Terms and Conditions – Ezra
The light comes in thin and pale, slipping through the gap in the curtains like it doesn’t want to be here any more than I do. It stretches across the bed in a narrow stripe, cutting over Asher’s shoulder, across the rumpled sheet, and landing just short of my chest.
I’m already awake.
I don’t move. Don’t shift. Just lie here on my back, eyes open, breathing slow, like I can outwait the moment if I stay still long enough. Like it might rewind if I don’t acknowledge it.
It doesn’t.
Asher is half on me.
One arm draped across my ribs. One leg tangled somewhere between mine. Warm. Familiar in a way that feels older than memory and newer than it should be.
I stare at the ceiling.
There’s a crack running through the plaster above the bed—thin, jagged, branching toward the corner like something shifted just enough to leave a mark. I follow it with my eyes, tracing the line over and over, like it might give me something to focus on that isn’t the body pressed against my side.
Because that—that’s the problem.
Not the closeness.
Not even the fact that we ended up in the same bed.
It’s how normal it feels.
Asher shifts.
Just slightly. A slow, unconscious adjustment that drags his arm lower, his palm flattening against my stomach for a brief second before settling again. His breath changes too—deeper now, slower, like he’s hovering somewhere between sleep and waking.
My body reacts before my mind catches up.
A tightening. Subtle, but immediate. Every nerve sharpens, every point of contact suddenly louder than it should be. I swallow, slow, careful, like the motion might give me away.
I should move.
That’s the obvious answer. Roll out from under him. Sit up. Break the contact before it has time to mean anything.
But I don’t.
Because I like this; I like being wrapped in his arms. When he’s half asleep and his morning wood is pressing up against my ass.
Asher exhales against my shoulder.
Warm. Close.
I close my eyes for a second.
That’s a mistake.
Because without the distraction of the ceiling, everything else sharpens. The heat of his body. The slow drag of his breath against my skin. The way our legs are still tangled can sometimes means getting out of bed is going to take slightly longer than either of us planned.
I open my eyes again.
The light has shifted. Barely. Just enough to catch the edge of his jaw now, outlining it in soft gold. His hair’s a mess, falling forward in a way that would annoy him if he were awake. His mouth is slightly parted, breath even, and I wonder if I sleep the same way.
I watch him for a long second. Longer than I should.
I try to pull away, slow at first—testing it, seeing if I can get out from under him without turning it into a thing. But he wakes just enough to catch me, his arm tightening instinctively, dragging me back into the mattress like muscle memory.
“Ash, I have class—and so do you, for that matter.”
“We can just skip,” he says, voice thick with sleep, like the answer is that simple.
It’s not.
“No—we can’t. We’ve already used up all our skips. And there’s only three weeks left in the term. We can muscle through.”
He groans into the pillow, something low and annoyed, like I’ve personally wronged him by being responsible.
I try again, shifting my weight, starting to peel myself out of his hold—
And stop.
Because I feel something.
Not his cock.
A finger.
Slow. Intentional. Slipping inside me like it belongs there.
My breath catches, sharp and immediate, my body reacting before I can shut it down. My hips stall mid-movement, every thought scattering as sensation cuts clean through me.
“Ash—”
It comes out wrong. As if it dissolves before I can finish, my cock hardening almost instantly, traitorous and predictable.
There’s a shift behind me—faster this time.
Too fast for someone who was just asleep.
He rolls over my arm, propping himself up just enough to look at me, his eyes clearer now. Focused. Awake in a way that has nothing to do with sleep anymore.
“You were saying?”
“You’re a dick,” I say.
“We can make that happen.”
It’s automatic—his answer, my reaction. The kind of exchange we’ve had a hundred times, in a hundred different forms, like we already know how this goes before it even starts.
He adds a second finger.
Slow.
Measured.
My breath catches again, sharper this time, the added pressure forcing its way through whatever control I thought I had left.
“Fuck,” I say, quieter now, more to myself than to him.
He doesn’t rush it. Doesn’t push. Just sets the pace, easing in and out like he’s testing the edges of me, like he’s waiting to see how far I’ll let this go before I stop him.
I don’t.
