Page 74 of Bruised

I keep letting out my high-pitched, breathy whines as I feel the orgasm building alongside the rush of embarrassment and paranoia. I’m desperate to come so this can be over with and the risk of discovery can go away. When I jerk off, that mindset usually makes the orgasm take even longer to arrive than when I just try to focus on my pleasure, but whenever I’m with Mason, that rule doesn’t apply.

Mason sucks my cock with the same enthusiasm as I suck his, but with more power behind his movements, more determination to get me off, essentially forcing the orgasm out of me.

I’m coming before I know it, and my cock jumps as I shoot into his mouth. He keeps sucking me until it’s over, and when he looks up, his lips are wet and crooked in a smirk.

He strokes my hips for a bit, making slow circles with his thumbs. “You know what I think?”

“Know… know what?” I ask, my brain still in orgasm land.

“I think you like this, puppy.”

“This?” I ask, confused.

“The thrill of discovery. The danger.”

I stare at him, still catching my breath. “What?”

“It’s fun, isn’t it? You like how it makes you feel.”

I shake my head, eyes closed.

“How I make you feel,” Mason adds.

Of course I like the way he makes me feel; I want him, but if Oliver wasn’t part of the equation, I wouldn’t want him any less.

Does he think I get off on the fact that we’re keeping it a secret? If that’s what he thinks, he really doesn’t know me at all.

Back on dry land, I wrap myself in a towel and shake like a dog to get some of the water out of my hair. I can feel Mason watching me from the pool, but for once, he doesn’t make a comment.

Oliver calls me for dinner, and I slide the patio door open and step into the house. It’s surprisingly easy to act as if nothing has happened—even if I feel guilty and embarrassed that Mason just made me come in the pool. If nothing else, this summer has taught me to step up my poker-face game.

Oliver plates the food, and I tug on the end of my T-shirt, shaking it to speed up the drying process. The motion makes it sink low, exposing my collarbone, and Oliver’s eyes zero in on my neck.

“What’s that?” he asks, pointing.

“What?” I reflexively put my hand up to my neck.

“That.” He pushes my hand away.

“Oh, that. Uh… some kind of rash?” I can’t believe I haven’t prepared a lie for a situation like this. “I’m allergic to, um, chlorine.”

Oliver raises a brow. “Is that right?”

I nod enthusiastically. “Yep, that’s why. I get all itchy and red, and sometimes I get these splotchy blue things.” I wave dismissively to my neck.

Oliver looks at me with raised brows. Fuck, he’s not buying it. Who would buy a lie like that? Oh no, is he figuring it out? Is it over now? He’s going to blow up our friendship and throw me out. He’ll hate me, he’ll leave me…

“Okay,” he says with a shrug. “Anyway, let’s eat.”

My shoulders slump with relief. Is he buying my lie? Really? He’s so uptight about sex and intimacy, so maybe he doesn’t even know what a hickey is.

We take a seat at the kitchen table, and my eyes bulge at the oven-baked dish. Macaroni and cheese with a crispy breadcrumb topping. My favorite. Whenever we had it in the school cafeteria, I used to gobble up three plates all by myself while Oliver watched me and laughed in delight.

I get stuck staring at the dish for so long, Oliver frowns and asks, “Something wrong?”

“You made mac and cheese.”

“Yeah, isn’t it your favorite?”