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Summary
“It’s a sin,” Naim adds, voice thick.
“Maybe,” Ryan says. He thinks about the bible, about his nana’s angry face when she caught him kissing the neighbour’s son. He thinks about the scars on his back from his dad’s belt, about the weight of the deliverance healer’s hand on his head, about gluttony and lust and the way Naim tasted when they’d kissed.
He thinks about Naim’s lips, soft and willing. He thinks about the first time a boy pushed him on his back, thinks about a rosary gripped in his fist, sobbing and choking on his damnation.
Maybe it is a sin. Maybe he is damned, and he damned Naim in the process. But fuck, Ryan is sick of denying himself that in which he wants. And as he runs his thumb over the apple of Naim’s cheek, he wants.