Curious Isn’t the Same as Ready
I was halfway down the hall when I saw him, Connor, sitting alone on the bench outside my room. Legs crossed at the ankle, hands in his lap like he wasn’t sure what to do with them. He looked neat, like always. Black jeans, fitted. Flannel shirt, sleeves cuffed just right. Hair combed back with intention. The kind of polish that said he’d looked in the mirror more than once before stepping out.
He looked up when he heard me.
“Michael’s not around?” I asked, slowing as I reached him.
He stood up too quickly. “He didn’t say. I thought he’d be here.”
The words came steady enough, but his body told a different story. His posture was upright, his shoulders tense. Like he was holding something in, or holding something off.
I shrugged out of one arm of my hoodie. “You wanna wait inside?”
He hesitated.
I pulled off the hoodie in one motion, letting it stretch across my frame before sliding free. The static clung to the straps of my stringer, black, cropped short, thin enough to leave little to the imagination. The kind of top you wear when you know how you look and don’t feel like hiding it. Air hit my skin, cooling the edges of the pump that still lingered from earlier.
I unlocked the door and stepped in without looking back. “Come in,” I said.
I dropped the hoodie over the back of the chair and bent to untie one sneaker, then the other. The motion pulled the stringer tight across my shoulders and upper back, skin gleaming, lats flaring. My arms stayed full, delts rounded, the kind of post-gym tightness that doesn’t need to be exaggerated. I felt him enter behind me, standing close to the door. Still. Watching.
He hadn’t moved to sit.
“You can wait on the bed if you want,” I said casually, nodding toward my side.
Connor didn’t say anything. But after a moment, he crossed the room and sat, perched like he didn’t know how to get comfortable. I turned, grabbed a water bottle from the mini-fridge, twisted the cap, and took a long pull. The stringer clung tighter as I moved, the fabric catching light across my chest and abs.
He tried not to look. But I watched his eyes flick. Down. Across. Back up again. He was doing a decent job of pretending it was all normal.
But I saw it. The little shifts. The subtle tells. The flick of the fingers. The way his mouth held tight at the corners.
I let the quiet build between us.
“You clean up nice, Connor,” my voice easy."Wasn’t expecting the ironed shirt and seminar-ready look.”
His eyebrows lifted. Like he didn’t expect that.
“Oh. Uh… yeah. Thanks. I try to make myself presentable.”
I nodded, then let the corner of my mouth pull into a half-smile. “Gotta admit, it suits you. Looks good on you too.”
He blinked. “Thanks,” he said. Then, after a beat, “So do you. Uh… I mean, not dressed up, obviously, just… you look…”
His voice faltered. His eyes dropped again, this time straight to my chest. “You just seem really sure of yourself. Like, all the time. Like you never second-guess anything."
I tilted my head, amused. “Not what you were expecting?”
He hesitated. Laughed once, soft and a little breathless. “Michael makes you sound like… kind of a lot.”
I raised a brow. “And?”
Connor gave a small smile, but it didn’t quite stick. His eyes flicked over me again, more thoughtful this time. “I don’t know. I guess I pictured someone louder. Cockier. More full of himself.” He paused, eyes narrowing slightly, like he was still working it out. “And I mean… you kind of are—”
I chuckled, cutting him off. “Kind of?”
He flushed, but kept going. “B-but not in a bad way. M-more like… you know who you are. It’s just in the way you move.”
That one caught me off guard a little. I let the smile widen slowly. “Disappointed?”
He shook his head. “No. It’s just... different.”
His gaze lingered again, longer this time. Like he wasn’t trying to hide it anymore.
“Um… you’re bigger… up close, I mean.”
I lifted an eyebrow. “You say that like it’s a problem.”
“It’s not,” he said quickly. Then winced, like he heard himself too late. “I mean—not for me. I mean—”
I didn’t let him off the hook. Just watched him twist.
“You always this smooth?” I asked, teasing.