My hand slips beneath the sheets, wrapping around my cock without thinking. I’m already hard—fully, embarrassingly so—precum slick at the tip, my body too far ahead of my brain to pretend otherwise.
“You like that, little bro?”
There it is.
That word.
I let out a broken breath, something between a laugh and a moan. “Mmhm—I hate it when you call me that—mmhmm.”
It’s not true. Not right now.
Right now, it hits exactly where he wants it to. A reminder. A push. Something that should pull me back and doesn’t.
He knows it, too.
He always knows.
He’s done this long enough—read me long enough—to understand exactly where the line is and how to stand right on top of it without crossing it.
Or maybe we crossed it a long time ago.
Maybe this is just what it looks like now.
Either way—
Right now, he’s doing everything right.
I reach behind me and his cock is exactly where I expect it to be.
Of course it is.
I wrap my hand around him, slower than I should, feeling the weight of him settle into my palm before I drag my thumb across the tip, catching the bead of precum already there and spreading it down the length. He exhales against my ear—sharp, approving—and pushes his fingers in deeper like he’s answering me.
“Damn, that feels good,” he says, voice low, close.
“We’re going to be late,” I say, half whisper, half breath.
“Only if you don’t pick up the pace,” he says, rocking into my hand, setting the rhythm like he’s not even considering stopping.
I match it.
Faster now. Tighter. The same pace I’m working myself, the two of us locking into something automatic, something we don’t have to think about.
“Fuck,” I whisper.
Sound starts bleeding in from the hallway—doors opening, voices carrying, the low hum of people starting their day. It cuts through the room just enough to remind me where we are.
I try to stay quiet.
He doesn’t.
His breathing gets heavier, less controlled, like he’s not even trying to hold it back.
“Dude, someone’s gonna hear you,” I say, low, urgent.
“Who gives a shit?” he says, and then he presses his fingers right against my prostate.
“Fuck—” I choke out, my grip tightening around him without thinking.
I keep stroking, slick now, my hand moving easier with every pass while his mouth finds my ear again, his breath hot, uneven.
“Shit,” he says, voice breaking slightly, “I’m gonna cum.”
I know that edge. I know exactly where he is.
And I know exactly how to meet him there.
I adjust without thinking—just enough, just right—bringing us back into sync, locking the timing between us like it’s muscle memory.
“Fuck—Ez,” he says, quieter now, trying—too late—to keep it down.
His body goes tight in my hand.
Mine follows.
There’s no gap between it.
No delay.
“Fuck,” I breathe as it hits, my body locking before it breaks, the orgasm pulling through me in sharp, heavy waves at the same moment his does. Cum shoots from my slit in four powerful bursts.
I feel it—warm, immediate—spilling over my ass as his hips jerk forward, uncontrolled for the first time all morning.
He lets out a low, guttural sound, something deeper than anything he’s made so far, as he pulls his fingers free.
The absence hits almost immediately.
Too fast.
Too noticeable.
We’re quiet for a moment, both of us trying to catch our breath, the room settling around us again. The noise from the hallway is still there, louder now—people moving, doors opening and closing, the day already underway like nothing just happened in here.
Asher breaks the silence.
“Well that’s one way to start the day,” he says.
There’s something in his voice—loose, satisfied, like this didn’t cost him anything.
We both laugh.
It comes easier than it should.
Like it always does after.
I roll out of bed before it can linger too long, before it has time to turn into something else. The floor’s cold under my feet as I walk over to the mirror, angling myself just enough to get a look at the mess he’s made on my ass.
It’s not subtle.
“You couldn’t have aimed somewhere else?” I ask, grabbing a towel off the chair. “I need to clean this up.”
“Dude, you were the one driving,” he says, like that explains it.
Of course it does.
It always does.
I don’t answer. Just shake my head and head for the bathroom, already reaching for the sink before the door fully closes behind me.
#####
As we cut across campus, the air has that early-spring edge to it—cool enough to clear your head, not cold enough to justify slowing down. The grass is still damp in patches where the sun hasn’t reached yet. A few people pass us with headphones in, eyes down, moving like they’re already late for something that matters.
