Neno Garcia.
It can’t be.
My throat tightens, rolling my neck as I refresh my screen over and over. It’s impossible. That account was deleted years ago. Running a hand down my face, I watch in horror as the cursor moves by itself, typing over the reports.
HO! HO! HO!
The fire hisses from behind me, the wind howls, and knocks at the door. While my eyes remain glued on the screen, my reflection shifting and smiling at me, my eyes are hollow, and my grin too wide to look anything but demonic. The cursor blinks, waiting for my reply, but I slam the screen shut and pour myself another bourbon instead.
Outside, a single bell jingles once, and then the lights flicker, causing panic to rise, only to be disregarded by my thoughts. The true horror is all the red across my screen.
“I need a shower,” I mutter, pretending the shake in my hands is just from the cold.
I step into the bathroom, turning the shower on, and quickly the steam from the hot water fills the room, creating condensation that fogs up the mirrors. I stand beneath the water, allowing it to beat on my muscles to relieve some tension, but all it does is drag me into the past.
To the first moment, he was on his knees for me, taking my cock into his warm mouth, just as my hand grips the base. My eyes flutter shut, and I tip my head back, making sure to step away from the running water, and move my hand upward and curving it around the tip.
Each movement peels back my foreskin, the precum making it slick, and my balls draw tight. Heat gathers at the base of my spine as I recall the feeling of his pierced tongue, the cool of the metal ring against the warmth of my length.
Fuckkkkkkk.
My pulse quickens with the movement of my hand, each pump bringing me closer to the edge. Hips bucking wildly, wishing to feel something besides my palm. Wishing for a Christmas miracle to thaw my frozen heart, and the feeling intensifies with the memory of Neno’s eyes as he looked up at me from behind his thick curly lashes.
The tip of his tongue ran down my shaft before burrowing itself between my legs, taking my balls into his mouth. Suckling softly, his tongue lapping each one with care. Each of my strokes of the wet muscle is in sync with his stroke on my cock., and just like that, I spill into my hand, making a mess of my stomach.
Opening my eyes, my shaky fingers drift to where the sperm decorates my toned abs, and I spread it, causing tingles throughout my body.
SLAM!
SLAM !
The sound stops me dead in my tracks. Peeking my head out the glass shower door, I try to tune into the sound, but a chill runs up my spine when all I hear is silence.
4
The Midnight Guest
The smell of cedar fills my lungs as I lather my skin, placing myself underneath the hot stream. I stand here longer than I need to, allowing the water to beat against the back of my neck. I close my eyes and pretend that it can wash off decades of noise. Then the heat dies, and I kill the faucet and step into the cold air that bites into my skin, settling deep in my bones.
The mirror is foggy, causing my reflection to blur into a faceless and merciful being. I drag my towel across my buzzed waves, before wrapping another towel around my waist and moving towards the living room.
The temperature feels like Antarctica out here, the wind howling as it drifts inside.
SLAM !
SLAM!
The sound has me freezing in place, the hair on my body rises, and I bring my arms to hug my body—a weak attempt to shieldmyself from the cold. I follow the coldness to the wide open front door.
My eyes go wide as snow pushes through the opening in pale drifts, a white tongue licking the wooden floor. For a moment, I just watch, waiting for the logic to catch up. Maybe I didn’t lock it, and the wind caught it. My nipple erects from the crisp air, and my body becomes rigid as I move closer and look out the door.
No footprints are left in the snow.
Nothing that gives off an intruder, which means I confirm that I didn’t lock the door right, and the wind must have snapped it open.Yes! That’s exactly what happened. Happy with my conclusion, I close the door behind me and lock it, only to notice a small path of snow, but that too could have been the wind.
“Get it together, Porter,” I say gently, slapping my face. “Too much bourbon and too little sleep.”
The smell of the crisp night air lingers even after I seal it away. Walking back to the kitchen, I pour myself two fingers of bourbon, enjoying the burn as it goes down my throat. Beside my laptop , my phone once again goes off, and I ignore it as I refill my drink.
