Chapter Eight
Good or bad protocol to rub one out in your date’s bed while he was sorting out some blue downstairs that your soon-to-be frat brothers had most likely started? Mark decided it was bad form and put his hands behind his head for a while. Then he got tired of lying there, waiting, and got out of bed and pulled his clothes back on.
He tried to feel like a spy in enemy territory, here in the heart of Phi Sig, like the Mata Hari in a hoodie. But really, three beds, three desks, and three shelves stacked with books—actually, every free surface was stacked with books—didn’t make an exciting investigation, and Mark had no desire to dig deeper into the private lives of Phi Sig. Given that their reading matter included textbooks on electrical engineering, heat and thermodynamics, and “delicious” vegan and vegetarian recipes, Mark figured that what you saw was what you got with Phi Sig.
Mark checked his phone when it buzzed. A message from Deacon: This could take a while. And then, a moment later: A plague on both our houses, Juliet.
Mark grinned. Yeah, they were getting that star-cross’d thing right, at least. He typed out a reply: Get back up here, Romeo. I wanna suck your dick.
Mark lay on Deacon’s bed and slid a hand down his waistband, waiting for a hopefully filthy reply. He got: Little bro, get over here now. Shit’s kicking off with the Phi Sigs.
Fuck. Blake. Although, was that correct apostrophe use in a text? Must be a fluke.
Mark made a face at the screen. Stop cock blocking me, Blake.
Srsly bro. Get here NOW. House meeting.
Mark groaned in frustration. He was this close to getting off. This close to getting something up his arse. Something that was connected to Deacon: either his very nice thick cock, or his fingers. Mark wasn’t fussy. Either would be good.
And maybe even this close to a bit of reciprocation. Because if Deacon offered him his arse in return, Mark would be in like Flynn.
He heard the front door open, and too many voices for him to be able to distinguish who was talking. He got a text from Deacon: Matt’s inside. Delaying him in the kitchen but u better go. Fuck I’m sorry.
Mark sighed. Texted back: Yeah I’m being called to a house meeting. Just remember where we left off, ok?
He slipped out of the room and into the empty second-floor hall. He heard raised voices on the first floor—what sounded like a good deal of Alpha Delt slandering. There were a couple of guys standing near the side door, but they were too excited about whatever had just transpired to notice Mark. He went out the door and crossed the lawn, which was mostly empty now. Passed through Alpha Delt’s iron gates.
Inside Alpha Delt, people were even more riled than they were at Phi Sig. It took Chris a few minutes to get everyone to calm down enough to listen. Then he made a speech that Mark thought sounded bizarrely akin to Roosevelt’s “A Day That Will Live in Infamy” speech, which he’d had to listen to in media studies last week. From what Mark could gather, two brothers had been out in the yard when Matt walked by. Matt had yelled at them about the dog shit, they’d yelled back, and things had escalated steadily until Matt asserted he could beat either of them in a fight, and the brothers had taken up the gauntlet.
“What’s embarrassing,” Chris said, “is that we got GDIs involved.”
A week ago, Mark hadn’t known what GDI meant. Now he knew it stood for God Damn Independent—someone outside of the Greek system. More like God Damn Intelligent, he thought.
He glanced around, noticing that Brandon wasn’t here. What the fuck? Had he not gotten the memo?
“Not just GDIs, but the cops,” Chris continued. “And now we gotta attend this Interfraternity Council meeting.” Chris gazed at everybody in turn, looking extremely disappointed. “Feuds like this are supposed to stay between houses. We’re not putting on a public performance here, all right? Yes, we wanna fuck with the Phi Sigs. No, we do not want the fucking campus cops involved. Got it?” He stared at the two brothers who had been involved in the fight. One of them nodded tersely. The one with the swollen nose kept his face in his hand, a rejected ice pack on the floor by his chair.
Mark made it through the rest of the combination warmongering/you-ought-to-be-ashamed-of-yourselves speech by thinking about Deacon’s hands on him. Deacon twisting his nipples, spanking his ass—which, why exactly had that been so hot, by the way? He wished Deacon had gotten even more into it, had hit him harder, and for longer. He could have taken it. He indulged in a detailed fantasy in which Deacon fingered his ass slowly while spanking Mark with his free hand.
Everyone was getting up. House meeting over, apparently. Would it be wrong to text Deacon and see if he was interested in that hotel room?