He laughed again, more freely this time, blushing. “Uh, I try not to be.”
I watched him settle. Watched how his shoulders eased. How his hands relaxed where they rested in his lap. The air shifted. Not all the way. But enough.
Michael’s boyfriend, sitting on my bed, throwing shy glances and compliments like he couldn’t help himself, was doing it. There was something about that. Something satisfying.
I didn’t need him to fall apart.
I just needed the walls to start coming down.
I didn’t say anything. I just let him process the moment. For me, it wasn’t a question of if he could hold that loyal boyfriend composure. I could see it. The crack was forming, whether he knew it or not. And I was enjoying being the reason he looked so conflicted.
And maybe, just maybe, there was a little payback involved. Michael had gone to Tyler, the residence manager to file a complaint about me. He’d played the good dorm resident. The good rule-follower. But now his boyfriend was here, sitting on my bed, smiling in spite of himself. Looking like he hadn’t decided whether he was curious, flattered, or already in trouble. I didn’t go looking for this moment. But I wasn’t about to waste it.
Connor hadn’t brought up Michael again. Hadn’t checked his phone. Hadn’t said how long he planned to stay. And that told me enough.
Everything about me felt bigger next to him. He was slim, looked fit. Nicely built for a guy his size. I liked the contrast. I liked the way he couldn’t stop glancing.
“You good to wait?” I asked over my shoulder. “You don’t have anywhere to be?”
He shook his head. Said nothing.
I turned, leaning back against the counter now, water bottle still in hand. The cropped stringer clung to my chest, riding high enough to leave most of my abs exposed, the deep lines defining each brick. My hands slipped into my pockets, dipping the waistband lower. More of my lower abs came into view, veins tracing over the muscle and disappearing where fabric started.
Connor shifted where he sat, legs angling slightly like he couldn’t find a comfortable position. His hands were still loose in his lap, but twitchy now. His mouth opened for a second, like he was going to say something, then closed again.
He was unraveling in slow motion.
I turned back to the fridge, pulled out a second bottle, and tossed it without warning. He caught it, barely. Fumbled with the cap like he needed instructions.
I pushed off the counter and crossed the room, letting my weight shift the way it always did. I circled around and dropped into the desk chair, spreading my legs as I settled. One arm on the rest, the other falling casually over my thigh.
Even sitting, I knew the effect. My abs shifted, pulled tighter, moved with me in ways most people never got to see up close. Each groove flexed under the skin, rising and falling as I breathed. The top bricks swelled slightly with every inhale, while the lower ones cinched down, deep and clean, like they were carved into me. The V cut sharpened when I leaned back, the skin drawing tight where it dipped toward my waistband.
For Connor, it would’ve looked effortless. Intimate. Like something private he wasn’t sure he was supposed to see. The kind of look that made people forget what they were saying mid-sentence. I didn’t have to guess what he was seeing. I could read it in the way his eyes flinched down and held, then snapped away. The way his breathing shifted, light and shallow. The way he pressed his hands to his thighs like they might keep him grounded.
I’d seen it before. That low-level panic that hit when someone realized they were too turned on to play it cool.
As his gaze kept darting across my muscles, I knew I had to keep him steady if I wanted him any closer. “You in PoliSci too?” I asked, casual. “Or is that just your boyfriend?”
He looked up. “Michael is. I’m… Communications.”
I nodded, letting the pause stretch just enough. “Makes sense,” I said. “You’ve got that whole high-EQ, calm-under-pressure vibe. Like you’re trained to read a room without saying too much.”
He gave a small smile. Nervous, but real.
“Guess they don’t prep you for what it feels like when the spotlight swings your way,” I added, still lounging.
I was easing into it now, testing the edges of Connor’s resistance. Not just the way he looked at me, but if he’d try pushing back or follow me where I was steering him.
He didn’t answer. His weight shifted, eyes flicking toward the door for a second too long.
“I’m just here to study,” he muttered, like he was trying to convince himself.
