What started with a random number (BXB) (GAY)

Late night stroll

For a short moment, the limo fell into a comfortable silence, besides the hum of the air conditioning. Emory's head found its way onto Red's shoulder, which was a much more casual form of intimacy than the kiss shared earlier that night. 

Emory shifted slightly, gears turning in his head as he thought about whether to bring it up or to pretend it never happened. His attempts to convince himself he hated it were in vain, as he knew deep down that it left him craving more.

Even just thinking back on it caused a warm, pure feeling to surge through the depths of his chest. Despite spending far more intimate moments with past girlfriends, nothing had ever touched him like this. 

"Red," He started, sitting upright, yet not making eye contact out of embarrassment for what he was about to willingly talk about. He cracked his knuckles in his lap as he waited for a response. 

"Yes, Emory? What's wrong?" Red straightened his posture as well, giving his full attention to Emory, noticing his repeated nervous habit of cracking his knuckles.

"Are we gonna... you know, talk about it?" He gritted out, his voice lowered to a mumble as if he was ashamed to even imply that he wanted to. 

Red paused for a moment, eyes narrowing in thought. "Talk about what, exactly?" 

Emory sighed; the last thing he wanted to do was go into detail about it. "Red. Think for one fucking second," He groaned, growing more agitated with the uncommon incompetence from him. 

Normally, he's the one who's slow to pick up on things. It isn't so fun when the tables are turned. 

Red thought for a moment longer before a grin crept onto his face. "You mean the kiss?" He drawled, dragging the word out to taunt him. 

Scoffing, Emory turned his head to hide the heat casting over his cheeks. "Yes. That's what I mean." 

"You were a pretty good kisser. I did, however, expect more from someone who supposedly gets tons of action," Red started, causing the moment to replay in Emory's mind once more, not helping to soothe the burn across his ears, neck, and face. 

"I mean," He continued, sliding his hand around the back of Emory's neck, fingers brushing his jaw as he guided his face back toward him until their eyes were forced to meet. Red dropped his voice to a seductive whisper. "I would have loved to go farther with you, but I'm not sure doing it in public is ideal." 

Emory paused, unable to respond. He stared at Red for a few seconds, appalled at the fact that the man he was supposed to hate had left him speechless. And worse, curious. 

He tugged his face away from Red's gentle grasp and exhaled slowly to regain composure after he had almost given in to the temptation. "Fucking disgusting is what it was. I'm not...I'm not gay. I don't suck dick; I get my dick sucked." 

Red scoffed, nodding slowly in a feigned agreement. "Men can get throat-fucked too," He shrugged. "and they whimper twice as much. But hey, name a woman." 

"Faggots get throat-fucked. I'm not a faggot," Emory snapped, a clenched hand digging into his pant leg. "And what do you mean 'name a woman'?"

"Name a woman who's sucked your dick," Red clarified, glossing over Emory's unmistakable lie of not being a faggot. 

"I could name hundreds." Emory rolled his eyes, leaning back into the comfort of the limo seat. 

"Name one, hotshot," Red began. "And I'm not sure that that's the flex you think it is. How does that reflect on you? Sounds to me like you're a whore more than anything."