“Fuck,” I curse out loud this time, weighing what comes next against everything I’ve built in my life—my career, my control, the walls I’ve constructed to keep this exact part of myself contained.
The decision forms in my chest, heavy and reckless. “Spread your legs.”
Wyatt’s breath catches, but he obeys immediately, thighs parting wider on the bench. The towel stretches across his lap, still hiding what I want to see. It’s not enough.
“Put one foot up on the bench.”
Without hesitation, he pulls his right foot up, planting it on the edge of the wooden bench. The position hikes his towel higher, exposing the underside of his balls and the sensitive skin of his taint. My mouth goes dry at the sight.
My hand moves to my own lap, rubbing my painfully hard cock through the towel. I can’t tear my eyes away from the shadow between his legs, the promise of what’s just hidden from view.
“Take off your towel,” I say, the words coming out more like a growl than a command.
Wyatt’s fingers move to the knot at his waist, tugging it loose. The towel falls open, exposing him fully to my gaze. His cock is beautiful—long and straight with a slight upward curve, flushed dark and already leaking at the tip as it lies hard against his stomach.
I notice his hand hovering near his thigh, fingers twitching with the need to touch himself. But he waits, looking to me for permission. The realization sends another surge of heat through my body. He’s a natural at this, responding to the unspoken dynamics between us like he was made for it.
“It looks painful,” I say, nodding toward his straining erection. “Give it a stroke. Just one.”
His hand wraps around his shaft, and he hisses at the contact, eyes fluttering shut. His grip is firm as he strokes from base to tip, his thumb collecting the bead of precum that forms at the crown.
“Again,” I instruct, my own hand pressing harder against my cock through the towel. “Slower. Let me see how you like to be touched.”
Wyatt complies, his fist sliding up his length with purposeful slowness. He whimpers at the sensation, the sound going straight to my cock. More precum beads at his tip, and I have to bite the inside of my cheek to stop myself from leaning forward to taste it. I want him in my mouth so badly, but I know I can’t cross that line. We can’t touch. That’s the only rule keeping this from spinning completely out of control.
My hand works faster over my towel, the friction maddening but not enough. I need more.
“Have you ever played with your ass before?” The question comes out rough and urgent.
Wyatt’s eyes widen slightly, but he doesn’t hesitate. “No. Never.”
“Suck on your middle finger. Get it nice and wet.”
He brings his left hand to his mouth, maintaining eye contact as he slides his middle finger between his lips. My hips buck against my hand at the sight of his hollowed cheeks as he sucks.
“Now take it out,” I say when I can’t stand watching anymore. “Rub it against your hole. Just the outside.”
Wyatt adjusts his position, lifting his hips and reaching between his legs. I can see the moment his wet finger makes contact with his rim—his whole body tenses, and a shocked gasp escapes his lips.
“That’s it,” I encourage, voice dropping lower. “How does it feel?”
“Different,” he admits, breath coming faster now. “But good.”
His other hand returns to his cock, stroking with more purpose now as he continues to circle his finger around his entrance. The dual stimulation has him panting, little gasps and moans falling from his lips that he seems unable to control.
“Rub harder,” I instruct, my own hand finally slipping beneath my towel to grip my cock properly. The relief is immediate and intense. I stroke myself slowly, matching Wyatt’s rhythm. “Press in just a little if it feels good.”
He moans louder at that, his finger pressing against his rim but not quite breaching it. He’s not ready for that yet; we both know it. But the suggestion alone has him leaking more precum onto his stomach.
My free hand moves between my own legs, reaching back to territory I haven’t explored in years. I feel the fine hair surrounding my hole, tugging slightly at it as I watch Wyatt pleasure himself. The slight pain grounds me, reminds me that this is real. I let my fingers drift closer to my entrance, circling it as I continue to stroke my cock with my other hand.
Wyatt’s eyes are locked on my movements, widening as he realizes what I’m doing. “Gray,” he moans, the sound of my name on his lips nearly undoing me.
He’s stroking himself faster now, his movements becoming erratic as he chases his pleasure. His finger presses more insistently against his hole, and I can tell he’s close.
“Gray,” he pants again, “I can’t—I’m going to—”
I know someone might hear us, but I’m beyond caring at this point. I just hope the exclusivity of this club means the staff knows to mind their business.
