“Well, what does he do?”
“He’s a… ski instructor.” It wasn’t a lie, right?
“And how did you meet him?”
“He came to order a canoe.” And that was about as much information as Robin was willing to give. “I think he’s a little outta my league.” Like, a lot. Like, why am I even thinking about him?
On the screen, Ryan frowned. “Hey, think positive. Let’s see what we’ve got here. Older guy, hot, experienced…” He leered. “I can see one obvious way to go about it.”
“Wait a sec. Go about what?” Robin had lost the plot.
Ryan gaped at him. “Popping that cherry of yours. Dude, it’s time to hand in the V-card. I lost mine when I was sixteen.”
What the fuck? “You never told me that. And why the fuck not? Because something like that? You’d have bragged about it till I wanted to rip your arm out of its socket and shove it down your throat to get you to shut the fuck up.”
“I was sixteen! And you were Mom’s pet. With my luck, I’d have told you, and five minutes later you’d have blabbed and I would have been grounded for the rest of my life.”
Robin gaped at him. “Mom’s pet? I was never—”
“‘Oh, Mom,’” Ryan said in that high-pitched whine he always used when he was imitating Robin. “‘I know where that Kit Kat bar went.’”
“You wouldn’t share it, you little fuck.”
Ryan gave a smug smile. “And now you know why I never tell you anything. But we’re getting off the point here. Do you wanna hear my idea or not?”
Robin let out a heavy sigh. “I’m all ears.” Better to hear him out. At least then he might shut up about it.
“I think it’s time you got yourself some skiing lessons,” Ryan said with a smug expression.
Robin stared at him, perplexed. “I can ski, remember? So can you, for that matter. How old were we when Dad first took us out on the slopes?”
“Duh. Mr. Ski Instructor doesn’t need to know that, does he? So here’s what you do. You’re gonna ask him for some one-on-one instruction.” There was that leer again.
“You don’t think he’s gonna notice? You don’t think he’s gonna watch me and know instantly that I can ski?” And like I’m actually gonna do such a thing?
Ryan grinned. “That’s gonna depend on how good you are at acting. A few slip-ups here, falling on your ass there… You can do it, bro.” He paused. “This guy you have the hots for—”
“I wouldn’t go that far,” Robin protested.
Ryan waved his hand. “Whatever. He is gay, right? Because otherwise you’re gonna end up with a busted lip—or worse.”
“Yeah, he’s gay.” If all the rumors around high school were to be believed. Robin had no clue how they’d started, but there seemed to be little doubt, so someone had to have known something. The number of times the words ‘What a waste’ had crossed a girl’s lips in Robin’s hearing, as Mr. Quentin walked through the hallway, seemingly oblivious to the trail of disappointed hearts he was leaving in his wake.
“Then it’s a plan.” Ryan preened. “See, bro? All you needed was a little helping hand from yours truly.”
Robin gave him a hard stare. “A couple of things here. One, who says I’m gonna follow your advice? Two, who says it will even work? Three, this all assumes I wanna get laid. And four, I know where your hand has been, and I’m not sure I want it ‘helping’ me with anything.”
Ryan snorted. “Like you’re not dying to end this call so you can beat it with whatever you’re using for lube these days—’cause you haven’t gotten up enough nerve to go buy some.” He arched his eyebrows. “Dude, you’re eighteen. You must be getting desperate by now. God, most of the guys in our graduating class were getting laid every fucking weekend our senior year.” He brought his hand to his chest. “I’m ashamed to be your twin,” he said dramatically.
“Yeah right.” Robin froze at the light tap on his door.
“Get off the phone with your brother and get some sleep,” Dad called through the door. “Good night, Ryan.”
“Night, Dad,” Ryan hollered back, his eyes sparkling. He shook his head. “Man, I don’t envy you. Living at home. That’s gonna cramp your style, isn’t it? Let’s hope Mr. Ski Instructor has his own place.”
“Good night, Ryan,” Robin said in a firm voice before disconnecting. He placed the phone on his nightstand and stared at the ceiling. Though he hated to admit it, Ryan’s plan had some merit. And of course, he’d nailed the present situation perfectly, dammit. Robin had taken a bottle of hand lotion from the cabinet in his parents’ bathroom. Thank God Mom was one of those buy-in-bulk people. She’d never notice.
Then he reconsidered. Plan? Fuck that. It’s not like I’m gonna actually do it, right? Really? I’m gonna walk up to Mr. Quentin, bat my lashes and say, ‘Fuck me’?
Mr. Quentin was going to remain out of reach, a hot dream with no chance of realization.
And speaking of hot dreams…
Robin closed his eyes, sliding his hand beneath the comforter, heading lower to his briefs and edging his fingers beneath the waistband. His cock was already stiffening. In his head, a delicious fantasy was evolving, and he licked his palm, then pulled on his shaft, too eager to enjoy what was happening in his imagination to reach for the hand lotion in his nightstand drawer. He bent his knees, planted his feet firmly on the mattress, and got into a rhythm, his arm moving beneath the comforter, hidden from view. Because God forbid his mom should come in right then…
“Has anyone told you how gorgeous you are?” Mr. Quentin trailed his fingers down Robin’s arm, sending shivers through him.
Fantasy Robin had no problem giving voice to his needs. “Have you looked in the mirror lately? You’re the hottest teacher that ever walked God’s earth.”
His hand moved faster, tugging on his dick.
“I don’t think we have to wait until we’re on the slopes to begin your lessons, do you?” And before Robin could utter a word, Mr. Quentin’s lips were locked on his, and he was cupping Robin’s ass, squeezing it, before lifting him into the air, supporting his weight in those capable hands.
Faster. Faster.
“God, you’re strong,” Robin choked out.
“Maybe I should just fuck you right here, right now.”
Robin’s back met the wall, pushing all the air from his lungs as Mr. Quentin kissed his neck, Robin’s legs locked around his waist…
Warmth seeped through his fingers, and Robin groaned at the abrupt end to his imaginings. He grabbed the box of tissues from the nightstand and cleaned himself up, then twisted them into a wad and dropped them onto the floor.
Please, God, don’t let me forget to put that in the trash in the morning.
If his mom found it, Robin would die on the spot.
He put out the light, and pulled the comforter up to his ears. Mr. Quentin’s visit had provided him with enough material for several nights of hot fantasizing.
Maybe Ryan’s idea might work.