But Ivan circled around Asher and drew down his sweatpants, the elastic waistband catching as it dragged along the length of Asher’s legs. Why was Asher wearing sweatpants at the most important crossroads of his life? But his muscles relaxed when Ivan set his hands on Asher’s naked skin, heated by the skylight and Ivan’s breath, steady and slow, directly behind him. Sunshine shone straight through Asher. Their romance was starting, finally. Asher’s ass was out. He was forgiven. If it were Asher’s choice, he’d kiss first—it was creepy standing here half-naked—and he had to stifle an urge to turn his head and catch Ivan’s lips. But if he shifted at all, he might startle Ivan away. Best to wait for Ivan’s move.

Ivan held his ass so firmly that if he let go, Asher would collapse. Was Asher clean enough? Was his ass too feminine? He bent at the waist. He clenched his teeth, preparing for Ivan’s dick. But then there was the splash of Ivan’s mouth, landing wetly with deadly aim.

Asher twitched in surprise. They were starting like this, okay. Ivan’s tongue ran all the way up Asher’s crack and he bit his mouth not to scream. He could bear the licking a minute more, maybe, thirty seconds. The act was a promise. No one tasted anyone’s ass if they weren’t into that person. Right? He bargained with himself—one more wet stroke of the tongue, then he’d turn and hug Ivan, tell him how much he cared. Two more strokes. Three. That was all he had to withstand. But somehow, Ivan’s tongue morphed, turning sparky and sharp. He flooded with liquid warmth. He shut his eyes, his torso moving in a slow wave. But then the question jolted through him: Why had Ivan chosen his ass? He was interacting with the most gender-neutral part of Asher’s body. Of course: he couldn’t bear to face Asher’s other parts. He was sickened by them.

Ivan pushed deeper now, faster, pumping relentlessly. Asher’s anus, the whole area, went raw, screaming. But he’d wanted Ivan so long. And they were friends. Then why was Ivan moving so mechanically? Ivan’s hands shaped Asher’s edges, emphasizing his curves. Asher folded his arms over his chest the way he always had before surgery, protecting what was long gone.

He bit his tongue, but he couldn’t block a cry. He sounded like an animal, like a girl, and he wanted to stuff the sound back down his throat, to suffocate himself with it. He pulled away.

Ivan stood up. Asher looked away from his mouth, afraid to see it soiled. He jerked up his pants. What was that, even? Why hadn’t Ivan stopped? Why hadn’t Asher stopped him? After the booklet, maybe Ivan knew Asher didn’t have the right.