Finals week strips the place down to function. No clusters on the quad. No lingering. Doors open and shut with purpose. You can tell who’s been up all night—the ones blinking too hard in the light, coffee cups gripped like lifelines.
“So how is this bet gonna work?” I ask.
“I’m glad you brought that up because I’ve been thinking about that.”
“You? Thinking—yeah, this is already going to be stupid,” I say.
“Shut up,” he says, tugging his backpack strap tighter like it’s sliding off on purpose.
“Okay, I’m listening,” I say. “And can you pick up the pace? You know how Dr. B. is.”
He does.
Dr. Bancroft—Dr. B., or just B.—doesn’t run a class so much as enforce one. First week, nobody did the reading. Standard. Then he called on Aaron Wakefield to walk through Basis Technology Corp. v. Amazon.com out of the Massachusetts Appeals Court.
Aaron froze.
Not nervous—blank.
B just stood there. Let it sit. Ten seconds. Twenty. Long enough that you start feeling it in your chest even if it’s not your name being called.
Then he handed Aaron the casebook.
“Read,” he said.
And he meant it.
Page by page. Out loud. No summaries. No skipping. Every fact, every holding, every citation until the room felt like it had shrunk around us. You could hear people turning pages two rows back, trying to get ahead of him, like that would save them.
No one laughed. No one looked at their phones. We all just recalibrated in real time.
After that, the rules changed. Not announced—understood. Cases matter. Participation means you’re ready. And ready means you did the work.
I started that night.
It’s the only class I haven’t tried to game.
At first, I told myself I’d never take him again.
By midterms, I was already checking what else he teaches.
Dr. B holds a SJD or Doctorate of Juridical Science—it always confused me because the acronym is literally backwards. It a degree based on the study of law. The kind of path for people who want to shape how the law is thought about, not just argued.
I looked it up after class.
Now I can’t stop thinking about it.
“Right,” Asher says, picking up his pace like he’s remembering we’re on a clock. “Remember that whole deal with Aaron?”
“Everyone remembers that whole deal with Aaron,” I say.
“Okay, so we both go on dates with him, and first one to get him in bed wins.”
“That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”
He doesn’t even push back right away. Just walks, thinking, like he’s actually editing the idea as we move.
“Okay,” he says, “what about whoever he falls for first?”
We’re cutting past the last stretch of lawn toward the law building now, the glass catching light, the doors already swinging with people coming in.
“Let’s talk about this after class,” I say.
He nods once. “Fine.”
We slip inside just as Dr. B. is setting up at the front. The entire school is wired with the latest classroom tech—smart boards, built-in projection, all of it—and he still brings his own laptop and projector, running the cable himself like he trusts his setup more than anything the room has to offer.
There’s a moment—always—right before the projector clicks on where the room holds its breath.
Then it lights.
If you’re not in your seat by then, you’re late.
We make it.
We take our usual seats—opposite sides of the lecture hall. We never said it out loud, never made a decision about it; a few weeks in, we just stopped sitting together and let it stick. No reason given, no conversation to explain it. It’s cleaner this way, easier to focus—or at least that’s what we tell ourselves. Really, it just means we don’t have to look at each other for fifty minutes straight.
Dr. B. doesn’t waste time.
“Contracts,” he says, writing it once in the center of the whiteboard. “Offer. Acceptance. Consideration. Those are the elements of legally binding contract—miss any of these elements and all you have is a misunderstanding.”
He paces as he talks, not looking at his notes.
“An offer is a clear promise. Acceptance is unambiguous assent. Consideration is the exchange—each side gives something, or it’s not enforceable.”
He keeps going—terms, enforceability, what happens when people think they agreed on something but didn’t actually define it. What counts. What doesn’t. Where courts step in when the language fails and where they don’t. The difference between what you meant and what you can prove you meant.
I glanced over at Asher, and not to my surprise he was looking at me too. We were about to make a contract and the terms needed to specify if this was going to work.
####
After class, we meet in the atrium and take our usual spot by the fountain. The sound of the water blends into everything else—footsteps, voices, the low echo of people moving through the space—enough to give us a pocket of noise that isn’t quite private, but close enough that no one is paying attention to what we’re talking about.
