![]() ![]() Maxfield had always known what turned him on: Tall, muscular, hairy guys. There hadn’t really ever been a question. Gee, he snarked to himself, maybe I’m gay. Beer, at least, he had a use for-though maybe not this beer. It was unpleasant, but Maxfield was still shuddering from the extended contact with Natalie’s oversized mammaries. As he pushed through the crowd looking for Owen so he could make his goodbyes, he could feel warm beer trailed down his legs from his sopping jeans, collecting in his socks. Natalie grimaced apologetically up at him, but, sloshed as she was, made no move to get off him, so Maxfield clasped her by both shoulders, pushed her into a more or less vertical position, and escaped. ![]() He was already talking himself into ducking out early-he was probably never going to see most of these people again anyway-when Natalie Shirker tripped over her feet trying to squeeze through the gap between where he stood and a knot of flailing dancers, with the result that she pitched forward and smashed right into Maxfield, breasts first and as Maxfield was recoiling from an unwanted sensation that most of his male classmates would have tripped her themselves to make happen, she finished the move by upending the two red Solo cups of cheap beer she’d been carrying from the keg in the downstairs mini-kitchen all over his favorite black jeans. Too much noise, too many people, and way too much alcohol. He stood pressed against the wood-paneled far wall in the vast rec room, surveying the seething bacchanal with mounting dismay. The graduation party at Owen’s was getting wild, and Maxfield Sheridan was fed up.
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