Mark saw Jackson crossing the room and called, “Hey, Jacko. Where’s Brandon?”
Jackson turned and stared at him, coldly furious. Then he walked on.
“Brandon’s not feeling well,” a brother named Ray said, walking backward as he passed Mark. He had a sly smile Mark didn’t like. Brandon wasn’t feeling well? Brandon would have come to an Alpha Delt house meeting if he’d had the bubonic plague.
Mark started for the door.
“Li’l bro!”
Oh boy. Blake incoming.
“I got a coupla questions to ask you.”
As long as Blake asked him here, and not in the basement with a jar of picante salsa in hand, Mark could handle that. “Fire away.”
“First of all…” Blake lowered his voice. “Where’s your pin?”
Mark looked down at his defiantly nonpolo shirt. The pin, which he’d attached earlier, was no longer there. But it had been there when he’d arrived at the Phi Sig house, because he remembered pulling his hoodie over to cover it when he’d entered the house—just in case someone saw it. “It’s at my dorm. I forgot it.”
“Dude. Do not let Bengal see, okay? Like, get out of here before he notices.”
“Okay.” Gladly. Mark headed for the door.
“No, no, no, don’t go yet,” Blake said. “I gotta ask you if you have a date to semiformal.”
“The whatter huh?”
“Semiformal. In December? Where you been, bro? Hot girls, a fuck ton of booze, suits and ties, and we rent out the country club.”
“Ooh,” Mark said. “All of my favorite things.”
“Sometimes it’s stupid as shit,” Blake said. “But it’s fun if you know how to make it fun. Last year was nuts. I got locked in the bathroom for like an hour.”
“Does that happen a lot, mate?” Mark asked.
“I was askin’ if you had a date, because I might have found someone for you.”
“What?” Mark was genuinely startled.
“I know you’re, like, a pussy magnet, so if you wanna take one of your hoochies, that’s cool. But this one you might wanna keep around long-term, you know what I’m saying?”
“Not really,” Mark replied.
“Dude, she’s Zeta Tau.” He stared at Mark like that was supposed to mean something. “I told her about you, and she’s totally into you. And she’s hot. Not drunk hot—actual hot.”
Mark opened his mouth, but for once he couldn’t think of anything to say.
“It’s a good match. I know you don’t know a lot about Greek shit yet, but trust me. Lotta Alpha Delts marry Zeta Taus.”
“Marry?”
“Not tryin’ to freak you out. Just sayin’.”
“Blake,” Mark said, trying to keep his voice gentle. “I don’t need help finding a date to an event I’m not even going to attend. And I definitely don’t need you to find me someone to marry.”
“Of course you’re gonna attend! It happens right after induction. It’ll be your first event as a brother.”
Mark sighed. “Even if I do go, I don’t need a matchmaker.”
“You already got someone you’re seeing.”
“Yes!”
“Is she hot? You can tell me, little bro. Tits medium-large, large, larger, or astronomical?”
Mark felt the rush of wild anger that sometimes presaged his saying something mean or unfair to Jim. The realization that the world was never gonna unfold and be the tidy picnic he was supposed to want it to be, and the pleasure he took in understanding that. He didn’t want to be here; he’d never wanted to be here; he had nothing in common with these guys. And it was time to end this farce right now.
“He is incredibly hot,” Mark said. “Great pecs, gorgeous face, lovely round arse. Hung like Prescott’s stallion. I like him quite a lot.” Mark turned and stalked away from Blake. Left the house and headed down the street toward campus.
So that was that, then. Without the pin, it was mighty hard to behave like a good pledge. Maybe it had been cursed, warping Mark’s brain every time he wore it. That was the only explanation for why he’d stayed with the Alpha Delts as long as he had.
He kept his shoulders hunched even though it wasn’t cold.
He didn’t care what anyone thought. Especially not a bunch of pathetic frat guys. That didn’t mean it wasn’t hard to tell people something that would make them look at him funny. Something he actually cared about. It was fine to be mocked or disliked on his own terms. But his sexual orientation was such a naked target, unfortified by nonchalance and lacking the benefit of being a persona he’d constructed. Gay Mark wasn’t sheddable like Smart-Ass Mark or Bitter-About-the-Move Mark.
