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    Wrong Direction
    Wrong Direction
    Wrong Direction
    Ebook100 pages1 hour

    Wrong Direction

    By Kelly Jensen

    4/5

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    About this ebook

    It's Alvaro's last year of college and he's on track to graduate at the top of his class. He's working toward a degree in a field he loves and even managed to score one of the coveted singles in the nicest upperclassmen dorm. There's only one problem. Daniel. The guy whose single is attached to the other side of the connecting bathroom. The mess Alvaro could maybe ignore. The wet towels, balled up socks, and bottles and bottles of bubble bath. It's the singing he can't take. Every night it's the same. Daniel takes a bubble bath and murders another of Alvaro's favorite songs.

    One night, Alvaro stomps into the bathroom, ready to halt the mangling of another musical memory. But his feet fly up and his head smacks down. Daniel hops to the rescue in all his wet, bubble-covered glory, and a relationship begins that will continue to set Alvaro reeling.

    Until now, Alvaro's life has been heading in the right direction. But can an attraction this strong—even to a guy who doesn't organize his socks—be all wrong?

    Wrong Direction is a sweet and sexy novella with lots of clumsy mishaps, cute dates, and deep thoughts about life's multiple directions.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherKelly Jensen
    Release dateJan 17, 2020
    ISBN9781393328964
    Wrong Direction
    Author

    Kelly Jensen

    Born in Australia and raised everywhere else, Kelly Jensen now lives in Pennsylvania with her husband, daughter and herd of four cats. After disproving the theory that water only spins counter-clockwise around drains north of the equator, she turned her attention to more productive pursuits such as reading, writing about reading and writing stories of her own.

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      Book preview

      Wrong Direction - Kelly Jensen

      dear reader

      Wrong Direction was written for Love Is an Open Road, sponsored by the Goodreads M/M Romance Group. I was fairly new to the genre back in 2015 and enormously excited to participate in this annual event. The competition to claim a prompt was fierce and I missed out on one other (the details of which I can’t even recall) before I managed to get this one.

      Alvaro wouldn’t have had it any other way. He started shouting (the voices in my head usually whisper), the moment I staked my claim, and didn’t quiet down until he and Daniel had made it through the last page together.

      A couple of years ago, I wrote the beginning of a sequel to this story—a road trip to visit Alvaro’s grandmother in the Santa Barbara hills. I ended up putting it aside as the plot I conceived felt more novel than novella and I didn’t have the time to commit right then. Maybe one day?

      Until then, I hope you enjoy this visit with Alvaro and Daniel in what might be my most lighthearted and fun story.

      For Dys

      chapter one

      He was killing One Republic. Again. Not the band, obviously. That scream from the bathroom wasn’t a desperate cry for help. More likely, Daniel Lundquist had his balls stuck in the drain, which did awful things to his rendition of I Lived. Sounded more like he’d died.

      I’d thought having a single room my final year at UCSB would be sweet, and sharing a bathroom with one guy had to beat sharing with the entire floor, right? Yeah, not so much. My neighbor couldn’t find a key if it was stuck in a lock, and he left fruity-smelling bubbles all over the bathroom floor. Nightly. And stuff, acres of it, in loose formation across his half of the counter. The way his soldiers spilled into my territory was way undisciplined, man.

      But the singing. Holy flapdoodle, the singing.

      Clapping my hands over my ears— a futile gesture; unless you got a really good seal, hands did not make effective mufflers— I strode toward the door. This had to stop. Now. I wanted fond memories of this band. They were my youth and all such horse pucky.

      Opening the door meant I had to use one of my hands. Duh. But I’d already accepted the fact my hands didn’t really cover my ears very well. Not because they were stupidly small— I had long fingers. If someone bothered to look past the fact I’m on the short and slender side, they’d note there were inches of index finger there. Know what I mean?

      Daniel had reached the chorus. I wrenched the door open with one of my slender but long-fingered hands, and strode into the bathroom connecting his room to mine. The scent of fresh-cut, sun-warmed mango confused me until I figured out I hadn’t been magically transported to my grandmother’s orchard.

      Listen, dude—

      My left foot got lost. One second it was under me, the next it had kinda flown up into the air. The bathroom turned on end, and the ceiling took the place of the wall as the very hard floor smacked me in the back. I managed to stiffen my neck and keep the back of my skull from connecting with the tile, but it was a damn close thing. I think I heard the crack, anyway. Then a wave of warm water sloshed over my side. Smelled like popsicles.

      Oh my God! Daniel was there, in all his tall, wet, and handsome glory, kneeling over me with a worried expression made only slightly ridiculous by the bubbles clinging to his cheek. Are you okay?

      Actually, I was feeling pretty speechless. I’d figured he wouldn’t have any hair on his chest, but he did. Not a lot, not a mohair blanket. More a sparse clump of delicate curls dead center. He had bubbles clinging to that, too. To either side were shiny pectoral muscles, obviously sculpted by the gods and then dotted with a couple of moles, just to make him human. Soap ran down the line between his abs and my gaze followed because I’m gay, and when I’m led to cock, I tend to follow. Daniel helped by scooting forward, his long, muscular legs parting to expose his bubble-wrapped package. The mingled scent of male sweat and fruit was just plain weird, and I briefly wondered if I’d think of Daniel’s dangle every time I smelled mangoes. That would be awkward next time I visited home.

      Alvaro? I liked the way he said my name. In the three weeks we’d been neighbors, I hadn’t bothered to ask him to shorten it to Al. Can you hear me? Big, soapy hands were smoothing across my cheeks.

      I tore my gaze from the leviathan— it was the bubbles, right? And I might have hit my head— and looked into his handsome face. I had dreamed about this face, and if I had words right then, I might have told him so. He had a jaw that defined the term square, a nose like the sharp end of an arrow, and eyes the color of a Santa Barbara sky. His mouth was just sinful, and most of my fantasies ended up there when they tired of wondering what he was packing elsewhere.

      Ugh. Eloquence is me.

      I tried to sit up. Daniel helped by putting his cock in my face. I mean, it was right there, dripping white soap that looked a heck of a lot like something else onto my sodden T-shirt. He had his arms around my shoulders and was actually hauling me toward my seven seconds in heaven. I opened my mouth, wondering if it would fit. Wondering if it would taste like mangoes. His hand groped the back of my head. I did the only sensible thing and nestled my face against his thigh. More hair there, and it made a nice, wet prickle against my cheek.

      I was so close to his penis, I could say hi, so I did. Hi.

      Hello?

      Daniel’s crotch retreated to a safe distance as he scooted backward. He still had a big hand tucked around my shoulder, and he used it to lean me against the side of the tub. I let myself be manhandled. I think I was a little bit dazed. Having a glorious cock thrust into your face could do that. Add in the brush with death and the scent of mangoes, and I was delirious.

      Did you hit your head?

      Don’t think so, I managed. You know you’re naked, right?

      I was having a bath.

      And singing.

      Daniel continued to crouch beside me, uninhibited and deliciously fleshy. Not paunchy fleshy, just with lots of skin, and every inch slicked with soap and moisture and looking so damned lickable. The guy might not be able to carry a tune, and he was the Wrecker of Bathrooms, and he lived in an absolute sty, but God, he was gorgeous.

      I should stop staring and ask if he was gay. I could blame the head wound I didn’t think I had if he

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