Chapter 7: 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 at the recollection, hardening even more despite my panic.
Okay. Think.
Don’t move.
Don’t breathe.
If I stay perfectly still, maybe this will turn out to be some kind of vivid nightmare fueled by bad club vodka and regret, even as the scent of his skin—musky, masculine, mixed with the faint salt of sweat—filled my nostrils.
I carefully tested a shift, just a fraction of an inch, trying to ease my leg free from under his, feeling the slide of our skin, slick from the night's exertions.
Huge mistake.
David made a sound.
Low. Sleepy. Soft.
Dangerously close to a moan, vibrating through his chest and into mine where our sides touched.
His leg tightened instinctively around mine, pulling me closer, like his body had decided I belonged there even if his brain hadn’t caught up yet. His thigh flexed, muscles bunching against me, and I felt the brush of his balls against my hip, soft and warm, his erection now fully hard, pressing insistently against my side, the heat of it searing through the thin barrier of air between us.
My breath hitched.
I stared at the ceiling again like it was my last hope, my own arousal mirroring his, throbbing with need, the vein along the underside pulsing in time with my racing heart.
Okay. Cool. Great. Fantastic.
This is happening.
Right on cue, David stirred.
His arm slid down from his face. He blinked once. Then again. His eyes focused, still hazy with sleep, dark lashes framing those blue depths.
They landed on me.
Then flicked down, lingering on the tented sheet over my groin, where my erection strained obviously, the outline clear and unapologetic.
Then widened.
The color drained from his face so fast I thought he might actually pass out, even as his own cock jerked slightly, betraying his body's interest despite the shock.
“Oh,” he croaked, his voice rough from sleep, throat working as he swallowed.
“Hey,” I said, way too casually for a man naked in bed with his best friend, both of us visibly aroused and definitely not supposed to be, my erection refusing to wilt under his gaze. “Morning.”
He jolted upright like the bed had electrocuted him, yanking the sheet up with him in a desperate, pointless attempt at modesty, though it did little to hide the prominent bulge of his hard-on tenting the fabric. The mattress bounced. The air shifted, carrying the faint, intoxicating scent of our mingled arousal.
“What—” He scrubbed a hand down his face, fingers digging into his eyes, his biceps flexing with the motion, drawing my eyes to the play of muscles under his skin. “What the fuck.”
“Yeah,” I said softly. “That.”
Silence slammed down between us.
Not the comfortable kind. Not the sleepy-morning kind.
This was loud, bright, unforgiving silence. The kind where every second stretches and judges you, amplifying the awareness of our naked forms, the way his chest hair curled slightly damp with sweat, the defined V of his hips leading down to where his erection still raged.
David stared at me like a deer frozen in the headlights of an emotional eighteen-wheeler, his gaze darting involuntarily to my body, tracing the lines of my own chest, the trail of hair down my stomach to my throbbing cock.
“I think,” he said slowly, carefully, like the wrong word might explode the room, “we should probably talk about last night.”
My stomach flipped so hard I thought I might actually be sick, even as a fresh wave of heat pooled in my groin.
“Totally,” I said immediately. Too fast. Too eager. “Absolutely. Communication. Transparency. Growth. Very adult.”
He nodded. Too fast. “Yeah. Mature.”
Another pause.
The light was cruel. It showed everything. His flushed face, cheeks tinged pink. My own nerves reflected right back at me. The undeniable situation we were pretending not to look at—our erections, both rigid and insistent, veins standing out, heads slick and eager, bodies betraying the awkwardness with raw, physical want.
Then David latched onto salvation.
“It was the drugs,” he blurted.
There it was.
Relief hit first. Sharp and immediate.
Then something else followed right behind it. Something quieter. Something heavier.
Disappointment.
Which was not ideal, especially as my cock gave another involuntary twitch at the memory of his hands on me, gripping my hips, pulling me close.
“Yeah,” I said quickly, nodding like my life depended on it. “Obviously.”
“Obviously,” he repeated, shoulders loosening almost instantly, though his body remained tense, muscles coiled. “Those pills were insane. I mean, I’ve never—”
“Same,” I cut in. “I’ve never been that… uninhibited.”
“Inhibited is one word,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck, the motion highlighting the corded strength in his arm.
We laughed.
Too loud. Too sudden. Like bad actors hitting a cue that didn’t quite land.
David swung his legs off the bed, turning his back to me as he scanned the floor for his underwear like it had personally betrayed him. His back was a map of lean muscle, shoulders broad and tapering to a narrow waist, ass firm and rounded, dimples at the base of his spine that I'd traced with my fingers last night.
“So,” he said, voice steadier now that he wasn’t looking at me. “We agree it was just… chemicals.”
“Just chemistry,” I said without thinking.
Instant regret.
“I mean,” I rushed on, heat crawling up my neck, “chemical chemistry. Not—”
“Yeah,” he said quickly. “Drugs.”
I nodded. Hard. Excessive agreement.
Drugs.
Except my body clearly hadn’t gotten the memo.
Because even as I told myself this was fine, even as I mentally filed the night away under Poor Decisions Abroad, I could still feel it.
That pull.
That quiet awareness of him moving around the room. The sound of fabric rustling against his skin. The way the air shifted when he bent over, his thighs flexing, cock swaying heavily between his legs before he straightened.
It hadn’t faded with the hangover. If anything, the clarity of morning made it sharper, my erection still achingly hard, begging for the touch I couldn't allow.
David cleared his throat. “We don’t need to, like… talk about it again. Right?”
“Nope,” I said immediately. “Never happened.”
“Cool.”
“Cool.”
He found his underwear and stepped into them with his back still turned, moving a little stiffly, the fabric stretching over his ass and barely containing the bulge of his lingering arousal. I focused very hard on the wall instead of the way his muscles shifted as he pulled them up, the play of light on his skin highlighting every contour.
I swung my legs over the side of the bed, keeping the sheet firmly around my waist, heart still beating like it was trying to escape, my cock protesting the confinement with another throb.
This was fine.
Normal.
Best friends occasionally make out and wake up naked and aroused together because of mystery drugs in a foreign country.
Totally standard.
We both reached for our T-shirts at the exact same moment.
Our hands brushed, fingers grazing in a spark of skin on skin.
Electric.
Both of us flinched back like we’d touched a live wire, the contact sending a jolt straight to my groin.
“Sorry,” we said at the same time.
More silence.
We tugged our shirts on awkwardly, fabric sticking slightly to skin that was still way too aware of everything—the warmth, the scent, the unspoken tension humming between us like a live current.
And just like that, daylight won.
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