My dick hardens at the thought of it, tingling and swelling so rapidly, I feel the familiar warmth as skin stretches tight.
Weird.
Not the type of thing that usually turns me on, but it’s been a weird day, I guess.
I can tell right away it’s not the kind of boner that’s going to go away on its own, so I set my iPad down and reach into my drawer and pull out my lube. Thank goodness Jessie is sound asleep. I’d feel funny about doing this if he was awake. Just to be on the safe side, I’m extra quiet. I reach down, curl my fingers around myself and stroke long and slow. I buck into my fist when the tension builds but my breathing gets erratic and loud. So loud I can’t let go because I’m worried about waking Jessie.
I back up and try to calm down. I try not to think about what happened at the wedding or about the fact he can’t remember it. It takes so much effort not to think about that, that my mind lands on something else; the second Jessie walked into our house yesterday.
Greg looked so happy, I could tell he was trying not to cry. My mom was happy too. I could feel the joy radiating off her. Jessie looked tired. He looked tired in his bones. He looked tired beyond his years. I guess it’s to be expected after everything he’s been through. He was wearing a faded ACDC T-shirt, ripped black jeans and combat boots. He’d rolled the sleeves of his T-shirt up a couple of times, and holy heck, did that ever make his biceps look cut. He was wearing his usual sneer, that slight twist of his mouth that twists something inside me. His hair was a mess. It’s dark, black in most lights. The back is short, but the front pieces are long. They fall down past his cheekbones in a middle parting. Every now and then he runs his fingers through it and gives it this little scrub. He must have done it a lot on the plane or on the car trip because it was tussled by the time he got home.
My hand starts moving again. Faster, but I’m still being careful. I keep the pressure even and trace my thumb lightly around my crown when I need to slow down. I try my best to keep my breathing even. I stroke and stroke until I start losing the breathing battle. I force myself to stop so I can get myself back in, well, not hand, but you know what I mean.
I close my eyes and think of the look in his eyes when he saw me. He looked stunned. Grumpy and shellshocked, but his eyes widened. A little, not a lot, but I saw it. I know I did.
How can he not remember?
My eyes sting and I feel a weight on my chest. I distract myself by thinking of his chest again. I run my free hand up my belly to my pecs. I put my thumb in my mouth and when it’s wet, I squeeze my nipple. I do it harder than I usually do. I press it down when the sting makes me suck my breath in through my teeth. I roll it between my forefinger and thumb, gently now. Light as a feather. My other hand moves too. Pleasure radiates out from my groin, up my spine and my cock, down my legs. My hips buck and stutter, I try to back up but it’s too late. I turn my head and shove my face into my shoulder. It muffles most of the sound, but not all of it.
I don’t move for a long time.
I don’t think, either.
I float.
Everything’s peaceful.
Quiet and good.
4
Jessie
“How’dyousleep?”asksLuke.
He’s scrambling eggs and the smell of slightly burnt toast permeates the air in the living room. He has his AirPods in and is talking louder than he needs to. He looks fresh. Ready to take on the day even though all he’s wearing is an even more flimsy pair of sleeping shorts than he had on yesterday. Looks like he could pop out, do an Iron Man, and still have the audacity to look pleased with his lot in life.
“Like crap.” I get a mug out and fill it with coffee he’s brewed. “I was awake more than I was asleep.” He has the decency to look slightly uncomfortable. “You mind putting some clothes on?”
“Sure.”
He finishes scrambling the eggs. If he’s trying to hurry on my account, it’s not immediately obvious. When he’s good and ready, he turns the heat off and goes to his room, only to come back a minute or two later wearing a pair of swimming trunks that are significantly smaller than the sleeping shorts were.
“Better?” He gives me a big, shit-eating grin. I don’t answer. “Eggs?”
“Does this count as first breakfast, or second?” I ask.
“First. Woke upravenous.”
I look away quickly. “Eggs will be fine.”
We eat on the sofa. He talks pretty much the whole time. I manage to tune most of what he says out and focus on the life force that is caffeine hitting my veins.
“So, d’you want to?”
“Huh?”
“Do you want to hang out with Chase and Gould later?”