I let my eyes drift over him, slow and obvious. “You’re sitting there looking like you don’t know whether to run… or explore something new. You don’t have to pick right now. But I can see which way you’re leaning.” I said, grinning.
He blinked, like he hadn’t expected me to come at him that directly. “Y-you don’t know me,” he said, voice a shade too quick to be convincing.
I scratched at my abs, dragging my fingertips across the tight skin, watching it shift slightly over the ridges beneath. The motion was slow, deliberate. His eyes dipped again, then snapped back up, like he hadn’t meant to follow the motion.
“First time alone with someone built like me?” I asked, lighter now, like I might already know the answer.
“I’ve been around guys who lift,” he said, a little defensive.
I let the silence stretch before tensing my pecs and calmly replying. “Yeah. But not like me.”
That one stuck. He didn’t respond.
I adjusted my hips, shorts riding a little lower. My cock was stirring now, the outline thickening just enough to catch his eye.
He noticed. Glanced, then looked away fast. Like that would save him.
I smiled, soft and amused.
“You really didn’t get the memo, huh?” I said. “It’s a rule. Get a guy like you around muscles like mine, no shirt, a little privacy, and things start to bend.”
He gave a half-laugh, more breath than sound. “That’s bullshit,” he muttered, but he didn’t sound convinced.
I kept my eyes on him. “It’s okay to look,” I said, raising my arm slowly, giving it a deliberate flex. The muscle swelled tight, veins rising just enough to catch the light. “I like it.”
His eyes widened. Then he looked toward the floor, jaw tight. The cracks were starting to show.
“You’re kind of full of yourself,” he said. He tried to sound sharp, but the bite wasn’t there.
I grinned. “You’re not wrong. Does that bother you?” I winked, slow and easy.
He didn’t answer. Didn’t need to. The tension in his shoulders said enough. He was still holding back, but his body was slipping. It was time to make my move.
I stood slowly, letting the moment stretch. Then peeled off my stringer like it was nothing. The fabric dragged across my chest, caught for a second on the swell of my delt, then dropped to the floor.
His eyes locked on my torso. Didn’t blink. Didn’t move. Just stood there, breathing a little faster, like he was embarrassed by how obvious it was.
I stood there, bare from the waist up, arms relaxed, chest full.
“Maybe I’ve earned the right,” I said. “And from the look on your face, I think you’re dying to agree with me.”
Connor crossed his arms tighter across his chest. But the flush climbing his neck and the flicker in his eyes said otherwise.
I didn’t move. Just tilted my head.
“I bet he plays it safe,” I said, voice lower now. “Michael, I mean. The kind of guy who tries hard. Means well. But when it comes to stepping up…”
I let my hand drag down the inside of my thigh, settling where the shape in my shorts was starting to show. I didn’t press—just rested it there, casual, like the moment was still mine to decide.
“You don’t need someone who asks permission,” I said. “You need someone who knows what to do with you.”
Connor’s arms were still crossed, but it was armor now. Not conviction.
“Does he ever leave you speechless?” I asked, smirking. I gave myself a slow, deliberate adjustment, letting my fingers wrap around the outline pressing forward. “Or is that still something you’re waiting for?”
His jaw clenched. “This is messed up,” he muttered. But the heat behind the words had faded, cracked at the edges.
I paused, letting the quiet thicken.
“Yeah?” I said, eyes steady. “Then why do you look like you want me to keep going?”
Connor just stood there, arms still crossed like it would keep him from falling. His eyes wouldn’t meet mine, but they didn’t need to. I could see where they kept drifting, admiring my chest, my abs, the swell of my arms. Between my legs where my cock pressed against my shorts, heavier now, more obvious with every second.
I stayed where I was. Watching as he struggled to rationalize to himself what he was about to do.
“You look like you want to come closer,” I said quietly. “Explore a little. I don’t mind.”