Gay Mark was Mark, and 98 percent of the time he was fine with that. Except when he had to think about what fifty testosterone-laden, overcompensating, perpetually drunk arseholes would say to him now that they knew.
Because he had a feeling Blake wasn’t going to keep this a secret.
He pulled out his phone and texted Deacon. You wanna meet me by the statue of Ben Franklin?
He had to walk a few minutes before he got a reply. What statue of Ben Franklin?
Sorry. Nathaniel Hawthorne.
What did they slip in ur drink at the meeting?
Who’s the charming fellow in the tricorn hat on horseback outside the library?
Wolford Prescott. Reason you’re here. Show some respect.
How did Wolford know my mother?
*Sigh.*
Mark laughed.
And yes, Deacon’s next text said. I want to meet you there.
* * * *
Mark wasn’t by the statue of Wolford Prescott when Deacon arrived. He was on it. Straddling the horse, with his arms around Prescott’s waist, reminding Deacon of exactly what they’d gotten up to on the mechanical bull. Except Wolford Prescott was nowhere near as cute as Mark, and his stockings weren’t as sexy.
“So,” Mark said, scrambling down. “I might have just come out to the frat. To Blake, anyway.”
“Huh,” said Deacon. “And how do you feel about that?”
Mark regarded him silently for a moment. “You always know the right thing to say, you know?”
“I do?”
Mark nodded. “Most people would have asked me what the hell I was thinking, or if I was sure I knew what I was doing, but you didn’t.”
Deacon smiled. He was pretty sure he was just the latest in a very long line of people who had no idea what Mark Cooper was thinking. “And how did the fraternity take it?”
“I only told Blake so far,” Mark said. “But I reckon sooner or later I’ll get a summons to the basement confessional where I’ll be held accountable for all my big gay sins. But I never came here to lie, you know. And people always say, why do you have to shove it in people’s faces, but I’m not, am I? They’re shoving it in mine. Asking who this chick is, how big her tits are, and trying to set me up with girls. Fuck, you have to draw a line in the sand, right?”
“Yeah,” Deacon said. “Wait, there’s really a basement confessional?”
“It’s fucked-up,” Mark said. “I had to drink a whole bottle of picante salsa just because I wouldn’t tell Bengal which chick I was fucking.”
“Really?” Deacon reached out for Mark and caught him by the belt loops. He pulled him closer, aligning their hips. Mark, a few inches shorter, lined up against Deacon’s body nicely. “That…that just sucks, Mark.”
“I threw it up,” Mark said. He sighed and, for a moment, looked as lost and alone as he had the night Deacon had first seen him in the bar. “I’ve been a prick, I know. Why join the game if you’re going to refuse to play it, right? But I just don’t get the rules. I never got the rules.”
Deacon tugged him closer. Mark was clearly more rattled than he wanted to admit by coming out to Blake. “I think you did the right thing, for what it matters. And I think you’re tough as hell for doing it as an Alpha Delta pledge.”
Mark scowled at the ground. “Brandon’s gonna be upset with me.”
“For pissing off the fraternity?”
Mark shrugged. “Yeah. And he’s got some other stuff going on.”
“Mark?”
“Hmm.”
“If you really want to be in a fraternity, there are ones that aren’t like Alpha Delt. None of this hazing shit.”
“I don’t want to be in a fraternity. First I did it to make my stepfather happy, and now I’m doing it because fuck the Alpha Delts for thinking they control me.”
Deacon kissed him gently. Mark hesitated a second, then yielded, placing the fingers of his left hand against Deacon’s cheek and letting his forehead rest against Deacon’s when they parting. “You can’t stop fighting, can you?” Deacon asked.
“I don’t know.” The fact that Mark didn’t have some smart-ass quip saddened Deacon, but it brought out something protective in him as well. “I don’t know what I’m doing.” Mark wrapped his arms suddenly around Deacon and squeezed, burying his face in Deacon’s shoulder.
Deacon slid his hand up to Mark’s hair and tangled his fingers in it. “Anything I can do to help?”
“You’re doing it,” Mark mumbled.
After a few minutes, Deacon said, “So maybe you tell Alpha Delt you’re done. Maybe that’s how you win this one.”
“And what does that leave Jim thinking?” Mark raised his head. “His pussy queer stepson couldn’t handle the pressure?”
