There I lie him down on my bunk, pull the
sheets up to his chin, smooth his hair back from his face and press
my lips to his forehead like my mother used to do to me when I was
a little boy and sick with a fever. His skin is hot, flushed and
pink and feverish, too damn warm. “Hot,” he sighs, tugging at the
sheets. “Get these off me.”
I take off the sheets and he starts to unzip
his jumpsuit. “Dylan—”
“It’s hot,” he complains. “Take it
off, Neal, please. Take it—” The zipper catches in the fabric and
he tugs at it, hard yanks that threaten to tear the material before
I manage to catch his hands and hold him still. “Take it off,” he
sighs. His breath is like a furnace against my cheek. “Please,
baby, I’m dying here.”
“You’re not dying,” I tell him, but he
iswarm so I unzip his jumpsuit and help him out of it. Then
he tears at his boxers, trying to take those off, as well. “Dylan,”
I warn.
“Off,” he says. “Baby—”
So I ease the boxers down and he kicks them