That thought slides sideways, and I yank it back.
Molly. Focus.
I think about her hand on my thigh in the truck, her thumb tracing small circles on the denim—the warmth of her. I think about the way she looked at me outside her door—”Do you want to come in?”—and how any normal twenty-three-year-old man would have been through that door before she finished the sentence.
I hold onto that.
I glance once more at the empty lot, then yank my belt open with aclinkof the buckle. The zipper follows, before I shove my jeans and boxers down just enough, pulling my cock out into the cool night air—already leaking and throbbing—and wrap my fist around it.
A bit of pre-cum drips from the tip and lands onto the pavement below me near my boot, but I don’t give a fuck because the relief my cock feels from being fisted is enough to send me over the edge already. My free hand goes flat against the metal of the truck as I face it and begin jacking off.
I close my eyes and I think about Molly—her face, the yellow dress, her thumb on my thigh.
My cock softens.
“No,” I mutter, teeth clenched. “No—No, this isn’t—fuck!”
I try harder. I imagine her in the truck, her hands on me. Her mouth goes to my jaw the way she does when she’s trying to get my attention and I?—
The ink stops me.
In my head, the hands sliding up my ribs are tattooed, with rings on two of the fingers.
Colt’s rough hands replace Molly’s and work my cock.
I shove the image away, but my grip tightens, my hips moving before I tell them to.
Molly. Molly. Come on?—
But she’s gone.
What replaces her is Colt at the pool table, leaning into my space with his thigh pressed to mine, his voice low and warm near my ear. I think about the way my whole body went tight and hot, and how I stood there, hating him for it.
My breath catches.
Colt across the bonfire, watching me kiss Molly, jaw tight, knuckles white around his beer. The jealousy and rage he had seeing me with her. My cock leaks at the thought of him watching me with her.
I did not just get hotter thinking about him watching me with her.
I did not?—
The hallway.
And then, Colt in the hallway.
The full weight of him pressing me into the wall. He’s not soft, and doesn’t smell sweet. It’s just a man’s body against mine with nothing apologetic about it. His fingertips dragged down my chest like he owned every inch they touched.
My hips are moving now, working into my fist, and I have completely lost the war. My brain keeps throwing things at me, and my body keeps saying,Yes. More. Keep going.
I think about Colt’s jaw when he’s pissed off, the way the tendons in his forearm flex when he grips something, the chain around his neck that catches light, and the particular way he looks at me, like he sees every single thing I’m trying to hide and finds it funny and fascinating andhis.
Wrong, wrong, wrong. This isn’t who you are. You are Rhett Thornwood. You do not stand in dark parking lots with your jeans open thinking about a man’s hands on you, a man’schest against yours, and the way a man’s voice drops when he’s got you cornered?—
I push rational out of the way. I’m close—embarrassingly close. Because apparently three minutes of losing an argument with myself is all it takes, and that’s a piece of information about me that I’m going to have to live with?—
The Bar’s door opens, then Jesse Palmer and his girlfriend barrel out, laughing about something.
I go completely still.
