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“I, um. Sorry, can I take a rain check?” She’s already getting up, snatching her glasses and putting them on, then going about gathering her clothes. Not looking at me. “I really have to go now. Roommate’s probably freaking out that I’ve gone rogue, and I need to wash my underwear. Clean underwear is important. It really is urgent. So, um…”
She’s rambling. She’s nervous. She’s goddamn scared, or disgusted, or both.
I watch her pull on her clothes and shoes, my hard-on deflating and the weight on my chest returning. “You wash your underwear every night?”
She glances up, and in her eyes I see panic flashing. “Oh no. I mean, yes. If needed.”
“Candy, wait.” Jet gets up, and her gaze dips down to his crotch. He’s sporting a semi, too, and when she swallows hard, I know tonight’s outcome is sealed.
“Got to run.” She smiles quickly, distracted. “People to see, books to read, reviews to write and post, comments— I mean, you know, the usual. On top of the underwear washing. So much work. Typical Monday evening. Yeah, well, I’ll leave you guys to recover. Er, I mean, rest.”
And with that, she’s gone, fleeing our apartment, leaving me and Jet with matching semis and expressions of concern.
“What the fuck just happened?” he asks, and I shrug, trying hard not to let it affect me. My own mind screaming at me what a fucking bad idea this was is more than enough.
Time for damage control. Clean up, get her scent—both their scents—off me, and go running. Clear my head.
“You okay, mate?” Jet asks me. He’s studying me, a crease between his brows.
“Fine. How about you?” I zip up my pants and shove to my feet. His cum is stuck to my torso. I grab my T-shirt and wipe my chest down.
“I’m good.”
I acknowledge his answer with a brief dip of my chin and sidestep him to head to the bathroom.
“Dammit, J.” He grips my forearm, and I shake it off. He grabs it again, gr
inding my bones together. His eyes flash with anger. “She may be in shock, although she said she wanted it—but you don’t get to freak out on me, too, okay? We talked about this. You said you wanted it. Hell, you were the one who walked in there and started it.”
“And now I’m finishing it.” I clench the hand he’s holding into a fist. “This isn’t the same as watching a vid together, jerking off together. I can’t fucking do it.”
“But you just did. And came. Fucking hard.”
He’s right. Hell, he’s damn right, and just the memory of what we did has me hardening to full mast again.
“Let go, Jet.”
“No.” He presses his chest to mine, walks me backward.
“Fucking let go. I mean it.”
“No.” He reaches down, grips my dick, making me gasp, “No, you don’t. You don’t get to go before we address an issue. This issue.” Another squeeze and my eyes all but roll up in my head with pleasure. “Tell me now you don’t want me touching you. Push me away. Go ahead.”
I swallow, my throat dry. His hand on my dick feels amazing—and so does his bare chest pressed to mine. His dark eyes are heated with desire and his mouth…
I should stop thinking about his mouth.
And his scent that infiltrates my senses, something woodsy and spicy that has me hardening even more.
“Tell me to stop,” he says, his eyes glittering. “Tell me.”
I can’t. I try to find the words, to deny it, to insist, to refuse. Nothing comes to mind.
“This doesn’t mean anything,” I manage at last.
“No,” he agrees, “it doesn’t. It’s just physical release, J. No kissing and cuddling, I swear. So why fight it?”
There are many answers to this. I’m not fucking gay, obviously. I said I wouldn’t touch him, or let him touch me. He’s my best friend, dammit. Like a brother. You don’t touch your brother that way… don’t think of him that way.
