The cold air is doing absolutely nothing to calm my situation. If anything, it’s making it worse because now I’m remembering how warm Jackson was pressed against me. How his skin felt under my fingers when my hand somehow found its way under his shirt. How I wish I were still there with him.
The Hockey House looms ahead, black as night, except for the kitchen light that someone always leaves on after a party. I sprint the last fifty yards, fumbling for my keys and grimacing because running with a hard-on is not as easy as one might think.
When the front door opens with a creak, I freeze, listening for any signs of life. Nothing. Thank Christ.
The whiteboard by the first-floor bathroom catches my eye—our sacred system for avoiding awkward encounters. I grab the marker and scrawl “DREW - EMERGENCY POOP” in lettersbig enough to be seen from space. No one questions emergency poops. It’s the universalleave me the fuck alonesignal.
I lock the bathroom door and immediately shove my sweatpants down to my ankles. My cock springs free, angry and red and demanding attention. I drop my ass onto the toilet seat, hissing at the chill, and wrap my hand around myself with a groan.
Memories from the night flood through me. The solid weight of Jackson’s leg locked between mine. The impossible heat where his hip ground against me. That soft catch in his throat when my fingers grazed bare skin.
My hand works frantically, desperately, as my legs stiffen and my eyes start doing a dance.
I think about waking up with my face in Jackson’s neck. Think about how he gazed at me in that first moment, before reality crashed back in. There was something in his eyes, something that made my chest crack open and my cock throb.
My hand speeds up, the precome making everything slick and messy. I picture what would have happened if Ryan hadn’t walked in. Suppose I’d shifted slightly and pressed my erection against Jackson’s hip more deliberately. Would he have gasped? Would he have pushed back? Would he have rolled over and ground his erection on mine some more?
Did he even know he was doing it? Or was it subconscious? What had he been dreaming about?
“Fuck,” I hiss through clenched teeth as my orgasm slams into me when I imagine he was dreaming about me.
I come harder than I have in months, spurting onto the floor because I wasn’t fast enough to stand up and finish in the sink. My whole body shakes with it, toes curling in my sneakers, free hand reaching behind me to grab my ass because who the fuck knows why. When it comes to Jackson, my body does whatever it wants, whenever it wants.
After the last drop of pearly white drips onto the floor, my cock gives one last pathetic twitch. The bathroom is silent except for my ragged breathing and the distant hum of the radiator. I grab approximately half a roll of toilet paper to clean up, trying not to think about what I did—jerk off again while thinking about my best friend.
Pulling up my pants, I wash my hands and unlock the bathroom door. The house is still dead quiet as I creep up to my room on the third floor. My bed is cold and too big, nothing like Ryan’s narrow twin with Jackson warm against my side.
As sleep threatens to drag me into darkness, I faintly think about how this roller disco competition is going to be a shit show. But at least my balls are no longer threatening to explode, so that’s something.
I shuffle downstairsto the dining room, water droplets still sliding down my neck from a three-minute shower that consisted mostly of me swearing at the shampoo in my eye. As I round the corner, the scent of melting chocolate and butter-soaked batter surrounds me. The hollow ache in my stomach transforms into a rumble that vibrates through my ribcage, causing all eyes to turn briefly to me.
Nathan is at one end of the table, waving his fork wildly through the air as he takes charge of the breakfast conversation. “All I’m saying is that there should be a warning system. Attention: Gerard’s penis is now entering the hallway!”
“It was almost nine in the morning!” Gerard protests through a mouthful of pancake. “That’s practically afternoon! It’s notmy fault the good Lord blessed me with equipment that needs breathing room.”
“The good Lord also blessed us with boxers,” Nathan shoots back. “Use them.”
“Boxers are prisons for penises,” Gerard declares solemnly. “I cherish my few moments of freedom before society forces me to contain the beast.”
I slide into an empty chair, and Elliot immediately shoves a plate stacked with pancakes in front of me. The chocolate chips are still melted, and there’s a square of butter on top that’s creating a little pool of heaven. “Thanks,” I mumble, shoving a massive bite into my mouth.
I focus on eating while conversation continues swirling around me.
“No, but the animation in this episode was insane,” Alex says gleefully, pointing at his cell phone. “When he did that water breathing technique?—”
“The episode was good for once,” Kyle agrees, which, from him, is pretty much a standing ovation.
Oliver has his phone out too, his massive thumb moving in that methodical way that means he’s systematically liking every single post from last night’s party. He’s probably already commented “Great time!” on seventeen identical photos of red Solo cups.
“You’re quiet,” Elliot observes from beside me.
“Tired,” I mumble between bites.
“Because you’ve been thinking about the competition?”
I shrug, but apparently that’s enough for Elliot to launch into the world’s most unexpected pep talk.
“Look,” he says, voice low, “When Gerard and I started dating, everyone watched us. Analyzed us. The Ice Queen turned us into her personal reality show. It was exhausting, but the scrutiny only matters if you let it. At the roller disco, everyone’sgoing to be watching you and Jackson, looking for cracks, for proof that it’s fake, simply because the Ice Queen insists it is.”