I can see it on his face before he even says anything—I’ve seen it before—Asher getting locked in on something, pushing it further than it needs to go—but this feels different. Less impulsive. Like he’s already decided the rules of engagement.
“I think I should get first crack at him,” he says, not even giving me the chance to speak first.
“Like hell, you had your chance last night,” I say.
“What?!” he shouts, “that didn’t count."
“Oh it totally counts,” I retort, “now give me the phone."
He looks at me, gives me that disapproving look—but I can tell he knows I’m right. He reaches into his pocket and drops the phone into my hand.
I find his name in the contact directory—Elliot Rhodes—and type out a quick message.
Busy? No? Great, wanna meet me at the park?
Asher leans in as I do, reading over my shoulder. His expression shifts almost immediately, disbelief giving way to a laugh.
“You call that flirting?” he says, already shaking his head. He nearly doubles over. “You really think he’s gonna fall for that—”
The phone pings before he can finish.
That shuts him up.
He straightens, just slightly, like he’s recalibrating in real time. I glance down at the screen, already knowing what I’m going to see before I even read it.
I smile, slow, controlled, then look back up at him.
“You were saying?”
“Well, damn.”
“Yup—gotta go,” I say, already pushing up from the bench.
“Wait—what about the terms?”
I pause, glance back at him. “Okay. What do you have?”
“No kissing until second dates.”
I shake my head. “Well, what if he wants to bang me tonight? Then I’m gonna kiss him—and win this bet.”
He exhales through his nose, considering what I just said. “The bet is the first person he starts to fall for—so he has to say something like ‘I really like you.’ And you can’t say it first.” He sounds like Dr. B. now—like he’s drafting language that could hold up in a court of law.
“Fine,” I say. “He has to make the first move.”
Asher watches me for a second, turning it over, like he’s testing the edges of it before deciding if it holds.
“Deal,” he says, “and you’re not wearing that are you?"
####
Union Square Park isn’t far from campus. It’s a really cruisy spot, but as long as we leave before nightfall, we shouldn’t run into any unsavory characters. I stand by the entrance while I wait, thinking about what we’re going to talk about, trying to get ahead of it before he gets here. I need to remember the details—anything that matters—because I’m going to have to relay it back to Asher later, and it has to be right. It has to be consistent. Otherwise, he’s going to start to notice something’s off—and the whole thing falls apart.
“Hyde,” a voice says.
I almost forget I’m using our assumed name.
“Oh—hey,” I say, trying to play it off, like I didn’t hesitate.
“You go to school here?”
“Well, not at this park,” I say, a quick laugh slipping out before I can stop it.
“I meant—” he starts, but I cut him off.
“Yeah, sorry. That was my attempt at being funny.”
He smiles—wow his smile.
His eyes, the shape of his jawline—there’s something about the way it all fits together that makes it hard not to keep looking. He gorgeous. And for some reason my mouth decides not to keep up with my brain.
“Your gorgeous,” I blurt out.
Fuck, Ezra. What were you thinking?
“I mean you’re very handsome,” I say trying to recover. Ezra, if you want any chance at winning this bet you have got to learn some social skills and fast.
“Well, I’ll take either,” he says. His words are so smooth. They don’t seem practiced or rehearsed, like he’s so genuine and I’ve known him all over thirty seocnds. I smile. “You know this place gets kinda seedy at night?"
“Yeah,” I say, “I was hoping not to be here for the after hours crowd."
He laughs. Damn, I could stare at him all day. He wearing a black jacket and grey turtleneck. He looks so put together and here I am sporting a tan button up that I couldn’t be bothered to button and white t-shirt. I look like I’m about to go on a safari compared to him. Maybe I should have taken Asher’s advice in that department.
We start walking and talking—first about school, then growing up, then coming out, then the usual first date stuff. Favorite spots to eat, places we go out, bars, routines—the kind of information I’m going to have to commit to memory if this is going to work. I keep track of it without making it obvious, filing things away as he says them.
But then the conversation shifts.
“So what do you wanna be when you grow up?” he asks.
It’s a simple question, but it carries more than it should.
“Well, I’m in law school, so I’m guessing a lawyer.”
“Oh yeah, what kind?”
“Criminal defense.”
