My throat goes dry. That can’t be Ace. The growl is too deep, too bestial. Something else is in there with him. Something big enough to make that low, rumbling sound. And Ace is asleep, completely unaware.
I take a step toward the tent, then another, my pulse hammering in my ears. The zipper is partially open, the flap sagging. Of course. That’s how it got in. I click off the flashlight, not wanting to startle whatever’s inside.
I crouch down and peer through the gap, trying to steady my shaking hands.
At first, all I see is darkness. Then my eyes adjust, and in the dim firelight I can make out the shape of Ace lying on his back, one arm bent behind his head. The sleeping bag is pushed down to his thighs, and his other hand is moving up and down in his lap. Another one of those deep sounds rumbles from his chest.
Oh.
OH.
My cheeks flame. He wasn’t kidding about being hung.
Because in his fist, close enough that I can smell the musk, he’s holding a cock that can only be described as monstrous. It must be at least nine inches, thick as my wrist, with a swollen head that glistens in the dim light.
Every time his thumb slides over the tip, he lets out that low, breathy growl, a sound that rumbles up from his chest, so masculine it makes my stomach tighten. His head is tipped back, the tendons in his neck pulled taut.
Every instinct tells me to back away, to pretend I never saw this. But I’m rooted to the spot, watching as he strokes himself with an almost violent urgency, like it’s hurting him, like he needs the friction to survive. I can’t tear myself away—the rhythmic movement of his hand, the slick sounds, the warmth that radiates off him. He’s thinking of someone. Some girl. Maybe a girlfriend back home. We haven’t really talked about our love lives. Or lack thereof, in my case.
I know this is wrong. That I should respect his privacy. Turn around, go back to the fire, give him this moment alone.
But at the same time… he knows I’m out here keeping watch. He knows I might look in at any moment, grab something from the tent, or decide to turn in for the night. So shouldn’t he have been more careful? Kept the zipper closed? Waited until I was asleep? Why would he risk this?
The answer is probably that guys like Ace don’t stress about things like this. He’s not like me, overthinking every social interaction, always watching my surroundings, trying not to be a burden. He’s confident. Secure. He doesn’t spend a second worrying about what I might think of him or whether I might walk in on him jerking off.
He just grabs that thick, meaty cock of his and does what needs to be done.
What’s more concerning is that I’m still watching. That I’m not backing away. That my breath has caught in my throat. That my own cock, a much more modest size, is stirring in my pants.
I’ve never been turned on by a guy before. Never. I’ve been intimidated by them, sure. Maybe a little in awe of their easy confidence. But never this. Never a physical response that makesme feel shaky and hot and out of control. This should in no way be affecting me like this.
But it is.
Maybe it’s been too long. I’ve been so focused on my studies, on this trip, that I haven’t thought about hooking up in months. Maybe my body is just responding to any kind of sexual stimulus. It’s logical, right? The adrenaline from thinking there was a yeti is just getting redirected. All that fear and excitement turning into something else. Just a biological response.
Ace’s hips start to lift off the sleeping bag, meeting the downward thrust of his fist. His breaths are coming in short, sharp bursts, and he lets out this choked-off gasp that sounds like it’s been torn from him. There’s a sheen of sweat on his skin, catching the faint light. His abs are tense, a perfect six-pack, the muscles bunching and releasing with each stroke.
My palm finds my own erection through the fabric of my pants. I can feel the heat of it even through the layers, the pulse of blood in my veins. I should be ashamed, horrified with myself, but the pressure of my hand feels too good to stop.
I mimic the rhythm of his movements, my hand stroking over the nylon. It’s nowhere near as satisfying as what he’s doing, the rough fabric an annoying barrier, but I can hardly pull my cock out here, can I? I’m already crossing a line just by watching him.
So I keep my eyes glued to the sight of him, to the slick, furious motion of his hand, to the way his body is straining, taut like a bowstring, and I press the heel of my hand against my own hard-on, imagining…
I’m not sure what I’m imagining. That I’m him? That I have his build, his confidence, that easy kind of masculinity that lets him do this without a care in the world?
Or… that I’mwithhim? The thought is so foreign, so jarring, it makes my stomach twist. But it doesn’t make me stop. If anything, it makes me press my palm harder against my cock,the friction a sweet, sharp ache. What would it be like to have that kind of strength aimed at me? To be the one making him sound like that? To have that enormous cock in my hand, my mouth, my?—
A strangled gasp escapes me, and I slap my free hand over my mouth.
But I’m too late. The damage is done.
Ace heard me.
4
Ace’s head snaps toward the tent flap, his movements stopping mid-stroke.
I don’t move. I don’t breathe. I’m a deer in headlights, caught watching something I was never meant to see.
