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I straighten, approaching the mirror. Gripping the counter, I lean forward, and stare directly into the green eyes peering back at me.
“Who are you?” I ask.
I dip my gaze down to my lips, frowning. Then lower to where my Adam’s apple dips with my swallow.
My broad chest flexes, collarbones protruding. Pecs and biceps swelling, firming…straining under my skin, making the ink ripple like it’s coming to life.
I release a shuddery breath when I see it—a bruise right next to where the ink trails off in the center of my chest.
Skyler.
As if prompted by his name, the memories return with a vengeance, so hard and fast it punches a small noise from my throat.
My nipples harden, tingling, and the image of him bowing his head and biting one skates to the forefront of my mind.
No. No! This isn’t happening.
Whirling around, I finish stripping off my clothes, kicking them away. Steam billows out from the standing shower. My cock fills, blood rushing from the base.
I slide the door shut and turn my back to the glass, facing the wall. Standing directly under the spray, I squeeze my eyes shut and tip my head back.
My hand finds my rigid length, and I squeeze it in my fist with a groan.“Fuckkkkkk.”
Hot water spills down my cheeks, cascading over my shoulders and down my chest. My free hand slams against the tiled wall and I bow my head to the cool, hard surface.
“What the fuck?” I mutter, breaths choppy.
I run my hand up and down my cock, twisting it right at the tip just like I like it.
Just like Skyler did before dragging his fist down and bending over me, taking my dick in that pretty little mouth of his.
“I, uh, never did this before.”
Choked, guttural groans and grunts escape as my movements pick up.
“You taste good.”
“Fuck!” I shout, digging my forearm into the shower wall, bracing myself as I thrust into my fist, imagining it’s his mouth. His sweet, shy, warm tight mouth.
I bite back a scream.
Opening my eyes, I glare down at my hand. My cock. It’s been so long since I had any interest in getting off—months. How many times have I tried jerking off when I couldn’t sleep? How many times did I try to pass time and kill the boredom with my hand, pretending it was some nameless face, a pair of tits, a sweet peach of an ass.
I bet Skyler’s ass is sweet.
“F-f-fuck,” I chatter, shaking my head.
I try to bring images of women to my head, but it’s pointless. All I see is him.
Then I try to imagine another man, someone more burly, closer to my stature and age—someone who’s notbarely eighteen—thinking and hoping maybe he just unlocked something that was always there. Something I just never looked too closely at.
I’m confused. That’s all this is. I’m jonesing for a drink, and I’m not thinking straight.
But any time I screw my eyes shut, and give myself to the pleasure igniting my veins, it’s not a glass of brandy I see, or an ice cold beer dripping with condensation.
Nor is it the idea of a drink that has my mouth watering.
It’s him.
