“Why? You just got out of an appointment. There’s no way you can’t just find someone else to sleep with. Someone who doesn’t have to pretend you’re not you to be able to get off.” Weiran thought this at least would bring a twitch to the edges of Xiaokai’s lips—that careless amusement that he brought out whenever someone slighted him and he wanted to show them that it didn’t care—but Xiaokai just looked at him.

“I don’t want to just get off,” he said. “And I can’t sleep with just anyone, anyway. I have to maintain a perfect reputation, remember?”

Weiran groaned and closed his laptop. He took a moment to put it on the side table, then he gathered the papers and stacked them on top. “What is this about, then? You just want to prove you can seduce me? Trying to one-up your brother again or something?”

Again, no reaction. Xiaokai just said, “I want to forget what that bastard’s touch felt like, and I think you’ll be able to make it happen. Simple as that.”

“You’re really serious?”

“Do I have to say it again? Of course I’m serious.”

Weiran really didn’t know what he was supposed to say now.

“I’m really good at it,” said Xiaokai.

“Just shut—just shut up for a second. I’m trying to think.” He wasn’t actually trying to think. In fact, his head was totally and completely empty.

“I’ll do it however you like. However you imagined it with Xingyu. You could be top, bottom. I could just suck you off or you can suck me off or—”

However he’d imagined it with Xingyu? Weiran had had fantasies either way—Xingyu beneath him, clutching at the sheets, writhing each time Weiran thrust into him; Xingyu above him, lowering himself onto Weiran with an expression stuttering between pain and pleasure, his hands planted firmly on Weiran’s shoulders to keep his balance, and rocking forward hesitantly, the muscles in his legs straining, his mouth falling open—or Xingyu between Weiran’s legs, a look of lazy determination, holding his length in one hand, grabbing hold of Weiran’s thigh and hoisting it over his shoulder and then easing his way into Weiran, inch by wonderful, painful inch; Xingyu pounding into the mattress, sweat dripping from his brow; Xingyu below him and grinning and pushing his hips upward as Weiran rode him. He felt dizzy. He felt nervous. He felt…turned on.

“I don’t know,” Weiran whispered at last, and a smile lit across Xiaokai’s face.

“Close your eyes.”

Weiran closed his eyes.

And then Xiaokai’s lips were on his.

His kisses were slow and sweet. He tasted like mint.

“Ah—Xiaok—” The name was swallowed into another kiss.

“Don’t talk,” Xiaokai murmured into Weiran’s gasping, open mouth. “Give me your tongue.”