Walking into the bungalow tonight feels different. Ross still has their hand laced in my sweaty fingers, and stepping through the front door somehow turns the finger faucet on even more. The condom in my wallet starts to pulse. I know that technically that’s completely untrue, but I can feel it through the fabric of my jeans, through the pleather of my wallet, in that little slot that’s supposed to be for credit cards or whatever. I always had one on me because Dominic liked to be impromptu with when he’d climb on my lap, and I’ve never been more thankful that he gave himself the title of Bossy Bottom because it means I’m extremely prepared for this moment.

It’s weird that this condom could be used tonight with someone who isn’t D. Not weird in a bad way, just unexpected. I thought Dominic’s body would be the only one I wanted to share mine with, but now that we’re here, alone, I can’t stop thinking about taking every last piece of clothing off Ross and getting to share this moment of humanity with them.

Ross kicks off their heels and leads me to the couch. As soon as we’re both sitting, Ross says, “So . . .” and I swear I can see the ellipses trail out of their mouth. They can say so much without saying much at all. Their smirk is usually sarcastic and cynical and blunt and deadpan, but tonight, it’s so fucking sexy. I know exactly what they’re thinking about doing, and that instantly makes me hard.

I can’t take them looking at me like that anymore. “Are you going to kiss me or what?”

Ross lunges forward and plants their mouth against mine. They’re even more frenzied than they were at the observatory, their smooth lips running along my stubble, the subtle sandpaper sound sending tingles up and down my body.

I pull Ross into me, lifting them up until they’re sitting on my lap. I know they can feel how hard I am because they let out a gasp when the backs of their thighs hit my crotch. They lean into me, pressing our torsos together, and I can feel Ross just as eager through the fabric of their jeans.

I run my hands along Ross’s milky arms, their soft golden hair tickling my palms. I move my fingers over their shoulders, tracing them along their collarbone, running them down their sides to the bottom of my sweatshirt, grabbing the hem of it and their T-shirt underneath, barely tugging them both up.

I pull back just enough to ask, “Is this okay?”

“Yes,” Ross whispers, and I lift the sweatshirt and T-shirt over their head, their smooth, pale, freckled chest heaving with excited breaths.