Obiora waited a beat. He shoved a hand between his legs after the sound of the shower came on, biting his lower lip hard.
Was Ejiro going to jerk off? To thoughts of him? Of them? Together? In this bed, maybe?
“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” Obiora squeezed his dick—once, twice, helplessly thrusting into the pressure, then dropped his hand away, breathing heavily.
This was bad. This was fucking bad. Because it was all well and good when the attraction was one sided.
But having the possibility of Ejiro being attracted to him?
Obiora was so fucking fucked.
EIGHTEEN
EJIRO PRESSED HIS BACK AGAINST the bathroom door, clenching his eyes shut, his hands fisted at his sides, like if he stood still for long enough, the hot ache between his legs would disappear.
Instead, the stillness seemed to make him more aware of his arousal, and without his conscious control or permission, he began to roll his hips, biting his lip, his dick desperate for friction.
Obiora, he thought, shaking, his desire burning hotter at the mere thought of his name alone.
Fuck. Obiora. Obiora.
He could—just a little—just to take the edge off—
With a furious growl, he ripped himself away from the door and headed to the bath to switch on the shower. It came out hot within a second, steam rising from the surface, then he began to take off his clothes.
“Oh.” His gasp was soft, barely there, as he tried to get his jeans off without further stimulating his throbbing dick. “Uhn. Christ. Fuck. God.”
Then he was in bath and underneath the water, closing his eyes and tilting his face up into the spray, trying to think of anything, absolutely anything but Obiora talking about sexual and sensual attraction with a voice that sounded like sex itself.
He managed to pretend he wasn’t going to touch himself for one minute, at most, before his hand was wrapped around his stiff length and he was stroking furiously, thinking about Obiora’s thick lips, his broad chest, his deep fucking voice, and his big hands—oh God, oh God, oh God.
He curled in on himself, biting back his gasps, slowing down his strokes until he was shuddering with every pull of his hand. His dick felt extremely sensitive—he hadn’t touched himself in so long—and the desire in his gut felt like the hottest flames from hell. Each slow stroke had him whining and curling his toes, shaking with a pleasure so intense it was indescribable.
No one had ever looked at him the way Obiora had looked at him. His dark eyes had practically burned, like Ejiro was the sexiest thing he’d ever seen; like Ejiro was a delicious piece of dessert and Obiora wanted to devour him whole.
“Ah,” Ejiro gasped, his strokes speeding up again. He had to come. He needed to come.
His thoughts raced as he imagined what would have happened if he’d kissed Obiora the way he’d been dying to—the way he was still dying to—if Obiora would have kissed him back just as desperately. He imagined those big hands on his hips, pulling him until he was on top of Obiora, their bodies pressed close, every inch from head to toe.
What would it feel like to just—grind against him until he came? To have those thick thighs wrapped around his hips? Oh Jesus. Oh God. What would Obiora sound like in the throes of passion? What would he look like? Would he bite his sexy lips, head tilted back, throat vulnerably bared? Would he groan in that deep, sexy voice?
Ejiro lifted his free hand, tentatively, to pinch one of his stiff, sensitive nipples, imagining Obiora taking the dark bud into his mouth, nipping it lightly with his teeth, and that was it.
He came with a strangled grunt, pumping and squeezing his dick until he was whining and oversensitive and had to force himself to stop. He nearly slipped when he was done, the orgasm so intense it left his legs feeling like jelly. He collapsed against the tiled wall, trembling all over, trying to catch his breath.
“Fuck,” he gasped, panting. “Jesus Christ.”
His language filter always slipped when he was overly emotional or aroused, which never failed to make him blush after he’d calmed down.
He covered his face with his hands, heat blooming underneath his skin. “Oh dear God. Oh Jesus.” Embarrassment at what he’d just done washed over him in a tidal wave. When last had he touched himself to the erotic imaginings of another person? He literally couldn’t remember. Whenever Ejiro jerked off, he did so to the imaginings of fictional people in arousing situations; rarely had his fantasies ever involved himself. Or anyone real, for that matter.
It was as if, when Obiora had described what it was to feel sexual attraction—when he’d specifically mentioned it being about “seeing and responding to people as sexual beings”—a switch in Ejiro had flipped, just like that.
He’d blinked, and Obiora wasn’t just “Obiora” anymore; he was “Obiora, a sexual being”. The thought had made Ejiro’s brain short-circuit, and then he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about it. Obiora practically exuded sex appeal like it was a freaking cologne, it was a miracle Ejiro had never really noticed. Well, not a miracle; apparently just his sexuality. The suddenness of Ejiro’s attraction had been so intense it had taken everything in him to keep from jumping Obiora’s bones right then and there.
“Oh dear God,” Ejiro repeated again.
He shook his head and reached for the soap, determined to put all thoughts of Obiora’s apparent sex appeal to the back of his mind. Some part of him felt like he should be freaking out more about this—did this mean he was apparently attracted to men? Was he bisexual as well as demisexual? Could he be both or would he have to choose? Perhaps there was even a specific term for a bisexual demisexual, what the heck did he know?
