When I finally slide my slick hand out, I’m so spent I fall asleep covered in my own release.
The next morningI’m pissed off—pissed because I’m sexually frustrated but also because Arkin eats his breakfast like everything is fucking normal. Because it’s not like he, oh, I don’t know, shot his load on my bare chest and chin in the middle of the night. Perhaps that’s something he does a lot? Fucks himself at the bedside of unsuspecting sleeping men his age.
I snort, stabbing the bacon like it has personally offended me, and Mum gives me one of those looks that says she wants to ask me what’s the matter, but she knows I won’t answer. Damn right, I won’t. This is her fault. I wouldn’t have woken up this morning covered in flaky cum, which I had to wash off in the shower—a cold fucking shower since I woke up hard thinking about what’d happened—if she hadn’t agreed to house a fucking weirdo in the first place. Yet here we are, taking out our frustration on the bacon.
I glower at Arkin, but he isn’t paying attention to me. And come to think of it, he hasn’t looked at me once this morning. Well, now I’m even more irritated and worked up.
Once Arkin has finished eating, I don’t hang around. Thanking Mum for the breakfast, I tear up the steps after him.
I’m about to let rip. I’ve earned the right to give him a piece of my mind for putting up with his shit these past few days. But when I enter my room, words fail me because Arkin pulls his gray T-shirt over his head and discards it in the hamper.
Muscles ripple in his back as he looks over at me, and I try not to notice the breadth of his shoulders, but it proves impossible not to. Why is he so ripped? The fuck?? And those dimples at his lower back… I shake my head to clear it before storming over and shoving him hard. “Fucking knobhead,” I growl.
Whipping around, Arkin recovers fast, and in the blink of an eye, he throws me down on the bed and secures my wrists over my head. He’s strong—I’ll give him that. But I’m an athlete and not weak by any means. Strength training is part of our weekly routine, no matter how much I fucking loathe the gym.
We wrestle on the bed, both of us grunting but neither admitting defeat. Arkin bares his teeth in a silent snarl while I curse every profanity under the sun.
“You motherfucker. Get off me.” I manage to free one hand and punch him in the face, but my aim is off, so I get no real power behind the blow. Not that it matters because Arkin has a bleeding cut on his lip. Seeing the blood trickling down his chin has my heart pounding harder as he uses some weird superhuman strength to overpower me.
“The fuck are you doing, man?” I spit when he shoves his big hand into my joggers, those blue eyes darkening dangerously as he wraps his long fingers around my hardening length, jerking me like he touched himself last night—unhinged and with enough depravity to power a nuclear plant.
“Fuuuck,” I curse, hissing a breath, his hand moving rapidly inside my joggers. Staring down at the filthy sight, I feel my heart climb into my throat.
A guy has his hand on my dick, and I’m about to come in seconds. But like, for real! This isn’t a joke. Thrusting into his hand, chasing my cresting climax, I try to free my wrists from his tight hold. He’s freakishly strong, or maybe I’m just not trying very hard. To be honest—letting someone else get me off is not much of a chore.
Flopping back down, I squeeze my eyes shut because it’s starting to feel really fucking good. So much better than when Amy touches me. Seriously, this is on another level.
“Dammit, Arkin.” My breathy voice comes out in a rush, and when I open my eyes, his blue ones bore into me. Anyone else would have gotten a cramp now. But not Arkin. He jacks me with such vigor that this is what I’ll think about next time Coach shouts at us pussies to show some goddamn guts on the pitch, for heaven’s sake.
A groan rumbles in my chest, and my lips part before I bite down hard on my bottom one to stifle another shameless moan. I’m not fighting anymore. Don’t judge me, okay? I don’t havethat much self-control. It feels good. More than good, in fact. I just want to get off. Fuck, I want to get off so bad.
“Arkin,” I groan.“Fuck…”
A crash wave of ecstasy steals my breath, and Arkin bites down on a straining tendon in my neck. It’s not gentle, and I know it’ll bruise. But I’m orgasming too hard to care.
Cum soaks my joggers as my cock pulses its release.
This is the second time I’ve come in my clothes in less than six hours. Let’s not make a fucking habit of it, please.
It could be minutes, or it could be hours. Who fucking knows at this point? My heart eventually settles down, and Arkin slips his fingers out of my joggers, his hand slick with cum.
Heat creeps into my cheeks as he studies the milky semen with such intensity you’d think he’d never seen sperm before. Confused, I push up onto my elbows with a frown, about to ask him what his deal is, when he drags his tongue through it with the most provocative and damn right erotic expression.
My throat is suddenly thick and dry, but something in his darkening, slightly wild gaze makes my heart thud like a drumbeat before the chorus hits.
He’s still licking his hand clean when Mum knocks on the door and sticks her head inside. Panicked, I shoot up, hiding the wet patch on my joggers under one of Arkin’s pillows while smiling nervously.
She looks happy, taking our proximity as a sign that we’re finally getting along. I bet my inheritance she’ll tell the ladies at church that God is working in mysterious ways and according to his divine timing, or whatever bullshit they spew. It’s not like her new houseguest would throw her precious son down on the bed and make him come in his hand while she bakes cookies downstairs, like a good Christian housewife. No, absolutely not.
“Can you please pick up the dry cleaning on your way home from practice later, Zachary?”
“Sure.” My voice comes out croaky, so I clear my throat. “Of course. Whatever you need.”
She lights up like fireworks on Bonfire Night, not questioning why her son—who’d normally huff and puff and drag his feet—is suddenly so amicable. It must be the new guy’s influence, right?
The door shuts softly behind Mum, and Arkin looks pointedly at the pillow on my lap, a sexy side smirk dimpling his cheek. Refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing me flustered, I toss the pillow at him before heading for the shower. “Freak!”
Arkin is a damn thorn in my side, and the wet patch on my joggers is the proof.
