyes, the one who listened quietly during their Intro to Philosophy discussion group before asking a single, precise question that would usually send the T.A. for a sputtering loop. One afternoon, he