Page 29 of The Key Holder

I didn’t want to keep yelling so I waited to see if he was coming to my room. Of course waiting meant looking at my phone. And looking at my phone meant scrolling through porn GIFs because I was a glutton for punishing my aching balls.

“I hope you’re thirsty,” Ford said. I could hear him coming down the hall.

I could definitely swallow something right about now. “Yeah, a little,” I said as I watched him enter my room carrying a glass filled with a light pink liquid and so much ice it was clinking against the side.

“You said you wanted a margarita so I stopped at the store after I got the stuff for the shower. It’s watermelon.” He held it out and I gladly took it.

“You didn’t have to do that.”

I shrugged. “You said you wanted margaritas.”

“I did say that.” The first sip told me it was just what I needed. “Oooh, and a sugared rim!”

“The rim’s my favorite part,” he said, watching me take another sip.

After an afternoon of edging, I threw caution to the wind and licked some of the sugar off in a not-so-subtle way before swallowing. “Mmmm, I don’t know what to say other than it’s delicious. Thank you.”

“My pleasure.” Ford smiled and crossed his beefy arms, lingering. “And you actually said you wanted to get drunk on margaritas, so there’s more where that came from.”

“So now you want me to get drunk?” I asked. “Weren’t you the one that grounded me for a month for sneaking a beer when I was fifteen?”

He shrugged. “I’m just trying to give you what you want.”

Then get over here, pull my shorts down, and get your tongue to work on your favorite part.

“That’s very kind of you.” I smiled, masking the onslaught of pornographic images my imagination was conjuring up at the same moment. I wondered if his cum erupted out of his cock like a thick syrup or it shot out all over the place like a cannon.

“You mind if I get to work on the drywall?” He gestured to the bathroom. “It’s gonna have to set for a while and then I can figure out where to put the tension rod maybe tomorrow.”

Fuck, this was torture.

“Sounds good.”

I lost track of how many margaritas I drank, but I didn’t care. It took my mind off my ankle and the cage and lowered my inhibitions enough that I could stare at Ford while he worked and not feel like a pervert.

Watching Ford get all sweaty while wearing a toolbelt and a tank top was now a core memory.

Though it had kept me half-hard the entire evening. I warned him when he got spackle on his face, but he just smiled at me, tried to wipe it off and made it worse.

I giggled—me, a grown ass man giggled at the sight of him—but he seemed to like it because he just kept smiling. Seeing him all dirty like that only made me imagine what he’d look like showering it all off later.

Staring had its benefits too. At one point when he bent over, his tank top rode up and I could see the waistband of what I hoped was a jockstrap. Unfortunately, his pants hadn’t dropped low enough for me to conclusively determine.

“Are you wearing a jockstrap?” I blurted.

“Pardon?” He stopped what he was doing and glanced over his shoulder.

Shit. “Nevermind.”

“Did you ask if I was wearing a jockstrap?” He came into the bedroom and wiped his brow, smearing more white spackle across his forehead.

“Just curious.” I shrugged. “You’ve got spackle all over you by the way.”

“It’ll come off in the shower,” he said, glancing at his arms. “And yes”—he winked—“it’s a jockstrap.”

“I knew it!”

Ford smiled. “I’ll have to get you drunk more often,” he said, then headed back into the bathroom. “Drunk Dylan is kind of fun.”