I left the door unlocked.
I told myself it was the heat. The loft didn’t hold air. The lock was a cheap twist thing that stuck anyway. That was a lie. I left it open because he’d said tomorrow I make eggs like a schedule, and because I could still feel him when I sat down to piss.
Justin was already in the kitchen when I came down. Shirtless. Grey sweats slung low. Beard flattened on one side from the couch. He had a pan going and he looked like a relieved man who had slept eight hours.
“Eggs,” he said, without turning. “Eat.”
The other guys drifted in like livestock. Matt in last night’s shorts. Tyler with a controller still in his hand. Fineas talking about protein. Chris asking who finished the orange juice. Nobody looked at the stairs. Nobody looked at my walk.
Justin put a plate in front of me. His knuckles brushed my wrist. He didn’t pull back fast.
“You sleep?” Matt asked me.
“Yeah.”
Justin’s mouth did that small thing it does when he clocks a lie and decides not to spend it yet.
We ate. He talked about the river. About the rec-league chat blowing up again. About his ex once, short, like a door he refused to leave open. “She’s blocked. That’s it.” Then he looked at me across the table the way he’d looked at me over the burgers, and my hole clenched around nothing, around yesterday, around the fact that I hadn’t showered it out because he’d told me to hold it.
I showered anyway. Late. Standing under lukewarm water with my forehead on the tile, two fingers checking what he’d left, ashamed of how much of it was still there and how hard I got about it.
The river at noon was a joke. The water was warm. The current was lazy. Six grown men pretending vacation was exercise. Justin stayed in longer than anybody. Floated on his back, hair dark, chest hair slicked into a map, eyes shut like the sky owed him something. I sat on the towel with a book I didn’t open.
He knew I was watching.
He didn’t yell take a picture. He rolled once, lazy, and the grey shorts went translucent. The thick shape of him sat there in the sun like it hadn’t been inside me eight hours ago. Then he swam in, dripping, and dropped on the towel next to mine close enough that river water hit my thigh.
“You’re burnt,” he said.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re staring again, buddy.”
“You’re in front of me and you’re big as fuck.” I replied.
He smiled with no teeth, the same smile from the couch. Then he reached past me for the sunscreen like he needed it, and his wet chest dragged my arm, and he didn’t apologize. The other guys were skipping rocks. Nobody was looking.
“Tonight,” he said, barely moving his mouth. “Same deal. You make a sound, I deal with the guys. You leave the door open.”
“Justin… it’s risky.”
“Not a question, I want it. You want it. That’s enough.”
He got up and cannonballed back in like we hadn’t said anything. I sat there with sunscreen on my arm that wasn’t mine and a heartbeat in my ass.
Afternoon was heat and boredom and the slow torture of sharing a house with a man you’d let wreck you. Justin walked around shirtless because the AC on the main floor was a rumor. He reached over my head for glasses. He asked me to pass the salt. He sat on the arm of the couch I was on and his thigh burned through my shorts. Every time he laughed at Tyler’s stupid story his stomach flexed and I looked at the floor.
I thought about the folder. I thought about eleventh grade. I thought about godfather of your childrenand the way he’d had his finger in me like that sentence had never existed.
Dinner was Justin’s idea and Tyler’s execution, which meant a pot the size of a laundry basket and a box count that should have been illegal. Mac and cheese. Gas station cheddar. Butter like a crime. They stood around the island eating out of the pot with whatever utensil they grabbed. No plates for the first ten minutes. Just six guys hunched over orange sludge, chewing with their mouths open, talking with food in their teeth.
“Bro this is nasty,” Chris said, going back in.
“It’s fuel,” Fineas said.
Justin ate like he’d been starving since the river. Standing. Fork in his fist. A string of cheese on his beard he didn’t wipe until the third bite. Sweat at his hairline. A T-shirt on now because even he had limits, and it was already dark under the arms. He looked at me over the pot while he chewed.
“You gonna eat or you on a diet?” he asked
.
I ate. The cheese sat in my throat. His knee found mine under the island and stayed there. Not a secret. Not hidden. Just present, the way his arm had been on my throat.
Matt groaned and went back for more. Tyler dropped a fork and didn’t pick it up. The pot emptied like a carcass. They were animals. They were my friends. One of them had come in my ass and was standing there talking about whether the leftover crust on the bottom was still good.
“It’s good,” Justin said. He scraped it. He ate it. He looked at me when he swallowed.
After, controllers. The living room a nest of bodies and open bags. Justin took the couch he’d claimed. I sat on the floor this time, not the arm. I wasn’t stupid twice.
He still found me. His foot against my hip when he stretched. The smell of him — river, cheap whiskey he’d started again, the onion-sweat of a real man.
“You’re quiet,” he said, only for me.
“I’m full.”
“You’re waiting.”
I didn’t answer. He knew it.
Chris yelled at the screen. Fineas threw a pillow. Justin’s hand came down on the back of my neck like he was checking a pulse, squeezed once, and let go.