He nods like that makes sense, like he can already see it.
“But what do you want your life to mean?”
It’s not the kind of question people usually ask this early, and for a second I don’t have anything ready. I was prepared for the usual first date part of the test, but I’m clearly failing the verbal.
Truthfully, I don’t know.
And I’m not quite sure how to say that without it sounding like I haven’t thought about it at all.
So, I don’t overthink it.
“Well, I don’t know,” I say. “What about you?”
“Hmm…” he starts, like he’s buying himself a second. Law school 101: never ask a question to which you don’t alreay know the answer.
But he doesn’t pivot away from it.
“I want to improve the lives of the people around me,” he says, a smile starting to break through, “by at least fifty percent over that of my own.”
I look at him for a second, trying to figure out if he’s serious.
He is.
“Wow,” I say. “That’s ambitious.”
The conversation only gets deeper and my initial reaction is that maybe this is beyond the purview of the first date normal conversation material but I just go with it. Like he’s trying to push past the doors of the deepest parts of my soul.
He wants to know everything about me and I can’t help but drift away from the Hyde persona and start to tell him things about the real me. But I know Asher, he’s going to cheat the first chance he gets so I might as well beat him to the punch.
At this point I know he’s in grad school for architecture and design—the way he talks about buildings, you can tell he actually cares how spaces feel, not just how they look. He’s from Michigan—we won’t hold that against him—and he says it like it still means something to him. He loves all things Broadway, not casually, but enough to have favorites and opinions and stories about shows he’s seen more than once. He’s an only child, his parents are both realtors, and the family cat is a calico named Mrs. Butterscotch. It’s the kind of detail people throw in without thinking, but I file it away anyway.
“You know they say you can tell a lot about a person by their favorite cookie,” he says.
Okay, maybe the tone of the conversation is shifting.
“Yeah?"
“Yeah, it’s science, so what’s yours?” he asks.
“Snickerdoodles,” I can tell he files it away, “that’s a load right?"
“No, of course not, just need to know what kinda of cookies to randomly surprise you with,” he says, smirking.
Okay, I stand corrected.
“You’re too cute,” I say as we come up to a small playground. Nothing fancy—just a short slide, a set of monkey bars, and a two-person swing set tucked off to the side. “I never knew this was here."
“Race you across the monkey bars,” he says.
I look at them a little closer. He’s clearly joking—I can reach them while standing. For it to be any kind of challenge, I’d have to hang and tuck my legs up at the knees, which I’m not about to do.
“Or we can see who can jump the farthest off the swings,” I offer.
“I haven’t done that since I was a kid.”
We head over anyway and start swinging. It doesn’t take long before we’re pushing into a full arc, feet cutting higher with each pass until we’re almost level with the top bar.
“Are we really doing this?” I ask.
“Hey, it was your idea,” he says.
“Yeah, but these are not the same knees from ten years ago.”
“Don’t chicken out on me,” he says.
I look ahead—the ground is all bark and that soft rubber stuff. It can’t hurt that bad, can it? I shift my grip, sliding my hands a little wider along the chains, bracing to jump.
Just as I start to lift, he reaches across and puts an arm out, stopping me mid-swing.
“Okay, you’re right, we don’t need a trip to the ER for emergency knee replacement surgrey,” he laughs as the swing comes a stop.
His arm is still braced across my chest and the feeling of him touching me ignites something in me. Something that wasn’t there before. Something new. Something I can’t quite define and if I’m being honest, a little scary.
Thee’s a look in his eyes, it’s almost electric.
He finally lowers his arm, but just to my thigh.
I look down and then back to him. His eyes are soft. It’s a knowing glance.
My brain was doing mental gymnastics trying to keep up with what was happening, but things were happening in real time.
“Is this okay,” he asks.
“Um, yeah…it is,” I say after what felt like an eternity, “it really is."
“Good,” he says and he’s just looking at me. Intently. Like he knows something I don’t.
But then I feel something else—his hand, his grip, tightening just enough to register.
I look down, then back to him, and he’s already moving closer. He’s making the first move. I tell myself I’m just an innocent bystander, but as he closes the distance that feeling comes back—the one I tried to push down a moment ago, and it starts to rurn into something else entirely.