“Whoa.” The statement was so at odds with Deacon’s image of Mark—someone who didn’t care what others thought, who was himself no matter what—that Deacon felt a familiar sinking fear. It was the feeling he got when his mother said something that reminded him just how serious her disorder was. They could joke about her needing to run pens through the dishwasher before using them, or disinfecting the covers of library books before she read them, but her fears about Ben weren’t funny.
“Forget it,” Mark muttered, stepping back. “It’s not really about that. Jim’s not like that. He’s the opposite of that. He’s too fucking nice.”
“What’s it about, do you think?”
“I don’t know.” Mark leaned against the base of the statue, jamming his hands in his pockets. He looked away from Deacon. “It’s like, if I don’t have these guys, what do I have here?” He glanced Deacon’s way, then turned his gaze to the quad again. “Pathetic, yeah, I know. But I’m not exactly racking up friends.”
“To be fair, you’ve been at Prescott, what, less than a month?”
“You’re out, aren’t you?” Mark still didn’t look at him. “At Phi Sig?”
“Yeah. The guys have all been cool. I know the atmosphere’s different at Alpha Delt, but maybe more of them’ll be cool with it than you think.”
Mark shook his head, still tense. The lights in front of the library cast an eerie, greenish-gold glow on Wolford Prescott and his horse. Across the quad, three girls were chalking the walkway. “I don’t care whether they’re cool with it. I don’t know why I’m even talking about this. Can we change the subject?”
“If you’ll let me say one more thing.”
“What?”
Deacon stepped forward and leaned on the statue too. He rolled his head toward Mark, reached out, and tugged Mark’s hand from his pocket. “They’re not all you’ve got here. Okay?”
Mark looked at their entwined fingers and nodded. “Good,” he said softly. “I’m glad. Because I like you better than I like them.”
“Good.”
“Come to the library,” Mark said suddenly.
“What?” Deacon let Mark draw him across toward the entrance. “Why?”
“They’ve still got a microfiche section,” Mark said.
“Really? How do you even know that?”
“Brandon made me come to the library with him once,” Mark said. “He’s got an eidetic memory. I’m not sure what that means, except the Dewey decimal system is his bitch. He can tell you where to find anything. Even old copies of the Prescott Literary Review from 1823, which is all on microfiche because nobody’s got around to converting it yet.”
Deacon shook his head as he followed Mark inside the building. “Why would I want copies of the Prescott Literary Review from 1823? Why would anyone?”
“Exactly,” Mark said. “A whole room of microfiche readers, and nobody ever goes in there.”
“Not even the drug dealers?” Deacon asked, only half sarcastically.
“Everyone knows they use the second-floor toilets,” Mark shot back with a reckless grin. “Come on!”
“Wait,” Deacon said as Mark led the way down toward the back of the library, past the study rooms and into the stacks. “Mark, wait.”
Mark leaned against the stacks. Section 291. Comparative religions. “What?”
Deacon drew a breath. “First of all, you’re hot. You are so fucking hot.”
“You don’t want to do this?” Mark’s smile vanished. He narrowed his eyes.
“No.” Deacon reached out, but Mark flinched away. Angry bunny was back. “I really want to do this, I do. But if we’re going to keep hooking up like this, I want to know where we stand. You and me, are we an item? Because I think you’re hot, and sexy, and Jesus, the things you can do in lace, but if we’re fucking because you want to prove to yourself how you’re not like the rest of the Alpha Delts, well…”
Mark scowled at the floor.
“You just came out to your fraternity,” Deacon said. “Maybe you need a friend right now, not a fuck.”
“Why can’t I get both?” Mark asked him, lifting his gaze and jutting his chin out.
Deacon didn’t know how to explain himself, not without pushing Mark away. But he thought he recognized something unhealthy in Mark’s behavior, something that skirted very close to self-destructive. And Deacon figured the last thing Mark needed was another audience to play the Mark-doesn’t-give-a-fuck song for. What Mark needed was a break. From his family, from his fraternity, from his homesickness and his carefully cultivated bad attitude. What Mark needed was a break from the Mark Cooper circus.
“You can,” Deacon promised him. “Just…just take a breath sometimes, okay?”
Mark nodded.
“Come on,” Deacon said. “Show me this microfiche room.”
Mark flashed him a smile, a little less manic than usual, a little less confident, and led the way through the stacks.