That got his attention. His eyes flicked up to mine, startled. Like I’d reached in and pulled the thought straight out of his head. Slowly, he stood, still watching me. Still unsure.
I didn’t push. I just let the moment work for me. Let my body speak in ways words never could. The size. The shape. The presence. That would pull him in.
But this was about more than just about loyalty. Sure, he was trying to hold it together for Michael, but also for himself. Like giving in would mean giving something up.
And still, the wall was breaking.
He took a step forward.
Then another.
Up close, he looked even more unsure. His lips were parted, his breathing a little off. His hand lifted slowly, hovering for a second before making contact. Just the lightest press against my chest, fingers splayed over my left pec.
I could feel how carefully he was touching me. Like curiosity had already turned to lust, and he didn’t trust what might happen if he let it show. His hand trembled.
I tensed beneath his palm, letting the muscle bunch and jump in response. A quick, solid flex. Just to lock him in. Make sure he felt it. What he’d already started.
He let out a small breath, mesmerized.
“You like that?” I asked, my voice low and steady. “Tell me what you feel.”
His thumb moved slightly, tracing the top arc of my pec. He didn’t answer right away. He was still trying to make sense of what was under his hand. Like his hand knew more than he was ready to admit.
“Your chest…” he swallowed, voice barely above a whisper. “Hard. Solid. Like carved stone. But warm.”
I didn’t move. Just let him keep touching. Let him keep needing to.
And under all of it, just for a second, I felt it, my own pulse shifting. A tight spark of heat curling low in my gut. Not just from the way he touched me, but from what it cost him to do it. The weight of that choice, that flicker of conscience dimming just enough to let his hand move.
His fingers drifted across my chest, dragging slowly toward the centerline. He explored the valley between the slabs, pressing into the groove like he wanted to map every inch. His other hand came up and hovered, then settled on my abs, just the fingertips at first, brushing over each cut ridge like he was testing the heat.
I tensed slightly, just enough to make everything pop beneath his touch.
“Jesus,” he murmured. “You’re just… built. All of it. Thick. Tight. Every muscle feels like it’s about to explode out of your skin.” He let out a shaky breath. “Fuck. It’s a lot.”
I cocked my head, grinning. Amused. “Tell me more.”
“It’s… you’re so dense. So hot. It’s like touching raw power. Like your body’s barely holding it all in. And I’m just… brushing the surface.”
He swallowed hard, eyes dragging over my torso like he couldn’t stop.
“I feel small next to you. Not just size. It’s the way you move. Like you’re meant to take up space. And I’m just… here.”
I grinned, slow. Then adjusted the front of my shorts like I was getting more comfortable.
“You feel it too, huh?”
His hands were bolder now, dragging down my torso, tracing each groove of my abs until his fingers met the edge of my waistband. They lingered there, like he wasn’t sure if he had permission to go further.
I watched with interest as one hand drifted back up. Over my chest. My shoulder. His eyes tracked every inch, like he couldn’t look away. Two fingers found the thick vein running down my arm and followed it slowly to the curve of my bicep. I wondered if he had any idea how hungry he looked.
“God,” he whispered. “You’re so vascular. So fucking solid. Touching you scrambles something in my brain. Like I shouldn’t want this, but I do. Bad.”
He paused there, palm flat against my arm. I flexed, slow and controlled, the muscle rising up to meet his hand.
“Yeah?” I said. “It seems like your body’s not fighting it.”
He didn’t speak. But his hands stayed on me, moving like they had a mind of their own. Like touching me had already pulled him past whatever line he thought he wouldn’t cross. His breathing was shallow, pupils wide, lips parted like he couldn’t catch up to what his body had already decided.
“Do you ever talk to Michael like this?” I asked. “Does he ever scramble your brain like this?”
Connor froze. He didn’t pull back, but he was caught. Like I’d hit a little too close to home.
I waited. Let the question hang, heavy and obvious.
“Didn’t think so,” I murmured, voice soft but aimed to cut Michael off at the knees.