I let it happen. Or maybe I decide to meet him halfway. I lean in, and our lips meet.
The reaction is immediate—stronger than I expect. My stomach flips, then flips again. His lips are soft, and he doesn’t rush it; he just stays there, steady, like he’s letting me come to him. I rest my hand on his thigh without thinking, because in that moment it feels like the only place it belongs.
We pull apart and there’s a smile on his face.
“Do you always smile like that after a first kiss?"
I straighten my face not even realizing I was smiling.
“No, it’s cute,” he says, brushing his hand against the side of my face.
I can tell he didn’t mean to touch me. He catches himself right after, like he’s done something he didn’t plan to. I don’t flinch. I don’t pull away.
“It’s okay,” I say, breaking the tension before it can settle in.
He leaves his hand there this time, and I turn my face into it—slow, without thinking. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like we’ve done it a hundred times before this.
The moment lingers, just long enough for me to take purchase of it. Long enough for something to click into place—something I was already starting to notice. The way this feels now, and the way it felt before.
He leans in again, and this time when he kisses me, I kiss him back.
And I mean it.
My cock twitches this time. Actually it more than twitches. I’m getting hard. I’ve kissed plenty of guys, and a lot of those kisses have made me hard, but it’s difficult to explain—this feels different. Not bigger, not louder. just right—in a way that’s both electric and something else.
The kiss deepens, slow and steady, and right there—in the middle of a park, on an old wooden swing set—my heart does a flutter and dick does a kick.
####
When I get back to the dorm room just before evening, Asher is pretending to read a book.
“You can stop pretending—we both know you only read during business hours.”
“Okay, great, that’s out of the way. So how was your date?”
I pause, deciding how much to tell him and how much to keep to myself.
“Well…he didn’t say he liked me.”
“So I can still bring this home?”
Maybe I should tell him everything—but not tonight.
“We talked about a lot, so there’s a lot you need to know.”
“Ah—the debriefing.”
Whenever we do these switches, we have to debrief the other so they can walk back into it seamlessly—same tone, same details, no gaps. What was said, how it was said, what he laughed at, what he asked next—anything that could trip us up if it’s missing.
“It’s a lot.”
“Over a shower?”
Some brothers talk things out over a couple of beers; we talk them out in a shared shower.
“Fine.”
I start to strip off my clothes, tossing them into the hamper, slower than usual. I can’t help but think about Elliot—the park, the swing set, the kiss—and how it felt in a way I didn’t expect. It’s still sitting there, closer than it should be, like it followed me back.
Asher passes me, pulling his shirt off and dropping it on the floor. Then his pants, like he’s leaving bread crumbs.
“Must you leave a trail of clothes? The hamper is right there. It’s like you were raised by wolves.”
####
The water is hot, just like I like it. I start to fill him in on everything he needs to know while we move through the same choreography of washing and trading places under the stream. It’s a rehearsed pattern at this point—no talking about it, just knowing when to step in and when to move out.
Then we’re back to back. I wash body, then hair; Asher does the opposite. While I soap up, he’s working shampoo into his hair, fingers moving in slow circles. I turn and wash his back, and when I get to his lower back and his ass, my mind drifts—uninvited—to Elliot’s. The way it looked in those pants. The way I noticed it without meaning to.
“You done?”
“Huh?”
“My back—I feel like you missed a spot,” he says, pointing to his shoulder.
“My bad,” I say, scrubbing his shoulder, a little more thorough than necessary.
He turns before I’m finished, impatient, like he always does.
“You okay?”
“Yeah. Sorry.”
“You sure? You’re usually more soapy than this,” he says.
I glance down. He’s right—I’ve barely worked the soap in. “Need a hand?”
Before I answer, he squeezes my body wash into his palm and starts to lather it over me. Arms first, then my chest and stomach, his hands moving with the same easy familiarity as always. Down to my hips, then my cock.
At first, it isn’t sexual. It’s just what we do—efficient, routine, nothing to think about.
But I’m still thinking about Elliot.
And for a second, I’m not sure whose hands I’m picturing on me.
That’s when my body reacts. I start to get hard.
