My Best Man by Andy Schell (top 10 novels TXT) 📕

ass.” So we learn that lemonade is out of the question. And finally: “Always have a stick of gum sitting out of the wrapper, close by, to take the champagne off your breath in a hurry.”

By the end of the day, as we approach Stapleton Airport in Denver, the captain tells us that we’ll be landing in a heavy snow storm, and that operations are limited to a single runway, where we’ll make an instrument approach for landing. We circle the city, and all we see out the window are what look like huge shreds of coconut cascading from heaven. “I love snow,” Amity says dreamily “If I ever have to be in a crash, I want to go down in snow.”

Bart and I look at each other uncomfortably. “Could you be in that crash some other time, Amity?” I ask her.

“Yeah, let’s just land and get to the hotel,” Bart adds.

By that evening, on the ground, the three of us are practically best friends, smoking pot in the hotel room, watching HBO. Bart takes the joint, places it between his lips, and asks if I want a shotgun. I nod, bring my mouth to his until our lips barely touch, and he blows the smoke into me while Amity watches; it’s all I can do not to kiss him full on. As I pull my lips away from his, I look over at Amity, who gives me the slightest smile, and I know she’s reading my mind. I’d kill for this guy.

After trudging down the snowy street for a dinner of steak and mashed potatoes, which Amity washes down with champagne, we return to Amity’s hotel room, crank the heater, and settle on the bed, all three of us. We smoke more pot and listen to the Eurythmics on the little radio at the side of the bed.

Sweet dreams are made of this …. Somehow this is all less innocent, more dangerous, than my college cavorting which was solely limited to men. This is the real world, and we all have jobs, and Bart is a straight guy from Texas who played high school football, and I’m a Yankee who doesn’t really understand him or Amity or their intentions at the moment. Bart takes his hand, slides it behind Amity’s neck and pulls her mouth to his. While he kisses her, he slowly places his other hand on my thigh. He doesn’t move it. He just keeps it there while he gently eats Amity’s face. I follow the veins in his hands down to his long, sexy fingers. Should I reach out, take his hand, and move it to where I want it to be? Before I make a move, Bart pulls back from Amity. Turns to me. “Now you,” he says.

I can’t believe I’m going to kiss a real live straight cowboy. And by the way he kissed Amity, I know he’s talented. “OK,” I answer, my voice nervous. I reach my hand toward his shoulder to hang on, but he intercepts it and steers it toward Amity. He leans forward, twists, and pulls Amity to me. “You kiss her,” he says.

Fuck. He’s toying with me, setting me up, trying to see if I can get it going with a girl. I’ve never done it with a girl, and the only time I even came close, my dick made it clear it wasn’t going to cooperate, so I made some lame excuse about not having a condom and bailed out.

“Come on, buddy,” he says, coaxing me.

Shit. If he’s trying to hand me the “right girl” so I can straighten out, I’m not into this. I should get up and go. But what if this is the beginning of all three of us together? If he sees me with Amity, will he join in? Maybe it can work. It would be worth it, seeing him naked, watching him make love. I lean over and place my lips against hers. I haven’t kissed a girl since high school; it feels strange and even abnormal to have contact with such soft pink lips. The lack of beard or whisker stubble on her face makes her alien to me. She’s soft and perfumed, and I try to stay tender with her. She

starts moaning and kissing me harder, her tongue moving freely inside my mouth. I feel the bed move and realize that Bart is rising off the mattress. I continue to kiss Amity, but turn my head, to watch him undress. Instead, he tucks his shirt in. He’s leaving. “Where are you going?” I ask, breaking from Amity. “You don’t need me now, cowboy,” he says slyly.

If he only knew. My dick is softer than a warm stick of butter, and unless he stays and rolls his piece of corn on it, it’s going to stay that way. Why hasn’t Amity said anything? And why did she go along with this whole setup? Did they plan this together on the airplane today? My uneasy eyes slide their gaze to Amity, and she understands. “I think you’d better stay, Bart,” she says breathlessly.

Bart stands there, doesn’t move. He closes his eyes, rubs his eyebrow, looks uncomfortable. For all his swagger and tease earlier, I can tell it’s something he can’t do. “Yes, I think you’d better stay, Bart,” I echo, rolling off the mattress. “And I’ll be taking my leave.”

I walk past Bart, who gives me a single sexy nod of his gorgeous jock-boy head. “You sure?” he asks.

“I’m sure.”

Amity jumps up and walks me to the door, then opens it. “Are you OK, Harry?” she whispers. “I had nothing to do with this.”

I’m embarrassed. I feel clumsy. “I’m fine,” I tell her. “He’s a stud. Go for it.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll do you proud. He’ll be limping home to his stall, darling’.”

I smile, step out into the hall.

“You’re a good kisser, Harry. Are we still friends?”

I nod yes.

She kisses me again, this time on the cheek, and I head into the