The click echoes in the small space. The stall’s barely big enough for both of us. I can feel the heat coming off his body,smell that woodsy cologne again, stronger now that we’re boxed in.
“This is just about getting off, right? No strings.” I force a casual tone, like I’m negotiating a business deal and not a handjob in a dirty bathroom stall.
“Whatever you want it to be.” He leans back against the door, eyes locked on mine. “Your rules.”
I’ve never been this close to another guy before, our crotches inches apart. Things I’d never noticed in a man come into sharp focus—the shadow of stubble along his jaw, the way his Adam’s apple moves when he swallows, the small scar cutting through his eyebrow. He’s handsome in a very different way than a woman is. All hard lines and angles. Nothing soft about him.
My breath quickens. My chest feels tight. I’m aware of everything: the thumping bass vibrating through the floor, the slow drip of the faucet, the frantic pulse beating in my neck.
“What are you into?” Brock asks, his voice low and gravelly.
“I don’t know, man. Never done this before.”
“It’s not that different from messing around with a girl, except we both know how a dick works.” He reaches out and grabs my hips, pulling me flush against him. His bulge presses against mine.
I gasp, my body stiffening at the contact. The friction sends a rush of heat through me. That’s another guy’s cock, rubbing against mine.
“Damn, you’re really worked up, aren’t you?” he murmurs, his breath warm against my ear.
He’s not wrong. Weeks of denial have made me desperate. Desperate enough to be in this stall right now. And fuck, it feels good to have someone touching me like this. The pressure of his body against mine. The solid warmth of him.
“Mind if I?” He brings a hand to the front of my jeans, tracing the line of my hard-on with one finger. The light touch sends a shudder through me. I can’t speak, so I just nod.
He unbuckles my belt, the metal clinking in the small space. The button pops. The zipper slides down. He eases my jeans and boxers down just enough to free my aching cock. And there it is. Hard, pulsing, on display for another dude. A bead of precum glistens at the tip.
“Nice cock,” he murmurs, wrapping his fingers around my shaft.
“Yeah,” I manage, because what the fuck else do I say to that?
His grip is so much firmer than any girl’s, rough with calluses. He smears the precum over the head with his thumb, and my breath catches. My hips jerk involuntarily, pushing into his hand.
“Sensitive, huh?” he grins.
Of course I am. Three weeks without sex, and I’m ready to blow at the slightest stimulation. But I can’t deny that Brock’s touch feels really fucking good.
He strokes me with his big hand, long, slow pulls that make my toes curl in my sneakers. He knows exactly what he’s doing, adding a twist on every upstroke that has me gritting my teeth. It messes with my head how much I like it.
“That feel good?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I rasp, because it does. It really fucking does.
“Good.” He moves his other hand to my ass, squeezing. “Tight as fuck. You work out?”
“Yeah. Gym a few times a week.”
“I can tell.” He slides a finger along my crack, and I flinch.
“Hey.”
“Sorry.” He pulls his hand back. “Didn’t mean to overstep. You’ve got a great ass.”
“Stay on the front,” I warn.
“Got it. Front only.” He picks up the pace, stroking faster, smearing precum all over my shaft. For a minute, there’s just the wet slide of skin on skin, and my ragged breathing.
“What does that tattoo on your arm mean?”
It takes a second for my brain to process the question. We’re in a dirty bathroom stall, his hand on my dick, and he’s making small talk about my tattoo? Maybe that’s his way of keeping it casual. Or maybe he’s genuinely curious. I don’t know. But I guess it beats awkward silence.