The microfiche room was hidden away behind the anthropology shelves. It was a narrow, windowless room with one long desk set up against the wall. The desk was divided into four booths. In each booth was a microfiche reader, which Deacon wouldn’t have had a clue how to work. He wondered if anyone did.
Mark flicked the lock on the door. “And now we’re all alone.”
Deacon looked at the stained carpet dubiously. “Maybe I should have taken you up on that offer of a hotel, Juliet.”
Mark raised his eyebrows. “You had your chance, Romeo. Now finish what you started back in your room. Ravish me.”
“Ravish you?” Deacon laughed.
“It sounded Shakespearean,” Mark said.
Deacon was struck by the image of something truly Shakespearean: a boy in a dress. Shit. Before Mark, he’d never even guessed he was into that. But the thought of seeing Mark in a dress, again was sending some serious signals straight to his dick.
Deacon took a chair and wedged it under the door handle. Better safe than sorry. “Get over here, then, Juliet.”
Mark’s smile was back. That reckless, cheeky smile that Deacon knew was only skin-deep. Mark dropped his hands to his fly. “You want me to get out of these, Deke? Or you wanna do the honors?”
“Strip for me,” Deacon said. He’d never had the courage to say that to anyone before, but he’d never been with anyone so…shameless. He leaned against the wall and watched as Mark swayed his hips, his hands framing the bulge in his jeans.
Mark unsnapped his fly and teased the zipper down. He toed out of his shoes and kicked them under the desk. His movements got quicker, less graceful as he pushed his jeans to his ankles and stepped out of them. But he slowed as he straightened, and he stood in front of Deacon in his gray briefs and T-shirt, chest moving in and out. He crossed his arms, grabbed the hem of his tee, and pulled it up and over his head. Deacon admired the shadows of his ribs, his tight nipples—a little bit of light hair around them, which Deacon remembered feeling that night in the Kissin’ Shack when he’d explored Mark’s body in the dark.
Mark grinned again when he saw Deacon staring, and he tossed the T-shirt so that it landed over Deacon’s face. Deacon swiped it off, static crackling in his hair. He didn’t want to miss a second of this show. He turned his focus to Mark’s hip bones, beautifully defined even in the god-awful lighting of the microfiche room. Mark hooked his thumbs in the elastic of his briefs, easing them down, freeing his hard cock. He stepped out of his underwear and spread his hands.
“Well? How do you want me?”
“Would you…?” It took Deacon a minute to find his voice. And he was almost too shy to finish the question. “Would you strip me?”
Mark’s smiled was genuine this time. He stepped toward Deacon. “What are you blushing for?” he asked.
Deacon wasn’t blushing. Was he? “The lights, I guess. They’re really bright. I feel like I’m on a stage.”
Mark trailed a finger down the front of Deacon’s shirt. “Too bad. You got away with fucking me in the dark once. Now I want to see you.”
He took hold of Deacon’s shirt and tugged Deacon toward him. He bunched fistfuls of the fabric, squeezing Deacon’s pecs as he did. Deacon felt a jolt in his dick as Mark’s hand brushed his nipple. Mark let go with one hand and traced the side of Deacon’s neck with two fingertips, sending warmth through Deacon’s body. He placed his chest against Deacon’s so that their hearts thudded against each other. His eyes were hazy as he met Deacon’s gaze, and then he leaned in and kissed Deacon, still holding onto Deacon’s shirt, as though afraid Deacon might escape if he let go.
Deacon closed his eyes, concentrating on Mark’s lips on his. A friend and a fuck. Mark could definitely have both. He could have anything and everything Deacon could give him.
Mark stepped back and pulled Deacon’s shirt off. Ran his hands over Deacon’s chest, down his sides, and pushed them around to the small of Deacon’s back. He hooked his fingers in Deacon’s back belt loop and forced Deacon’s hips against his, rubbing his cock against the front of Deacon’s jeans. Deacon kissed Mark again, mostly out of a panicked need to distract himself from how badly he wanted to come.
The way Mark thrust his tongue into Deacon’s mouth didn’t help, though. Deacon thought he could feel his whole body pulsing, hot and frantic. He wanted to grab Mark and pin him against one of the cubicle walls and fuck him until Mark was shouting. He wanted to come with Mark’s ass gripping his dick, milking it. Mark undid Deacon’s fly, and Deacon twisted, desperate to get out of his jeans.
