He hooked his hands under Jonah’s shoulders and tugged him upright, making short work of undoing Jonah’s trousers and dragging his cock free of his underwear. His touch was rough as he flipped their positions, spinning Jonah to face the sink as he stood behind him, jacking him with a grip firm enough to roll Jonah’s eyes. He gripped the counter in front of Jonah for support, and pressed his face between Jonah’s shoulder blades, drawing pleasure from Jonah in short, sharp pumps, twisting his hand in just the right place.
Jonah shuddered, knowing he wouldn’t last long. Blowing Sacha had worked Jonah up so much he’d been on a knife edge before Sacha had laid a hand on him. He bucked into Sacha’s hand, groaning, and glad the noise of the crowds beyond the locked door drowned out the strangled yell that swiftly followed.
After, he came down with a shiver, and cleaned up with more paper towels. Behind him, Sacha was quiet.
Too quiet.
Jonah chanced a glance at him in the mirror and found him dressed again, and fixated with something on the ceiling, expression devoid of anything that mattered.
Nice.
Irritation returned to Jonah in droves. He zipped himself up and turned around.
Sacha slowly dropped his gaze. Jonah searched for something he recognised, anything to bind them together, then reality returned to him, and he remembered that things had changed. That he was searching for a connection that wasn’t there.
You’re not friends. He doesn’t want that, remember?
In the cramped bathroom, it didn’t seem to matter that Jonahdidwant that, very much. He wanted Sacha’s grin, his embrace, and his dry humour. He wanted his kiss, and his arms around him in bed as they slept.
More than anything, he wanted Sacha to look at him.
But he didn’t, and Jonah lacked the masochism for the endless wait. He tucked his shirt in, knocked his fist to Sacha’s shoulder, and left.
15
Sacha rolled over in bed and stared at the ceiling. Unlike Jonah’s penthouse bedroom with its panoramic cityscape on one side of the room, and his glitteringyolkaon the other, the bare hipster bricks and industrial pipes were all Sacha had.
And he was glad of it. The utilitarian view was all he deserved, aside from the headache that had nothing to do with overwork and everything to do with the eight shots of vodka he’d sunk last night.
You’re an idiot.
It wasn’t the first time the thought had crossed his mind since he’d woken with hazy memories of accosting Jonah in the pub bathroom. And on the fourth go-round, he didn’t mean it any less. He pictured Jonah’s face as he’d stormed out of the bathroom, and pulled a pillow over his head, muffling his groan.It is your fault. You broke the rules.Sacha liked rules, even if they were only for himself. But since he’d met Jonah Gray, he found himself breaking each and every boundary he’d ever set. No repeat hook-ups. No sleepovers.No drinking vodka and laying his hands on Jonah Gray.
Okay. That was a new rule, and one he’d broken way before he’d consciously put it in place, but still. Whichever way he looked at it, he’d fucked up. And all because he’d let his drunken horniness get the better of him when the actual reason he’d followed Jonah into that bathroom had been to check he was okay after he’d vanished from the FG table.
Jonah’s kiss had caught him off guard. Then his anger. And his mouth on Sacha’s cock. Sober Sacha might’ve seen the frustration behind Jonah’s desire for him, but drunk Sacha had been too consumed by the pleasure of it. Too caught up in his spinning head and thundering heart. Even after, he’d lacked the brain power to string a coherent sentence together. Jonah had walked out before it returned to him, and he’d left the pub entirely by the time Sacha had pulled himself together enough to exit the bathroom.
Sacha had gone home after that, taking a cab to the Chelsea street that was a stone’s throw from Jonah’s penthouse apartment. He’d drunk more vodka, jacked himself under a cold shower with Jonah on his mind, then passed out face down on his bed, still wet from the frigid spray.
He’d woken up shivering.
He was still cold now. Lonely too, an emotion he couldn’t make sense of. Being alone had never bothered him in that faraway place before Jonah.
So he is the barometer you measure yourself with now? The litmus test for your mental health?
You are a fool, Ivanov.
Sacha scowled. Even his own name no longer sounded right without Jonah’s honeyed voice wrapped around it, and the sad fact irritated him enough to crawl out of bed and into the shower again.
The shock of cold water eased his headache, then warmed enough for his limbs to feel like they belonged to him again. His thoughts remained stuck on Jonah, and his blood pumped south, but he ignored his dick, washed his hair, and scrubbed his skin clean of the scent of a late night in the city.
Back in his room, his phone was alive with texts from Helga.
Helga:Where are you? Did you leave?
Helga:Your scarf is still on the table. I’ll take it home.
Helga:Did you leave with Jonah? I can’t see him either.
