It’s the bed that I head for once I’ve kicked off my shoes and hung my coat on the hook. The stuffed otter Robbie won at a carnival when we were fourteen is propped against my pillows, its little paws raised in a permanent cheer. I don’t even bother to move it before I face-plant onto the quilt.
And, as expected, the second I’m alone, my dick decides to remind me of how fucking neglected it is, especially since I was just thoroughly kissed.
I roll over with a groan, get my lube out of the drawer, push my jeans to my thighs, pull off my shirt, and get my dick out. No seduction needed.
Besides, this isn’t going to take long. I’m already half-hard, and I have plenty of material to work with tonight. I close my eyes and think about Auden—how he tasted, the needy, high-pitched noise he made when I shifted closer, the way his hands felt against my chest.
But just as I’m really getting into it, my phone buzzes beside me on the bed. My eyes open, and I don’tmeanto, but I can’t help seeing Robbie’s name on the display.
I huff out a breath and close my eyes again, trying to shake off my mild annoyance. It’s not Robbie’s fault that he interrupted me. He couldn’t have known. But suddenly now, it’s hard to picture Auden’s face and to remember what?—
Buzz buzz.
Another message from Robbie. I grab the phone with my free hand, not stopping what I’m doing, to see what the fucking problem is.
Robbie
Hey, can you come in early Monday? Ruiz’s kid has a thing and he needs to leave by 4.
OMG, remind me to tell you about Brie’s science fair thing.
“Jesus Christ, Robert,” I say to my empty apartment.
This is Robbie’s pattern, and if I wasn’t so… ahem,occupied… I would’ve remembered. It’s ten o’clock, meaning he just got off shift and he’s wired, so he’s downloading all his thoughts to me.
Before I can throw the phone down and get back to work, another message comes in.
Robbie
OMG. You will not believe what just happened!
Then a photo flashes up… and I stop breathing.
It’s a selfie that’s clearly taken in the harsh light of thestation locker room. Robbie’s held the camera away from him, so my view is only from his mouth down. His sweat-drenched T-shirt is rucked up over shiny, sweaty abs. His department-issue cargo pants are hanging so low on his hips, I can see the sharp V of muscle that disappears beneath his waistband and the dark, furry happy trail leading down from his belly button. His pants are unbuttoned and unzipped, hanging open in a way that means his dick is literally onetiiiinyinch below the upper edge of his boxer briefs.
My straight best friend just sent me a thirst trap.
A second later, the caption appears.
Robbie
Button fell off my pants! Lol. Gonna have to safety pin these bastards or be arrested for indecency!
Correction: my best friend just sent me anaccidentalthirst trap.
This isn’t the first time he’s done this, of course. I know anytime I send a harmless “What are you doing?” text, I might have my eyeballs assaulted with a half-naked gym-mirror selfie or a sleepy, rumpled bed-head pic. It’s something I’m… well, notused to, exactly, butresigned to.
I just don’t usually get them while my hand’s on my fucking cock.
I stare at it, drinking in every detail as if wishing it would give me X-ray vision.
Jesus Christ, the man is so hot it’s actually unfair.
Unjust.
Unendurable.
Those abs. That happy trail. The way his jeans arehanging open, the V pointing to his dick like an invitation. RIGHT HERE, AMES. LOOK RIGHT HERE.