“You could stand to take a breath yourself, Deke,” Mark whispered, laughing. He stroked the front of Deacon’s underwear, cupping Deacon’s balls through the fabric and then squeezing gently. Deacon moaned. He suddenly didn’t remember words.
“Want you,” he said finally, sucking in a breath and going up on his toes as Mark continued to squeeze.
“Yeah?”
Deacon whimpered and nodded. He let out his breath in a rush. “Yeah. Mark! Mark, wait, wait…” Mark was tracing the outline of Deacon’s cock. Deacon caught his wrist.
Mark’s voice was so soft. “I want to see you lose control.”
“Not yet.” Deacon managed a smile, though his thighs were still tense and his balls were dangerously tight. Looking down, he saw that the head of his cock was peeking over the top of his underwear, slick with precum.
Jesus. In the past it had always taken him a pretty decent amount of time to come. One guy he’d slept with had told him he took longer to get off than the guy’s ex-girlfriend. Pleasant memory. But with Mark, Deacon could have shot in seconds.
Deacon herded Mark toward the back wall. Spun Mark around and pressed himself against Mark’s naked ass. Rubbed slowly up and down until he got his underwear down around his balls. Mark braced his hands against the wall and groaned. He turned suddenly and shoved Deacon’s underwear the rest of the way down, supporting Deacon as Deacon stepped out of them.
They both, as though by some unspoken agreement, staggered toward the center of the room and went to their knees. Deacon cupped Mark’s ass and pulled him almost onto his lap. Their chests bumped, and Deacon drew back a hand and slapped Mark’s ass. He kept his hand there and clutched at the hard muscle, digging his fingertips in. Mark’s breath hitched, and he leaned into Deacon. Deacon repeated the gesture with the other hand on the other cheek. Mark shifted forward, straddling Deacon with his knees on either side of Deacon’s hips, his torso flush with Deacon’s. He wound his arms around Deacon and held on tight as Deacon spanked him several more times, stopping after each blow to knead the flesh he’d struck, to grip it and claw at it. Mark made soft noises into his shoulder. Then his teeth latched on Deacon’s throat, nibbling and sucking, and Deacon paused, unable to concentrate on anything else.
Mark rolled his hips, trying to get his cock in contact with Deacon’s. Deacon slapped him one more time, skated his palm briskly over the entire surface of Mark’s ass, then eased Mark back. They ended up with Mark lying diagonally against Deacon’s left hip, facedown. One of his legs was draped over Deacon’s thighs; the other was on the floor. The damp head of his cock nudged Deacon’s hip.
Mark folded his arms on the floor and rested his chin on them. Deacon stroked his ass. “On the phone,” Deacon whispered, “you used your fingers…and you came…” He slid his fingers down Mark’s crack, brushing his hole. Mark jerked, toes curling against the carpet. “I wanted to be there. Wanted it to be my fingers.”
“Please,” Mark murmured.
“You want to?”
“I’ll come fast if you use your fingers,” Mark warned.
Deacon smiled. “We’ll take it slow, then.”
Deacon leaned down, spread Mark’s cheeks, and spit. Ran his pinky through the saliva, circled Mark’s hole, then pushed inward. Mark lifted his head and moaned softly. Deacon moved his finger inside Mark for a moment, just enough to get Mark squirming, then withdrew.
“Deke, please.”
Deacon almost snickered. This was perfect. He was no longer in immediate danger of coming, but his cock was still hard and eager, and now he had Mark at his mercy. He circled Mark’s hole again, occasionally tapping it or pressing the pad of his finger against it. Mark was chanting the word “please,” shifting restlessly. Deacon worked both his pinky and his ring finger in together.
“Mhhnn,” Mark said, tensing, then relaxing. Not just his ass—his whole body went limp, and he lay still as Deacon thrust slowly inside him. He gave a nearly inaudible murmur of contentment. His calf muscles flexed, and he squirmed a little, but other than that, he seemed completely at peace.
“What if I put all four fingers inside you?” Deacon whispered, reluctant to speak and risk breaking Mark’s trance.
“Do it,” Mark whispered back.
A few minutes later, Deacon had four fingers buried in Mark to the second knuckles. Mark was breathing deeply, clenching and releasing around Deacon. Deacon waited another minute, then slid his fingers in farther. He didn’t move, just left them in place, feeling the heat that engulfed them. He stroked his free hand down Mark’s back, keeping him relaxed.