His jaw clenched. But he didn’t protest. His eyes kept drifting, down my chest, across my torso, then lower, to where I was thick and straining against my shorts. He didn’t look away this time.
I caught it. Let it stretch out. Watched his gaze climb slowly back to meet mine.
“You ever get close to feeling like this with Michael?” I asked, voice lower now. “You ever feel your heart slam like this? That dry-mouth heat just from being near him?”
His breath hitched. He didn’t answer. Like he knew the outcome was already written.
I tilted my head, dropping my voice a shade darker.
“Want to help me out here?”
I gave my cock a slow, deliberate adjustment, letting the waistband stretch over the shape of it. An invitation he’d already accepted.
His eyes widening slightly, lips parting like he’d forgotten how to breathe. Like the question had hit something soft inside him. He looked up at me the way someone looks at a decision they’ve already made, even if they haven’t said it out loud yet.
I let him sit in it.
He didn’t speak, but his eyes kept searching, like the part of him that knew better was already too far behind. His chest rose and fell like he couldn’t quite catch his breath.
Then his hand drifted down again, tracing slowly along the thick muscle of my arm. His touch was lighter now, more deliberate. Like he was trying to process me through his fingertips. Trying to anchor himself before letting go of everything else.
I didn’t move at first. Let the silence stretch. Let the difference in our size speak for itself. He looked wrecked now. Not just tempted. Like he knew what was coming, and he wasn’t going to fight it.
And fuck, I felt it. The power of it. The way he responded to me. The way he followed my energy, even without knowing it. Like he wanted to be led, whether he could admit it or not.
Connor stared at my crotch like he didn’t trust himself to look any higher.
Then I stepped forward. Slow, deliberate. Closed the space between us, one quiet footfall at a time. He didn’t move. Just sat there, chest rising and falling, like the tension in the air was pressing down on him.
I stopped in front of him. Let him take in the view from that angle.
I took my time, let him feel how small the room had gotten, how close he was to something he wasn’t sure he could handle. I stood right in front of him, close enough that he had to tilt his head to keep eye contact, close enough that the heat coming off me left no doubt what was about to happen.
He reached up, fingers hooking under the waistband of my shorts. I didn’t move. Just watched as he tugged them down, slow and tentative. The elastic stretched, then gave. My cock sprang free the second it cleared the band, already hard, flushed, and heavy. It slapped lightly against my abs before dropping forward, the tip grazing his cheek as he stared up at me.
His eyes flicked down. He stared, wide-eyed, startled, locked on the thick length now inches from his face. “Jesus,” he whispered, almost to himself. Not a protest. Just awe.
He flinched. Just a little. Like the contact startled him, or maybe just made it real. I didn’t say a word. Just let it hang there, thick and pulsing, close enough to feel his breath.
Connor leaned in a little, like something was pulling him. One hand came up, hovering in the air for a second before settling lightly on my thigh. His other hand followed, landing higher, fingertips brushing the base of my shaft like he couldn’t believe the weight of it.
I let the tip rest against his lips for a second. Dragged it across his mouth, slow and steady. Left a streak of slick there, glistening.
His lips parted.
The first lick was hesitant. A slow swipe with the flat of his tongue, tasting the pre-cum, his eyes flicking up to mine like he was checking for approval. I groaned, low and deep, my hand settling on the back of his head.
“That’s it,” I murmured. “Just like that.”
He opened wider. Took the head between his lips, then pushed down further, mouth stretching to take more. Warm, wet, perfect. His tongue swirled instinctively, like he didn’t just want it. He needed it.
I let my fingers tighten slightly in his hair, just enough to guide him. My hips didn’t move yet. I didn’t need to. He was doing fine on his own.
“Fuck,” I whispered. “You’re good at this.”