“Go to bed, David.” Same line as last night. Different weight. “Before I say it in front of them.”
I went up.
Shower lukewarm again. I didn’t bother with clothes. Fan. Window cracked. TV on a volume that wasn’t watching. I lay on my stomach because my body remembered the shape and wanted it back. The loft was a mouth. Sweat in the hollow of my spine in five minutes.
I left the door unlatched.
I don’t know how long I waited. Long enough that the game sounds downstairs turned into that late, stupid laughter. Long enough that I almost talked myself into locking it.
The door opened without a knock.
He didn’t cover my mouth this time. He just came down on me, all of him, hot, damp, the T-shirt still on and already soaked through the chest. Whiskey and cheddar and the day’s sweat. Beard against my ear.
“Good boy,” he muttered. “Door. Smart.”
“They’re still up.”
“I know. That’s why you stay quiet.”
He shoved the shirt off one-handed, got stuck at the collar, cursed, ripped it over his head. The chest hair hit my back wet. He was burning. River sun and kitchen heat.
He spat. Fingers. Two, no ceremony. I was still open from him. He made that sound again, the one he never made for her.
“Still sloppy. You kept it like I told you.”
“I showered—”
“Don’t care. You’re open. That’s the point.”
Shorts down. The thick drag of him up the crack, already wet at the head, painting me. He notched and drove in one long ugly push that punched the air out of my lungs. I bit the pillow. He didn’t wait. He started fucking like the match had just ended again — short, mean, the loft bed walking into the wall.
“Quiet. I mean it. Matt’s under the vent.”
I nodded into cotton. He took that as permission to go harder. Skin slapping skin, wet from sweat, the smell of us filling the slanted room. His balls slapped my ass. His beard scraped the back of my neck. Every thrust shoved me up and his hand hauled me back by the hip.
“This is the favor,” he said into my shoulder “This exact thing. She called it disgusting. You’re taking it like you were built for it. Don’t you dare moan.”
I didn’t. I shook. My cock was trapped under me, leaking into the sheets of the Airbnb.
He planted a foot on the mattress and dropped his weight. Deeper. The angle that made my knees slide. He hunted it. Found it. Stayed there and punched it like a play.
“There. Don’t you make a sound on that spot. That’s mine tonight.”
A knock.
Not a hard knock. The polite stupid knock of a guy who thinks he’s bothering you about a laptop.
“David? You got a charger, bro? Mine died.”
Chris.
Justin froze buried to the root. I felt every inch of him twitch. His hand slapped over my mouth, not gentle, and his mouth hit my ear.
“Not a noise.”
The door was unlatched. Two inches of light from the stairwell. Chris’s voice right there.
“David?”
Justin’s hips gave one tiny involuntary grind, then locked. He turned his face toward the door. His voice came out almost normal. Almost. There was gravel under it.
“He’s in the bathroom, dude. Give him a minute.”
“Oh. My bad. You up here too?”
Justin’s cock flexed inside me. I bit his palm.
“Yeah. Looking for ibuprofen to give him, his head’s killing him. Heat.”
“Sucks. Tell him I need the white cable if he’s got it.”
“I’ll grab it. Go downstairs. I got you.”
Feet on the stairs. Not leaving yet. Hovering.
“You sure he’s okay? He’s been weird all day.”
Justin laughed. It sounded like a man talking about a friend. It did not sound like a man balls-deep in that friend.
“He’s fine. Sun. Go. I’ll bring the cable.”
The feet went down. The stairwell swallowed them.
Justin didn’t pull out.
He waited until the game noise came back, then he took his hand off my mouth and slammed back in so hard the headboard knocked twice.
“You almost moaned,” he hissed. “I felt it. You almost gave us to Chris over a charger.”
“I didn’t—”
“You wanted to. That’s worse.”
He hauled me up by the hips like I was slipping off a dummy.
“Doggystyle. Now. Hands on the wall.”
I got my knees under me. The mattress dipped. He shoved my chest down and left my ass high, one palm between my shoulder blades, the other spreading me so he could look. Sweat ran down the crack. He spat on it anyway and drove back in to the root in one ugly stroke that made my arms buckle.
“Hold the wall. Don’t you collapse on me.”
I locked my elbows against the slanted plaster. He started fucking like the scare had put gas in him — long pulls almost out, then a slam that rocked the frame and slapped his wet hips off my ass. The loft took the sound and threw it at the vent. He didn’t care anymore. He wanted the bed to complain.
“That’s it. Look at this thing take it.” His voice was wrecked, low, meant for the room and not the stairs. “Best friend’s ass in the air like a bitch in a motel. She wouldn’t get on her knees like this. You are. You’re dripping down your thigh and I’m not even done.”
