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“Fuck, you’re big,” Miles blurted. “Sorry. I’m not sure why I said that. It’s a compliment though.”
Beckett stared at him, and his lips moved as if he was about to say something, but then he rubbed his face again.
“Why are you hard?” Miles asked.
Beckett removed his hand. “What?”
“I asked, why are you hard? What’s your reason—”
“I know what you asked.” Beckett swallowed. “You really don’t know?”
“No. That’s why I’m asking.”
Beckett muttered something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like Jesus. “Why are you hard?” he flung back.
“Not sure. Probably because I was pressed up against a warm body.” And not just any warm body. You. But Miles couldn’t say that aloud. They’d already said enough weird stuff that night as it was.
“You really aren’t going to deal with that?” Beckett’s eyes flicked down.
“Maybe I’ll do it after you fall asleep.” Miles frowned. “Does that sound psycho? Jerking myself right next to you.”
Beckett made a choking noise.
“Embarrassed? Sorry. But you started it.”
“I’m not…” Beckett sighed, then sucked in a deep breath. “I wouldn’t mind. Really.”
Miles’s stomach swooped. It almost sounded like Beckett wanted Miles to deal with it.
“Just get it over with,” Beckett added. “We don’t want to deal with this all night.”
Ah, that was more likely: Beckett was simply being logical. He was right, though. It was getting late. They should get to sleep.
“Fine,” Miles said. “But only if you do it too.”
Beckett stiffened.
“You’re hard too,” Miles explained. “If we do it together, it’ll be less weird.” Miles had heard stories of friends doing it together all the time.
“You’d really be okay with it?” Beckett sounded doubtful.
“Yeah. You?” Miles attempted to sound nonchalant, but he felt restless. Would he be able to see Beckett’s cock? Would there be enough light for that?
He’d be able to see his face though. And hear him…
“Yeah,” Beckett breathed.
“Okay,” Miles said.
“Okay.” Beckett closed his eyes and slid one hand down the front of pants, and there was the soft sound of skin against fabric. Then Beckett touched himself, and Miles knew that he had because his face changed for a millisecond—jaw tensing, a suck of air between slightly parted lips.
Miles slid a hand down his pants too because there was no way he couldn’t touch himself to the sight of Beckett like that. As soon as his fingers grazed his hot, stiff cock, he let out a involuntary moan. A second later, his cheeks flamed with mortification until he saw Beckett’s reaction. Beckett wasn’t frowning, and he didn’t look weirded out or disgusted. Instead, he stared at Miles with intensity, his hand already moving faster.
They were really doing this. Miles decided to stop being embarrassed and let his lust take over.
He stroked his dick up and down. Thrust into his fingers. Teased the tip. He brought his hand up to his mouth and, keeping eye contact with Beckett, spit into his palm—the very same palm that had steamed with Beckett’s breath thirty minutes earlier.
Beckett’s face tightened, almost like he was in pain, then copied Miles’s action. Saliva dripped from his lips to his palm, shining and gleaming.