He moaned around me, a soft, helpless sound, and his hands started moving, sliding up my legs like he needed to feel everything. One hand drifted along the outer sweep of my thigh, fingers trailing over the thick curve of muscle, then slid inward, tracing the deep line that carved its way toward my inner thigh. The separation was sharp and defined, and he followed it, seemingly powerless to hold back.
The other hand found my abs, more tentative at first, then stroking slowly along the ridges. Worshipful.
Between swallows, I caught his eyes. He looked dazed. Desperate. Like he didn’t care about anything else anymore.
I chuckled softly. At how fast he’d given in. At how good it felt to watch someone want me this bad.
He choked a little as I pushed deeper, his throat tightening. I didn’t pull back. Just held him there for a second, letting him feel it, my cock thick and buried almost to the base.
He gagged, but didn’t pull away.
“Breathe through it,” I said, voice low. Encouraging. Assured.
He did.
His nose was pressed into my trimmed pubes, breathing me in, hands locked tight around my thighs. He pulled back with a gasp, drool stringing from his lips, catching at the corners of his mouth, but he dove back down almost immediately. Hungrier. Rougher. His hand dropped lower, fingers squeezing my glutes, nails biting lightly into the muscle.
I gritted my teeth, growling deep in my throat. My grip in his hair tightened. My hips started thrusting, setting a rhythm. Not fast, just firm. Determined. Every thrust pushed deeper, dragged another noise out of him.
“Oh yeah. Look at you,” I murmured, watching him choke it down. “You’re a fucking natural. And judging by the way you’re deepthroating me, you’re loving every second.”
His moan vibrated around me, his whole body rocking slightly with each thrust.
I looked down at him. His cheeks were flushed, lips stretched wide around my cock, eyes glassy, and all I could think was how fucking good it felt to watch him fall apart like this.
His mouth stayed locked around me, throat tight, tongue working, every movement more desperate than the last. His fingers clutched my thighs, then slid upward—one bracing at my waist, the other wrapping around the back of my leg, pulling himself tight against me like he couldn’t stand the idea of me slipping free. I was fucking into his face now, slow and steady, each thrust dragging a little deeper. He let out another moan, low and strained, and I felt it thrum straight through me.
That’s when the door opened.
Michael stood in the doorway, wide-eyed and frozen. Backpack still slung over one shoulder. Keys dangling from one hand. Like he’d stepped through the wrong door in someone else’s life.
Connor flinched. His body jolted like he had just remembered where he was. I felt him try to pull back, a twitch, a gasp, but I already had one hand in his hair, steady and firm.
I looked at Michael, completely calm. Still buried deep in his boyfriend’s throat. My cock twitched as Connor whimpered, muffled around me.
“You’re early,” I said. My voice was calm, almost bored. “But I guess that tracks.”
Then I winked and added, “Don’t worry. I’m showing him a good time.”
I didn’t break eye contact. Just rolled my hips forward again, pushing deeper into Connor’s mouth, slow and steady. Like I had all the time in the world. Like Michael didn’t matter.
I was streaming pre-cum now, leaking steadily across his tongue. He’d be tasting it—salty, thick, impossible to miss. I kept my breathing even. My rhythm stayed calm. But yeah, I felt it. The power. The charge of being watched. Michael standing there, frozen. And me, still buried in his boyfriend’s throat like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Connor’s throat flexed and he gagged. I just kept the rhythm, holding his head in place. His fingers clutched tighter around my thighs like he didn’t know whether to resist or hold on.
He didn’t stop me.
He moaned again, louder now, the sound vibrating around me. I felt it in every inch of my cock. His hands were all over me, one still gripping my waist, the other tracing the line of my abs, sliding down to my hip.
I grunted under my breath.
My thighs tensed. My abs pulled tight. I could feel it building in my spine, the slow, delicious pressure curling inward, waiting to explode. My breathing went shallow. Muscles twitching. Eyes still locked on Michael, frozen in place like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.
“Fuck…” I muttered, voice low and broken open.