He changed the angle, hooked an arm under my hips, and dragged me back onto him so every thrust punched that spot he’d found last night. My mouth opened. No sound came out. Spit hit the pillow. His chest hair scraped my spine raw when he folded over me, all that weight, the black T-shirt gone, the day’s river still in his pores.
“Push back. Earn it. I just lied to Chris with my dick in you. You don’t get to lie there like a toy.”
I shoved back. He cursed, grateful and mean, and gave me harder. The wet slap filled the slanted ceiling. His balls swung heavy against me, soaked. Sweat dropped off his beard onto my neck and rolled forward into my mouth. I could taste salt and him.
He grabbed a fistful of my hair and yanked my head up off the pillow so my back arched and the next stroke went deeper than I wanted to admit I could take.
“Quiet,” he reminded, right against my ear, and then contradicted himself by fucking me loud enough the headboard knocked a rhythm. “You moan and I put you on the floor and finish in your throat. You stay a hole with a pulse until I’m empty.”
I stayed. My cock swung untouched under me, slapping my stomach, leaving a wet spot I could feel spreading. He noticed. Of course he noticed. He reached under and squeezed once, rough, not stroking, just claiming the fact of it, then put the hand back on my hip and used it to haul me onto him.
“Don’t you dare come. This isn’t for you. This is a favor. You come after I leave if you have to. Not on my time.”
He planted one foot on the mattress, stood up into the stroke, and dropped his weight down into me like he was trying to nail me to the bedframe. The sound that left me was all air. He clapped a hand back over my mouth and kept going, grunting into my hair, the beard scraping, the loft a sauna of whiskey and cheddar and two men who were supposed to be downstairs eating leftovers.
“I’m gonna ruin you for those soft boys,” he said, almost laughing. “You’re gonna sit in the car home clenched around nothing, thinking about this exact angle. That’s the souvenir. That’s what you booked the house for. Say it.”
I couldn’t with his palm there. I nodded. He felt it and slammed in harder for the yes.
He took the hand away only to spit in it and smear it where we were joined, then both hands on my waist, pulling me onto him in short brutal snaps. The bed walked. A controller exploded downstairs. Justin didn’t freeze this time. He fucked through it, teeth in the meat of my shoulder, not cute, a bite to keep himself from roaring.
“Close,” he growled. “Don’t you move. You hold this shape. You’re gonna take it right here on your knees like the secret you are.”
He fucked me meaner for the scare. Sweat dropping off his beard onto my neck. The T-shirt he’d thrown was a wet heap by the pillow. His chest hair sandpapered my back raw. The loft held the heat like it was on our side.
“You hear that?” He tipped his head toward the vent. Laughter. A kill-cam. “That’s the house. That’s why you take it quiet. That’s why this stays a favor. I’m not gay. I’m emptying my balls in my best friend’s ass because my ex wouldn’t let me and you will. That’s the whole religion. Say it.”
“That’s the—” I choked when he bottomed out. “That’s the religion.”
“Good. Use your hole. Push back. Earn the fact I just lied to Chris for you.”
I pushed back. He cursed, grateful and ugly, and gave me the rest of it. The wet slap filled the room. I could smell cheddar on his skin still, whiskey, the river that hadn’t washed off, the sour of a man who’d been in the sun since noon. I could smell me opening for him.
“I’m gonna fill you again, dude.” he said, almost kind, which was worse. “You’re gonna hold it. You’re gonna go downstairs tomorrow and eat eggs on top of it and you’re not gonna walk funny where they can see. Understand?”
“I understand.”
“Say please.”
“Please. Come in me, Justin. Please.”
Three thrusts. Four. His whole body locked. He shoved to the base and came with that swallowed roar against my spine, pulses thick and hot, milking himself with my ass, take it take it take it until he was shaking and slumped.
He stayed in.
Breathing like a sprinter. Heart hammering against my back. Then he pulled out wet and ugly and dragged his shorts up without cleaning anything.
He found the white cable on my dresser like he’d known it was there. Stood over me for a second, dark against the TV glow, chest heaving, a streak of us on his stomach he wiped with the heel of his hand and didn’t comment on.
“Stay on your stomach,” he said. “Keep it in. I told Chris you have a headache. Play along if he asks.”
“Justin—”
“Door stays open.” He was already at the latch. “I’m bringing him the charger. Then I’m drinking. Then I’m coming back if they pass out early. You hear me?”
“I hear you.”
He went down the stairs on the quiet treads.
I heard him in the living room, voice almost normal.
“Here. White one. He’s out. Don’t bang on his door, he’s dying.”
Chris said thanks. Somebody asked if anyone wanted another beer.
Justin said, “Yeah. Toss it.”
I lay there with the fan doing nothing. Ass sore. Neck wet. His load leaking toward the sheet no matter how still I stayed. The loft smelled like whiskey and river and our sweat.
Downstairs his laugh came up the vent.
It didn’t sound sorry.
It sounded like a man who had found a solution and intended to use it until the listing ran out.
I didn’t lock the door.
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