I’m still lying there face down in my pillow when his key finally turns in our lock. I freeze, of course. He tiptoes in. I hear the thud of his hiking boots hitting the floor, and the soft swish of clothing coming off.
My dick hardens against the mattress. I’m actually hard, and all he’s done is walk in and undress. Interesting.
His sheets rustle as he gets into bed. And then there’s silence. A minute passes, then two. I’m not sleeping, and he can probably tell. Which means we’re like two teenage girls after a catfight at a sleepover—ignoring each other.
I roll over to face him. “If you’re trying to avoid me, you might have to do another seventeen laps around town. I’m still awake.”
Wes sighs. “How are you feeling?”
He snorts. “That’s the beer talking. Did you know you go gay when you’re drunk?”
When I hear the word “gay,” I almost argue. But that’s not really the point. “I’m not drunk, Wes.”
What I am is very, very curious. Wes thinks he did me a favor tonight by heading us off at the pass, but now I have this giant question inside me, and I don’t think it will fade in the morning. But it will make things awkward. I’ll be watching him in the mirror while we both shave, wondering what it would have been like. Wondering whether it’s something I could really get into, or just a weird moment of happenstance.
“I don’t want to fuck with your head,” he whispers. “I wish I hadn’t ever done that.”
But it’s not my head that needs fucking.
“Come over here,” I say. “Please.”
“No fucking way,” he replies.
“I can make you.”
He laughs. “Did you smoke some pot while I was out, Canning?”
I laugh, too, and it’s such a relief. Because it means I haven’t wrecked everything. But then I lift my hips, peel off my briefs, and throw them at his head. He bats them away, smiling in the dark.
Kicking the sheet off, I put my hand on my dick. And he stops laughing.
* * *
Fuck me. I’m a strong guy. I’m a tough guy. But I was not built to withstand the sight of Jamie Canning stroking himself.
The shred of moonlight shining through the gap in the curtains shows him reclining on his back, his far knee cocked wide. His body is perfect—strong and lean on the bed. His palm is cupped over his dick, the fingertips just brushing the cockhead. He takes a deep breath and then pushes it out slowly, his back arching a little ways, his hips rolling a few degrees.
And I am dying a quiet death. My mouth actually waters, and I have to swallow hard. He’s right there. In two paces I could have him in my mouth. It’s like Jamie Canning looked into my filthy mind and extracted my fantasies. Well, the opening reel, anyway.
He doesn’t turn his head to look at me, because he doesn’t have to. We both know where my attention lies. He squeezes his shaft once. Twice. Then he opens his hand, letting the fingers drift down. He cups his balls, his thumb skimming the delicate skin.
I hear a hot gasp, and realize it’s come from me.
Then? The fucker smiles.
That wakes me up, at least a little. “What the fuck are you doing?”
“I really need to jerk. You mind?”
Holy...! I rue the fucking day that I said those same words to him. I was eighteen, and I thought I was so smooth. But I was only setting in motion some serious pain for everyone. And it’s still happening. There’s blood pounding in my ears now.
And other places.
My hand creeps down into my boxers without my approval. Jamie is pumping himself now. Slowly, up and down. He pauses to rub his thumb over the head, and my throat constricts.
“Wes,” he says, his voice like gravel. “I need your help.”
It’s a miracle I’m able to answer in an almost-normal voice. “Looks like you’re doing fine on your own.”
That’s when he finally turns his head to look at me. As he rubs himself, he swallows, and I see his Adam’s apple bob roughly. “I need to know.”
Know what? I almost ask. But he’s studying me now. His eyes are trailing across my chest and down my arm. He’s watching the hand in my shorts. And I get it. He wants to know why he’s feeling this way, if it’s attraction or beer or temporary insanity.
Earlier tonight I was telling him the truth when I said I didn’t want to help him make this discovery. I’m not sure I’d survive it.
This is, of course, all my fault.
We lock eyes. His are heavy-lidded. I’ve always wanted another chance to see his lust-filled face. Now his lips part on the upstroke, and it’s almost enough to get me across the room. But still I hesitate, and not because I’m afraid he’ll regret this tomorrow.
Because I know I will.
“Please,” he says.
That one word is enough to get me off my bed.
I’m standing in the center of our room now, hands on the waistband of my boxers. I yank and let them drop to the floor.
And now he’s staring at my cock, stroking his.
“What do you want?” I ask. And I need him to be specific. This is a very dangerous game we’re playing. It will probably end in disaster. But if there’s any way I can prevent that, I will.
He moves further onto the bed, making room for me. Then he beckons. And there isn’t enough money, fame or fortune in the world to keep me from obeying. I’m on that bed a second later. His arms reach for me, pull me in.
We’re side by side, chest to chest. And Jamie Canning is kissing me again.
He doesn’t taste like beer anymore, but toothpaste. There’s no way either of us can blame this on alcohol tomorrow. His tongue is in my mouth and I take greedy pulls on it, loving every second of it.
Our lower bodies grind together, and he lets out a soft moan, rocking harder into me. His cock slides over my belly, lines up with my own aching shaft. That bit of friction brings stars to my eyes.
“Fuck,” I choke out.
His eyes slit open, searching my face as his tongue comes out to lick his bottom lip. “If you stop right now, I’m going to kick your ass.”
Stop? Is that a word? What does it mean? Probably the opposite of what I’m doing when I slide my hand between our bodies and grasp both our cocks in my hand...
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