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When I look at Cruz, it’s hard not to be reminded of that. He’s everything I swore to avoid, that I’m supposed to hate. The good-looking, popular guy who skates through life because he’s a gifted football player. The kind who can easily dismiss someone like me. The kind all the other mindless, macho jocks follow. The kind who will fuck you in private and lead the charge to kick your ass when your so-called friend spills your secrets.
Why I gravitate toward that type when they have no love for me, I don’t have a clue. Yet, for some reason they make my dick hard, which my right hand can’t seem to fix.
I let my forehead fall against the cool tile as I take a shaky breath, willing my body to cooperate before I try to find relief again. Picturing my gorgeous roommate, of course.
Cruz looks like the enemies of my past, but he doesn’t act like the jocks I knew in high school. It’s a mindfuck I don’t know how to process. On top of that, I’ve never crushed on an unavailable guy before. Not once. Even before I was outed, I inherently knew that crushing on guys who weren’t gay would lead to trouble. Call it self-preservation, common sense or just good luck, I didn’t pine away for guys I’d never have a shot with.
I’m perilously close to venturing down that path now though, and I don’t know how to stop it. Not when my literal wet dream sleeps just a few feet away.
I want to scream in frustration on the daily, but Cruz genuinely has no idea that he’s torturing me, and as someone in the LGBTQ+ community, I can’t bring myself to point out to an asexual person that he’s the root cause of my tension. And since I can’t seem to get rid of that tension in the usual manner, I’m highly uncomfortable and edgy.
Huffing out a frustrated, and hopefully muted, groan, I shut the water off and towel dry, tossing on a loose pair of joggers and a t-shirt that don’t completely hide my current state of duress. Fortunately, since Cruz is oblivious to his effect on me, he isn’t likely to notice that before it deflates.
Unfortunately, he’s shirtless when I emerge from the bathroom, leaving me little hope of sparing my dignity. So, I shuffle around, tossing clothes in my laundry basket, tidying up, while doing my best to keep my back to him as I wait for my body to get the message that playtime is over.
“Did you take your pain pills tonight?” Cruz asks, ever the caregiver.
“Yup.” Don’t turn around and look at him.
“And you’ve got the doctor tomorrow, right? Need me to take you?”
“I’ve got it.” I rummage through my dresser drawer, pretending to look for something. Don’t think about him shirtless.
“What about your laundry? I can do yours with mine tomorrow.”
“All good, thanks.” The drawer bangs shut when I close it harder than intended. Don’t think about how nice he’s being.
“Seriously, it’s no big deal. I’m already doing a load so it’s no trouble, and it’ll save you from having to lift a basket with your bad arm.”
“Really, I’m fine.” Don’t think about loads. Shooting loads, swallowing loads… Ah shit. He’s coming over here.
“Liam, didn’t we agree you were gonna let me help out?” His velvety voice feels like a warm blanket, and I fight the urge to shiver under its timbre.
“Only if I needed it. I don’t need it.” Did my voice just crack?
“How are you going to carry your laundry with a cast?” He’s so close I can feel his body heat at my back, smell the spice of his body wash.
“That’s next week’s problem, hero.” Ohmigod I’m so hard, I literally feel dizzy.
“Hero?” Cruz puts his hand on my shoulder and spins me to face him, and it’s so unexpected I don’t have time to step back. My obnoxiously hard cock smacks him right in the hip, and as my eyes grow wide with embarrassment his Adam’s apple bobs on a thick swallow.
For a minute, neither of us moves. Neither of us speak. We just sort of exist in this weird fragment of time where we can almost pretend that didn’t just happen as long as we don’t acknowledge it.
I’ve heard the expression silence is deafening, but I can honestly say that’s bullshit. Silence is loud. So loud I can’t even hear my own breathing. That, or I’m not breathing at all.
“You uh,” he stutters, shattering the bubble as he rubs his hand over the back of his neck. “You’re a lefty, aren’t you?” He tips his head toward my casted arm.
“Huh?” I shake my head to clear the fog that had settled there.
“You’re left-handed.”
“Yeah, so?” My brows draw together in my typical defensive scowl.
“So, I’m assuming it’s been a while since you’ve been able to take care of things downstairs.”
I cross my arms defiantly, ignoring the obvious giveaway between my legs. I’ve got my pride. “Why would you assume that?”
“Because you’re being sort of pissy and I haven’t heard your normal session in the shower for nearly a week.”