Connor was going for it now, wet and hungry, taking me deep again and again like he was past the point of shame. His hands moved, up to my chest, then back to my legs, fingers digging in, pulling me closer.
I let my hips stutter with short, deep thrusts, faster now. My cock was thick, throbbing, the head swollen tight against his tongue. I couldn’t hold it anymore.
I pulled out just as I came.
My hand wrapped around the base, pumping once, twice, and then I started to unload across his face. The first shot hit him high on the cheek, thick and hot. The next caught his lips. More across his chin, dripping to his neck, catching his collar. His mouth stayed open like he didn’t want to miss a drop.
He gasped as it hit him, blinking up at me, blinking through it.
I looked down at him, my cum streaked across his face, his lips, his shirt. My grip tightened in his hair.
“That’s what you needed.”
I exhaled slowly. Let it wash through me.
Then I turned back to Michael, who hadn’t moved.
I shook my head. Just a small, slow motion.
“Want a turn?” I taunted.
Michael’s mouth opened to protest but nothing came. His face twisted, red blooming up his neck, and then he bolted. The door slammed behind him hard enough to rattle the frame.
I turned back to Connor.
He hadn’t moved. Still sitting there with my load on his face, breathing like he couldn’t decide if he was ashamed or desperate for more.
I stepped in closer. Let my cock hover just inches from his face, still slick, still heavy. Watched his eyes lock on it like he couldn’t help himself.
He sat there on the edge of Michael’s bed, lips parted, chest rising and falling. My cum streaked his face, catching the light. He looked wrecked. But not done.
I reached down and curled my fingers lightly under his jaw. Gave a gentle tug.
“Up.”
He followed, slow and dazed. His body moved like it didn’t quite belong to him anymore. When he was standing in front of me, flushed, marked, breathless. I slid my hand along his jaw again, soft and lazy. Then down, tracing the side of his neck. Across his collarbone. Watching the goosebumps rise under his shirt.
I dragged my knuckles along his chest. Slid lower. Let my fingers press lightly against one nipple through the fabric. He inhaled sharply, lips parting like he didn’t mean for it to happen.
“Any regrets?” I murmured.
He shook his head. Slow. Deliberate. Like the answer had always been there, waiting for permission to surface.
I leaned in, close enough to feel his breath. My voice stayed steady, low against his cheek.
“That wasn’t confusion. That was your body giving up the fight before your head ever caught on.”
He shivered. His whole body vibrating with tension, like one more touch might be all it took.
I placed my palm flat against his sternum, fingers spread, holding him there. No pressure. Just presence.
“You will remember this day forever.”
He barely blinked.
I brought two fingers to his lips. He opened without hesitation. Sucked them in deep. His tongue moved slowly at first, then with hunger, like it was the only thing holding him together.
I let him work, lips wrapped around my fingers, mouth wet and eager.
Then I curled my arm, slow and tight, making the bicep rise thick and full between us. Veins lifted under my skin, the muscle peaking high as I held it there, steady. His eyes locked on it. His breath hitched, jaw going slack for half a second, like the sight alone had short-circuited something in him.
That was all it took.
His jaw tightened around my fingers. Then his whole body locked up. A guttural moan broke from his throat, raw and unfiltered, as he convulsed right there in front of me. His thighs clenched, chest shuddering, breath tearing in short, broken gasps. He came hard, overwhelmed and helpless, every muscle firing at once. Nothing held back.
I stayed still. Let him come apart.
When it passed, I stepped back just enough to move freely. Then I reached down, grabbed my briefs from the floor, shook them out, and brought them to his face. I wiped him clean myself, slow and easy.
He didn’t move. He just stood there and let it happen.
When I was done, I balled them up my soggy briefs and pressed them into his hand.
“Keep ’em,” I said. “If you ever want to feel that again, you know where to find me.”
He didn’t answer. Just nodded once, barely. Then he stuffed the briefs into his pocket like he didn’t want to think too hard about what he was doing.
Then he headed for the door and was gone.
