‘Fuck! Is that Kian Walker? You share with Kian Walker? Man, you’re so lucky. I’d much rather be blowing him than you – no offence.’ Why do people bloody say that when they’ve clearly just said something offensive?
‘No, thanks,’ Kian says, but it does nothing for my bruised ego. I’d rather be sucking Kian Walker’s dick, too.
‘You should probably leave,’ I suggest, and he’s out of here faster than a rat up a drainpipe. ‘Thanks for that,’ I say, turning my attention back to Kian.
The front porch light illuminates him in his doorway. He does not look happy, the tips of his ears and high points of his cheeks are beetroot red and I’m not sure if it’s because he caught me getting my dick sucked or because he’s been woken up.
Either way, he looks cute all ruffled up like this.
It’s only then I remember that my dick is still hanging out, and it definitely did not get the memo that it’s time to stand down. I think I’m even more turned on now than when I was balls-deep in the twink’s mouth.
Yet I know that if I don’t pull my boxers up Kian’s probably going to amputate my dick, so I tug them up quickly, along with my jeans.
‘About fucking time,’ he says, still lingering in his doorway like the dirty little creep he is.
‘Disappointed?’
Even in the dim light it’s hard not to see how his eyes darken, almost like he maybe is disappointed. Or maybe it’s just wishful thinking.
‘Only that I have to share this place with you for eleven more weeks.’
It’s a stone-cold lie. He’s not even selling it to himself, never mind me.
‘Keep telling yourself that,’ I say, dropping the bombshell almost as quickly as I dropped my trousers for the guy whose name I still can’t recall. I step back into my room and slam the door closed behind me, imagining him rushing over to peep through a crack while I finish myself off.
It’s fast, hard, and I don’t even try to be quiet when I cum.
My only regret is that this door doesn’t have a peephole so I can see just how much I’ve shocked him.
ChapterFifteen
Kian
Seeing that guy on his knees in front of Harper affected me in a way I can’t even begin to admit.
The original reason for me seeing them – a desperate need to piss – was no longer possible afterwards because my dick was so hard and I’d silently had to relieve myself when I climbed back into bed. It was the way Harper’s eyes rolled back as the guy enthusiastically sucked his cock that tipped me over the edge. It felt like the image was burned onto my retinas so that when I climbed back into bed and stared blindly at the ceiling, I could see nothing but the utter bliss on his face. I got harder and harder, maybe even more so when he realised I’d been stood in the door frame watching wordlessly for a couple seconds before I announced my presence.
I’d had to readjust to stop it being obvious that the sight was turning me on, but Harper knew. His shit-eating grin told me so.
Yet the second I snapped out of the trance, there was nothing left but rage. It’s one thing being a bit untidy, leaving dirty dishes on the side and clothes all over the floor, but having sex in our shared space? That’s inconsiderate, unforgivable and downright gross.
I’m still thinking about it when I wake up. It’s taken years of practice to focus during qualifiers, and I need the structure of my routine more than ever in order to centre myself and approach the race in the right frame of mind, but the images of last night are a constant in my brain. I fall into bed that night and have another terrible night’s sleep.
As a result, I’m late to my morning yoga practice. It’s way after eight when I finally roll out my mat and get going in the lounge, but I have to trust the process and follow the steps that I know work for me.
I’m in the sun salutation pose when Harper appears. I think for a second that he’s about to piss me off and watch me from the sofa again, but he’s fully dressed in team apparel and sprints out of the door before I can even say good morning.
He doesn’t say where he’s going, and when I check our shared calendar once I finish my routine there isn’t anything in his diary for this early in the morning.
It’s strange. I’m almost a little bit worried about what the hell he’s up to, but it only takes a flash of his rock-hard dick appearing in my mind to dash away any worry. Harper’s a selfish fucker, and I need to focus only on my own performance.
Several hours later, he returns from wherever he’s been, a blaze of silent fury trailing behind him. He locks himself in his room, the whole place eerily quiet until it’s time to leave for the track.
What’s even weirder is that he doesn’t say anything the whole way over. Normally he’s rattling on about anything and everything, or ribbing me about the yoga and meditation he’s‘caught’me doing more times than I care to admit.
If anyone accused me of having moved to doing it in the living room so he can watch, I would deny it to my dying breath. But you know what they say about love and war.
The second we enter the garage, I’m pulled into a couple of pre-race interviews on the track. There’s always so much more of a buzz when you’re being interviewed in front of the crowd. People cheer and chant, and I spot at least a dozen people in Hendersohm merch, some of whom are holding up signs with my name on them. The backdrop won’t do my reputation any damage, and my ego does a little happy dance.They’renot asking when I’m going to retire.
