Wren takes my hand and shakes it. “Wren. I’m a freelance black hat hacktivist.”
It shouldn’t sting that they don’t trust me with their name. Not their deadname, but a full name of their choosing. “What’s one of those?”
“Hacktivist, because I try to use my skills for social and moral good. But black hat because I violate a lot of laws to do what I do. And also, the things I support need money. So sometimes I hold my nose and do jobs I don’t want to do to get money, so I can support the things I do.”
I think about Lipstick and how he lost his wife over the things he wanted in life. I haven’t given my future a whole lot of thought. Mostly, I’m at peace with my role here, plus looking after Mom, Willa, and the kids. Living solo. Sometimes, I feel like finding someone and having kids of my own would be the perfect life. I suppose if I was going to have a partner, finding someone who was comfortable in the gray, or black, would make life as a biker a hell of a lot easier.
Suddenly, I’m picturing myself with Wren, which is fucking ridiculous. I mean, I’m a straight guy. Although, either King or Grudge might shoot my balls off and turn me into a eunuch if I touch Wren.
“Is that why you’re here?” I ask.
Wren sighs, then looks down to their laptop and starts typing.
And we both ignore that they never answered my question as we eat.
After dinner,Wren disappears back into their room. And while I generally like Lucy and Grudge, I don’t wait for them to return to the apartment before I hit my room too. Once I’m stripped to my boxer briefs, I scroll through random shit on my phone.
Mostly, it’s bike maintenance videos, and articles about bikes I’ve been meaning to catch up on. But none of it can compete with the sound of the shower running in the bathroom. I try my best to be a decent human being, but my thoughts slip to visions of Wren standing beneath the spray, running their hands through their wet hair as soap runs down their body.
I love messing around in the shower with another person. It’s wet, pun intended. Slippery. Easy clean up. Intimate, if you want it to be.
And the idea that the person could be Wren?
“Fuck,” I groan, tossing the phone onto the bedside table.
I tug the pillow over my head to drown out the sound, but it’s no good. My cock is harder than iron. And there’s no way I’m getting any sleep tonight unless I ease the pressure.
The shower door slides open, and I imagine what Wren would look like, standing there, water dripping down that body, between their legs.
My hips shift under the sheets, my breath thick in my throat.
Fucking hell.
Giving into the urges, I slip my hand beneath my briefs and grip my cock firmly. I should think of something else. Someone else.
But it’s impossible.
Somehow, my mind is full of Wren.
The sound of their voice. The curve of their mouth when they call me out. The way their lips move when they speak. Those fucking gray eyes that are gonna be the death of me.
I groan softly and let my eyes drift shut again.
My hand moves slowly along my shaft, my thumb catching the slick on the head. It lubricates the slide a little.
This isn’t supposed to happen.
I’m not supposed to be daydreaming about Wren.
I’m straight. At least, I always thought I was. But here I am, hard and aching and a hot minute from coming all over my stomach because of the way Wren looked at me as they ate.
The way they bared that inch of skin between their cargo pants and their T-shirt.
The way they licked a crumb of dumpling off their thumb, slow and deliberate.
“Fuck,” I mutter.
The bathroom door unlocks, and I swear I can see Wren walk down the hallway in a swirl of steam, smelling like something I want to eat. I hold my breath, scared of making a sound that would give away what I’m doing.