Deacon pushed toward Mark’s prostate. Mark arched, encouraging him with a whimper. Deacon brushed a spot that made Mark gasp, then pulled partially out, falling still once more.
Deacon didn’t know how long they played the game. He lost himself in the silence of the small room, in the thrill of being able to make Mark jerk or moan with the slightest movement. He used his other hand to touch Mark’s ass and thighs, to scrape his nails lightly over the backs of Mark’s knees and make him kick and clench around his fingers. After a while Deacon felt as much in a trance as Mark seemed to be. He was rubbing Mark’s shoulders, crooking his fingers every now and then. His legs prickled from kneeling so long and from Mark’s weight over his left thigh, but he didn’t mind.
Eventually he began to worry they might be pushing their luck staying here too long. He thrust harder and more frequently, making Mark grunt and rub against him. “Gonna come,” Mark mumbled after a minute. Deacon tapped Mark’s prostate in answer.
Mark’s whole body tightened, and he rose off Deacon, but amazingly, he didn’t come. “Your cock. Please?” Mark’s voice was strained, and his legs were rigid, trembling.
Deacon withdrew his fingers. Rolled Mark gently off him and onto his back on the stained carpet. Mark raised his legs, and Deacon entered him, not thinking, just acting. He closed his eyes and sighed at the sensation of Mark’s heat around his cock. He started thrusting, a nice, easy rhythm, his earlier desperation replaced by a wonderful sense of drifting, of a deep pleasure that he wanted to sustain as long as possible.
Mark wrapped his hand around his cock and stroked in time with Deacon’s thrusts.
Mark came first, arching as his cock emptied onto his belly.
Deacon pulled out at the last second, coming on Mark’s balls and between Mark’s cheeks, sliding the tip of his dick through the cum as he leaned down to kiss Mark.
“Shit,” Deacon whispered.
“God.” Mark’s eyes fluttered.
Deacon tensed a little. “Sorry about— I shouldn’t have, without a condom. But I’m clean, Mark. I swear. Got tested at the start of the semester.”
Mark grinned lazily. “It’s all right. I told you to. I figured Phi Sigs keep up with that shit.”
“I do, but not everyone would,” Deacon said, suddenly in protective mode again.
Mark’s grin remained. “Well, as I’m hoping not to fuck anyone else anytime soon, maybe it’s okay?”
Deacon fought a smile. “Hmm.”
“Besides. It’s college. I’m supposed to do stupid shit while I’m here, right?”
“Within reason,” Deacon grumbled, stroking back and forth between Mark’s nipples, pausing to flick one.
“You can’t be stupid within reason, can you? Bit of an oxymoron.”
“You absolutely can be stupid within reason. But I’m gonna have to supervise you twenty-four-seven if you can’t promise me you’ll be reasonably stupid.”
Mark reached up and touched his cheek. “Promise, Deke.”
Deacon felt a flash of fear, as though his mother’s anxiety had somehow transferred to him. He didn’t want to spoil the moment, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that promises like that invited something to go wrong. He helped Mark up. “This is Shakespeare without the tragic ending, okay?”
Mark laughed and groped for his underwear. “If we get caught naked in here, there’s definitely gonna be a tragic ending.”
They dressed and left the microfiche room cautiously. No one seemed to be using this floor, let alone waiting to look at old copies of the Prescott Literary Review under a microscope. Deacon checked his phone. It was well after midnight.
Mark walked him back to the Phi Sig house.
“If I’m kicked out of Alpha Delt,” Mark said, “I might take you up on the twenty-four-seven supervision thing. But if by some miracle they decide to keep my queer arse around, we’ll have to settle for you supervising me whenever I’m not being force-fed salsa in the basement. Or being force-fed Nathaniel Hawthorne in American lit.”
“Sounds good,” Deacon said.
They kissed. Deacon noticed Mark cast a glance over at the Alpha Delt house as they parted. Then he looked back at Deacon and smiled. “Good night, Romeo.”
“’Night, Juliet.”
They kissed again. “Uh-oh. Are we gonna say good night until it be morrow or some shit?”
Another kiss. “It’s already morrow,” Deacon said. “So we might as well keep going.”
They ended up saying good night for quite a while.