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He was crying, lying on his side with an arm over his face, his shoulders shaking till I woke him up.
Now he looks at my pants, his face hard with fury. "That's not supposed to happen."
I look down at myself. Yeah, I've got a boner. What the fuck does he mean that it's not supposed to happen? "It does, in the middle of the night! Go to bed and get off the roof. How about that?"
“You like the idea of me in bed?” His smirk is as mean as I've seen it.
“No, I don’t. I don’t like the idea of you anywhere in this house, but no one asked me. I’ve done nothing but be nice to you, and you’ve done nothing but—”
“Be an angry angel?” He grins.
For a second, I feel gut-punched. I can't even open my mouth. When I do, the words spill out in a rush. “Where did you see that? You went in my fucking bedroom?”
He shrugs, his face hard despite his smug smile. “Your mom said I could use your bench press.” I've noticed he's been looking bigger lately, especially his upper body. More like a football player.
He arches one of his dark brows. “You’re good, Millsy. That shit was like looking in the mirror.”
My heart beats so hard, I can feel it in my eyeballs, but I can't let him see. “You’re flattered because I drew you? You must have nothing else to get your dick up.”
“I’ve got plenty." He leans back on one arm, crossing his legs at the ankle as his cruel eyes assess me. "It’s you who doesn’t. It seems you’ve only got me.”
“I don’t want you.” I laugh, like it's ridiculous I'd ever want him.
He arches his brows and looks down at my lower half. I've got a hand over my hard-on, pushing it down so he can't see it. I’m so hard, my junk feels like I just got kneed there.
“Show me," he says. "Lie on your back.”
“I would fucking never, dipshit.”
“Because you’re hard enough to have a sword fight with that thing in your pants. I bet you lie in bed and think about me out here, right outside your window. Bet you sit inside and watch.”
He moves his shoulder so his pecs flex, and my dick throbs against my will. I grit my teeth. "I would never think about you. You would never be my type." My voice sounds raspy, and I hate that.
“You know where all my scars are." He lifts that condescending brow again, and my heart hammers.
There’s a scar on his forehead and another on his throat—that I drew when I sketched him. “I can’t help seeing you. Since you live in my house. You’ve got a scar on your neck that everyone can see.”
“Only if they look.” Ezra runs a hand down his chest, fingertips resting on his washboard abs. “I hear you in there, working out every day. Almost as much as I am. Who’s it for, Millsy? Are you seeing your boy Arnie?”
“Jealous?”
“Of course not. I'm curious. I’d like to know how hard you get for me. I’d like to see sweet Millsy with a big, hard boner. To see the blush on your cheeks.”
“I don’t blush, but you do, dickhead. I saw your ears turn red on the dock.”
“Did it make you want to suck them?” He sneers.
“Fuck you.”
He leans forward, and his eyes burn mine. “That’s what you want.” He scoots closer, and his hand grips my knee, squeezing hard as my mind spins. Then he reaches down below my balls and cups them through my plaid pants.
I can’t move, can't even fucking breathe, as he rolls them, then drags his hand up my erection, pressing with his palm then gripping, his hand wrapped around me, moving slow and firm, back and forth. My eyes shut as pleasure grips me like a fucking vice, and then he pinches my cockhead so hard I see stars.
“Well hung, Miller. Who knew?”
I clock the stupid fuck so hard he almost falls off the roof.
“Next time I’ll push you off, you sick fuck.”
Ezra
I walk to my window with the first twitch of a boner that I’ve felt in almost nine months. When I get into my room, I wedge a desk chair underneath the bathroom door handle in case Millsy wants an encore and lie on the floor on my back beside the bed. I reach an arm below the bed skirt, stick my hand into the underbelly of the box spring.
My fingers tremble as I brush them atop one of the plywood boards. I bump one of the bottles with my pinky, and two fall down into the box spring cover.
I draw them out in one fist, holding them above my head and blinking at the labels.
I can't read them. Can't move. I roll over on my side and barely hold a groan in.
