Cliff looked up at Brennan with a sly smile that knew what was up, like a child willfully sticking his hand into the cookie jar. His tongue circled the wet spot and moaned at the taste of his precum, which quickly begat more precum. Cliff tasted every drop. The hot breath and soft moans against Brennan’s sensitive head were too much to fight against. In seconds, the pre part would be history.
Brennan lost his breath, the orgasm rushing through him breaking every levy he had.
“Gimme your shirt,” he breathed out desperately.
Cliff handed him his polo just in time for Brennan to soak it with waves of come. Brennan dug his teeth into his lip to keep the grunt of pleasure at bay. Even though his mind was completely shot from the intensity, Brennan still remembered they were in a busy dorm.
“Hey,” Brennan said through his afterglow haze. He wasn’t going to let the panic of reality interrupt. Not yet. He dipped his thumb into the polo shirt and dragged it across Cliff’s bottom lip. Cliff closed his eyes and held Brennan’s hand over his lips, as if it were an oxygen mask giving him life.
“We’re okay,” Brennan assured him.
Cliff stood up and put his hand on his chest to catch his breath, then realized he was shirtless. “Shit. I, um, have to--I have to...”
“Finish your paper.”
“Right.” Cliff sat in his desk chair, still coming back to earth.
Brennan handed him the come-drenched polo before he left. “To add to your collection.”
* * *
Holy shit.Holy fuck. Holy fuck and shit.
The words repeated themselves in his mind on the jog back to the loft. He was in a state of shock. Thoughts and feelings on how to process what just happened battled like a tribunal in his head.
It was fucking hot and fucking weird and fucking amazing and fucking wrong. Seemed like with all this fucking, there would be more of a happy ending instead of a morass of ambiguity.
He paced in the loft. He could’ve used a friend to talk about this with, but his best friend wouldn’t be happy to hear about how he made his younger brother sniff his crotch.
Man, that was hot.
“Down,” Brennan said to his stiffening dick.
Brennan stopped his pacing. His eyes travelled across the room.
He charged over to his art corner and stood his easel back up. He grabbed a fresh canvas from against the wall and then whipped open jars of his paints. He stirred, bringing the liquid back to life. They had lain dormant too long. Caps clanked against the hardwood floors. He pulled a brush from his stable.
Brennan was a marionette puppet, his arms on invisible strings being swooshed around the canvas by his emotions. Techniques that he thought had rusted over came back to life.
An hour later, he stepped back and looked up his creation - a clash of color with a lost boy in the middle. It was the first work he had completed in over six months.
“Whoa.”
11
CLIFF
There was one thing Cliff had misplaced recently: concentration.
Whether it was staring out the window in class, missing the last thing a teammate had said over lunch, or being a second too late making the pass on the court during practice, Cliff’s mind seemed to boycott the present. It permanently lodged itself in the past, specifically three days ago when his nose was all up in Brennan’s business.
Since then, his nose had spent plenty of time shoved into his polo. He wondered if Brennan got off on knowing Cliff was getting off with the polo, and thinking about that made Cliff get off all over again. It was an infinite loop of hidden desire and dried semen.
The ball rushed from under his hand. Altshuler dribbled down the court and dunked the ball, hanging onto the rim like King Kong.
Coach Trainor blew his whistle. “Cliff, what are you doing? You were holding that ball like it was a family heirloom.”
“I was trying to find an open man.”
