Free Omorphi by C. Kennedy Page A

magazine caught his eye, and he lifted it from the coffee table and stared at it. Michael was mortified. It was the well-read, dog-eared edition of Crash with Andrej Pejić on the cover. Christy held it up, the cover facing Michael, giant question marks dancing in his eyes.
    “Ah, that’s Andrej Pejić. He’s a fashion model and….” Michael cleared his throat and prayed his naked embarrassment wasn’t as obvious as it felt. He didn’t suppose he could claim that his mom or dad thought Andrej Pejić was hot. “And, ah, I think he’s hot.”
    Christy’s eyes went wide, and he prompted Michael with an encouraging look.
    “Well, he’s, ah, androgynous, a boy-girl, you know, and, well, I like that. And I like his, her clothes. The way she dresses, I mean. And you look like her. You’re gorgeous like her, I mean.” Michael cleared his throat again, knew he was babbling like an idiot, and wondered if someone could spontaneously combust from embarrassment.
    Christy leafed through the magazine until he came to Andrej’s fashion spread. He turned the pages slowly, thoughtfully considering each picture before tracing the images with a fingertip. He touched them ever so delicately, almost reverently, just as Michael had traced them, and seemed to be as fascinated by Andrej as Michael was.
    To Michael’s utter amazement, Christy set the magazine aside and moved to straddle Michael’s lap and rest his head on Michael’s shoulder. Whoa! Michael’s hands suddenly felt superfluous. He rested them on the couch, taking great care not to touch Christy. Seconds ticked, Michael’s pulse gathered speed, and his traitorous body began to react. Crap. Then Christy’s hand wended its way into his. Seriously nice. Be cool. Don’t blow it . There they sat for what seemed an hour. “Don’t forget to give me your number,” Michael finally whispered.
    Christy dug in Michael’s pants pocket for the phone, and it took every ounce of Michael’s strength not to groan aloud when Christy’s hand brushed his dick.
    Christy typed, and Michael read over his fingers. “What’s CTAC?”
    Christy handed the phone to Michael and pulled out his pad and pen. Christophoros Tryphon Alexis Castle .
    “That’s quite a name.”
    Christy wrote Greek .
    “You don’t look Greek.”
    Christy shrugged and pulled his phone from his pocket and handed it to Michael. Michael entered his number and handed the phone back to Christy. Christy looked at it, frowned, and held it up.
    “You’ll figure it out.”
    Christy’s frown deepened as he pocketed the phone and returned to resting his head on Michael’s shoulder.
    “You paint in art class?”
    Christy nodded against his shoulder.
    “What do you paint?”
    Christy sat up and scribbled The sea. Rather kiss than write .
    Michael laughed as he thought seriously about kissing Christy. They were alone. In a place where things could get seriously, gloriously out of control. “Me too, but kissing might lead to trouble, and my parents will be home soon.”
    Christy tried to stifle a smile and lost the battle.
    “You don’t care, do you?”
    Christy shook his head, shameless.
    “I don’t believe you,” Michael said and threw his head back and laughed.
    Christy took advantage of Michael’s outstretched neck and began working his way up Michael’s throat, his kisses leaving a cool, damp trail in their wake. This time Michael couldn’t prevent his groan as his dick broke a speed record getting hard. “Christy….”
    When Christy kissed beneath Michael’s jaw, he could no longer contain himself. He lifted Christy by the waist and laid him back on the couch. Supporting himself on one arm, he looked down at Christy and found heat in his eyes. The same heat he’d seen in the locker room. “Trouble,” he whispered before carefully moving the scarf away. Michael paused. Now, what was he going to do if he couldn’t touch Christy? Christy solved his dilemma by wreathing his arms around Michael’s neck