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Donovan
I close the door to my locker and Jason’s dumb grin is hanging behind it.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hey yourself,” I reply.
At the hospital, we’re not roommates. We’re not friends. We’re just coworkers—he’s a surgeon, I’m an internist. Nothing more.
But he shifts towards me, his broad shoulders leaning against the lockers. “Look…I just wanted to say, thank you again for letting me stay with you.”
“Don’t mention it,” I say.
“Seriously.” Those blue eyes meet mine. “Thank you. I don’t know how to repay you.”
He gives me one of those wide, big smiles of his. It draws me—a moth to the flame. Maybe because I am all darkness and teeth and he is as vulnerable as a patient in open-heart surgery, pulsing and throbbing in front of me. Before I know it, I’ve taken a step closer, pulled in by his magnetism.
His eyes meet mine. His fingers brush my cheek. He leans in and when he kisses me, it’s wet and hot and deep. A moan leaves me before I can stop it. I’m against the locker now, someone’s door grating against my back, but I don’t care—I can’t—not with his tongue swirling around my mouth and his body pressed flushed against mine.
I grip his arms, his chest. I’m marking him, claiming him, mine. Our bodies are crammed together now, his meaty thigh between my legs, and I feel his erection at my hip. Even through we’re still both fully dressed, the friction between us is insane. I’m so hard, it hurts. His tongue curls purposefully, licking my tongue in long, slow swipes, and all I can think about is how good it would feel against my dick. I can feel every lash of his tongue to my groin and I’m rutting against him, hips jerking—pathetically desperate and utterly unable to care. He seals our kiss and murmurs, “Cum for me, Angel…”
And so I do.
But it’s not in his arms. When I burst, I’m lying in my bed, my fingers twisted up in the sheets, and I growl as an agonizing orgasm bursts from me. I ruin my briefs and my sheets.
I’m instantly awake, the horror of my reality gripping my heart, even as my cock twitches achingly against the large, wet blotch on my underwear.
I grab my pillow, put it over my face, and groan into it. No, no, no. I am not having wet dreams about Jason.
Fuck my entire fucking life.
I’ve got to pull myself together.
I toss the pillow off and peak under my briefs to assess the damage. I’m still half-hard and my dick feels like it’s been wrapped in barbed wire. It’s not finished. It wants badly for me to take it in my hand and to jerk it hard and fast to a real, toe-curling orgasm. But I can’t. I know the second I wrap my fingers around the engorged organ, thoughts of Jason, his smug-smile, and his lickable washboard abdomen are going to flood my brain, and I don’t need to fan that fire.
I can’t. Jason-fucking-King is everything that’s wrong with this world. And my cock has standards.
I’ve already leaked onto my sheets, so I have to awkwardly cup my groin to keep it from spilling out more as I penguin walk to the bathroom. I kick off my briefs and turn on the shower. The cold water washes away my cum, sweat, and humiliation.
I haven’t had a wet dream since I was a teenager. Maybe having a man in my house is doing strange things to me. Or the lack of sex is making me backed up. I’m sure my therapist would have a thing or two to say about this. Something about unresolved trauma and sadomasochism.
I grab a bar of soap in the shape of a seashell and scrub until I’m clean and limp and shivering from the cold. Only then do I get out and towel myself off. I grab a clean pair and pull those over my legs along with a pair of black jeans a loose, white t-shirt. I’ve got to do something about my sheets, so I ball them up in my arms and, barefoot, carry them out of my bedroom.
Three weeks. That’s how long Jason has been in my house. Three. Fucking. Weeks.
When I leave my bedroom, he’s there. Laying on my couch. Shirtless. Bare footed. Eyes closed, listening to earphones that are plugged into his phone.
Small detail about Jason—he always walks around barefoot. I’m not a foot guy. It’s not my thing. But right now, watching him with his bare feet on the armrest, and I want to lick the curve of his arch to the tip of his toes.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
His eyes open when he sees me and he pauses his meditation to pop an earphone out. “Hey—I’m not bothering you, am I?”
Yes. A million times, yes. “Don’t worry about it,” I mutter and cross the living room, eyes avoiding his bare chest, making a beeline for the laundry.
I have double-doors that slide open to my stacked washer and dryer. Except when I pull them open, I see Jason’s wet clothes stuffed in my washer.
Jason stands and comes over to me, a dog ready to claim his mess. “Shit—sorry. Let me help with that.”