“Oh, okay then,” he says.
Before I realize what’s happening, he’s jerking me off—already in it, already setting a pace like he’s done it a hundred times.
“Fuck,” I moan.
I lean my head into the crook of his neck, letting it rest there, my breath catching against his skin.
“I got you,” he says, reaching around and grabbing my ass with his other hand, pulling me a little closer.
I moan into his neck. He’s so close I can feel his erection pressed against my leg, steady and warm. I reach back and grab his cock without thinking—because by and large, I’m still thinking about Elliot, and I don’t stop myself.
I start to stroke him with purpose, finding a rhythm that matches what he’s doing to me. I reach down and massage his balls, slow at first, then firmer as I feel him react.
“Shit—that feels good,” he says.
I lift my head slightly, the water beating down on us, running over our shoulders and down between us. I brace my other hand against his shoulder and start to stroke him in slow pulls and twists, just the way he likes it, keeping it controlled, even.
“Fuck,” I curse, my voice low, as he keeps working me—and then I feel his finger at my hole.
Our foreheads touch, and our breath hitches as the feeling builds, steady and immediate. It feels like we’re sharing the same body—like the line between where I end and he begins has gone soft. I know where he is, how close he is, the exact moment he’s about to move, and he knows the same about me. I don’t know how—I just do.
Our eyes open at the same time and we both angle down, closing the last inch without thinking. Asher and I have kissed before—once, maybe—and for some reason it never happened again. But after Elliot, after the kiss we shared and the way it stayed with me, I feel it now—clear, unavoidable. I want to kiss Asher. And the way he’s looking at me tells me he already knows—and he wants to kiss me back.
We lean in, turning our heads in opposite directions, pausing breifly—just long enough to acknowledge whats happening, and still as we’re stroking each other we kiss. I grab the back of his neck to pull him closer and he pushes his finger into my hole. I moan into the kiss. It’s deep and passionate and with the steam from the shower, the slow, deliberate strokes we’re pulling on each other’s cocks, we’ve created the perfect storm.
“Cum for me,” he says, pulling just enough out of the kiss to get the words out.
“You first,” I reply.
“Same time?”
It’s always like this with us—everything turning into a competition, everything settling into a compromise.
“Yeah,” I say.
We adjust without needing to talk it through, shifting our pace, matching and then offsetting, finding that edge we both know how to reach. Slower where it needs to be, faster where it counts—each of us working the other with a familiarity that doesn’t need thinking.
“Fuck—” we both say it, almost at the same time, but I don’t know who says it first. My brain can’t keep track of anything except the feeling building, tightening, pulling everything toward that one point.
“I’m there,” I say, just as he pushes his finger deeper. A smile creasing his face. Like he’s getting pleasure out of pleasuring me.
“Me too,” he says.
And then within a matter of moments, we’re both cumming. He shoots four—maybe five—ropes of seed across my stomach and thigh, and I do the same, our hands not slowing, not stopping. We keep stroking through it, riding out the waves as they cascade and crash over us, one after the other, each one pulling a little more out of us than the last. He pulls his finger free, and I feel the absence of it immediately—sharp, noticeable—and then another wave of the orgasm hits, deeper this time, dragging it out longer than it should.
And our faces crash together in a kiss, almost instinctively. The kiss is deeper than the last, our tongues dancing across one another. This isn’t like the kiss with Elliot—that was gentle and delicate and precious—this is wild and feral and primal.
It lasts as long as it needs to and then we pull away.
“Fuckin’ hell,” I say, a smile creasing across my face.
“That was good,” he says, “we’re getting better at that."
We laught and watch as the water rinses the cum from our bodies and swirls down the drain.
“Easy clean up,” I say.
Well, at least now I don’t feel bad about the kiss with Elliot. Or not as bad.
Regardless, now he’s going to get his shot to try and seal the deal, and I just have to hope he’s just Asher enough—just off-beat enough—to give Elliot pause.
So when I go back in, I can finish it.
We’ve always been each other's biggest cheerleader. Wanting the other to succeed against all odds. Well now here I am wishing my twin brother flops on his face. And then thing is I don’t feel all that bad about it.
Call it brotherly love…or something like it.
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