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Darian
The sun has set behind the buildings when I open my eyes. All three of us are still somehow crammed into Becky’s bed. It’s almost a more impressive feat than the banging we just had.
Almost.
I’ve still got a hard-on. It’s pressed up against someone’s sleeping thigh. I press it a little against that bare flesh as I stretch myself out.
Hard to believe I’m still capable of spouting wood, given the epic fuck session we just had. It was some porno-level activity. AVN award-worthy fucking, for sure.
I try to recall as much of it as possible. Which is a lot. Hell, let’s be honest, I was storing some of that shit in case I need it for future alone time.
Speaking of alone time, I could use a little of that right now to get some thoughts sorted.
I slip out of bed, being careful not to wake anyone. I sort through the jumble of clothes and grab what I’m pretty sure is my, not Peter’s underwear. I carry all my clothes in a big bundle out into the living room.
There, I get dressed. The better to not wake anyone. With any luck, I can just slip out of here, unnoticed. Not that we’ve settled the issue with Becky. I mean, things can’t go on forever with thethreeof us like that, can it?
On the other hand… would that be so bad?
I pop into the bathroom for a piss and to freshen up. Splash some water on my face. When I come out, Darian is sitting in the living room. He’s only wearing his boxers. The fly is a little bit open, giving me a glimpse of his cock that not so long ago I was getting a complete eyeful of.
Shaking my head to wipe those thoughts away, I set my jaw and stare at him.
“That was… something,” he says quietly.
“Guess so.”
“You didn’t think it was pretty epic?” I hate that he’s using the same word to describe that hump sesh as I did.
“It was pretty OK.”
“The way you came makes me think you thought it was more than ‘pretty OK’.”
“Not like it was my first rodeo or anything.”
“Oh, that I know.”
Where the fuck is Peter going with this?I wonder. We should make the situation clear to one another. Not that I’m necessarily clear on what the situationis. Or what itshouldbe. So I decide to test the waters with the safest thing I can think of.
“What happened doesn’t make us fucking friends or anything,” I tell him.
“Oh, I know that.”
“Good. I mean, it doesn’t even make me like you. You’re still a fucking prick.”
“And I still fucking dislike you, you goddamn asshole. That’s for damn sure.”
“Glad we’re clear on that point, then.”
“Like crystal.”
There we are then. Except, I know that’s not everything. I know that for all the tough words we’ve just exchanged, something else is going on.
We look at one another. It’s like a fucking staring contest. Who’s going to blink first?
In this case, that means who’s going to say what we’re really thinking, hell, maybe even really feeling, first?
The staring contest lasts longer than even I would have expected. No one shares a fucking thing. Because the truth is that we’re both a pair of alpha males. Proud dudes. Strong silent types. We’re not ones for confession.
