He put both hands on my ass and massaged in circles with his thumbs. “Sup, freshie?” he said, catching my gaze with a quick grin. I was trapped in the prison of having an unwanted erection at the worst time. My inferiority complex was on fire at the sight of it, like it had been designed to make me feel inadequate. His other hand reached up to my shoulder, massaging it gently, like he was helping me ride the waves of confusion and sensation that were crashing through me. “Sure,” I muttered, trying not to squeak. Or maybe found one I hadn’t known was there. Wrestling seemed like the right move—tough and disciplined, a sport where I could carve out a place for myself. But I didn’t. I was eager to prove I wasn’t just some scrawny guy who got winded climbing stairs. He started soaping himself up casually, not a trace of insecurity, running the lather across his chest and down his arms with a casualness that made my skin crawl with envy—and something else I
