Chapter 5: Daylight Damage
I woke up warm.
Not cozy warm. Not tucked-in-with-clean-sheets warm.
Body warm.
The kind of warm that immediately sets off internal alarms, a flush spreading from my core outward, skin prickling with heat that wasn't just from the room.
There was weight beside me. Solid. Breathing. Human. Bare skin pressed against mine in a way that made my spine go rigid before my eyes even opened, the smooth, firm texture of another's flesh molding to my side, intimate and unyielding.
For one glorious half-second, my brain tried to lie to me.
Hotel heater. Bad dream. European heat wave.
Then I felt it.
A leg. Heavy and slung over mine. A thigh pressed flush against my own, skin on skin, the coarse hair of his leg brushing mine, intimate in a way that absolutely did not belong in the sober hours of the morning. The warmth radiated from where our bodies connected, his muscular thigh draping possessively, the subtle pulse of his veins against my skin sending unwelcome sparks through me.
I opened my eyes.
White ceiling. Too bright. Morning light slicing through the thin curtains like it had a personal vendetta. The distant hum of traffic and bicycles and Amsterdam being very awake while I absolutely was not.
And then I turned my head.
David.
Naked.
On his back, sprawled like he’d passed out mid-sentence. One arm flung dramatically over his face, mouth slightly open, chest rising and falling in slow, deep breaths. Completely unguarded. Completely exposed. His body was a study in relaxed masculinity—broad shoulders tapering to a defined chest dusted with dark hair that trailed down his abdomen in a tempting line, abs subtly flexing with each breath, leading to hips that framed his arousal unmistakably. His cock lay heavy against his thigh, semi-erect even in sleep, thick and veined, the skin flushed a deeper shade, curving slightly in a way that made my mouth go dry.
Completely pressed against me.
And then my body registered the last, catastrophic detail.
We were both hard.
Mine throbbed insistently, straining upward against the sheet, the head swollen and sensitive, a bead of pre-cum glistening at the tip as if my body refused to acknowledge the awkwardness. His, too, had stiffened further in the proximity, rising from its rest, the length impressive and rigid, pulsing faintly with his heartbeat, the foreskin pulled back just enough to reveal the smooth, flushed glans.
I froze.
Not metaphorically. Not emotionally.
Physically.
Every muscle locked up like I was prey and the predator was daylight, my own erection aching in protest at the sudden tension, demanding attention I couldn't give.
Oh no.
Oh no no no no.
The memories came crashing back in full HD. No blur. No merciful haze. Just sharp, vivid recall that felt almost rude in its clarity—the way his hands had roamed my body last night, fingers tracing the ridges of my ribs, thumbs brushing over my nipples until they pebbled hard. The heat of his mouth on mine, tasting of whiskey and desire.
The kissing. His mouth. The way my name had sounded when he said it, low and ragged. The way I had said his, gasping it against his neck as our hips ground together, erections rubbing through fabric until we stripped it away.
God.
My throat tightened. I swallowed hard and stared back up at the ceiling, as if it might suddenly collapse and save me from having to exist in this moment, my cock twitching traitorously a the recollection, hardening even more despite my panic.
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