Water sputters, coughs, then finally commits to a steady stream. I strip while I wait for it to heat up—shirt over my head, shorts kicked into the corner, boxer briefs joining the pile.
I step under the spray and let the hot water hammer my shoulders, loosening the knots that have taken up permanent residence between my shoulder blades. Steam fills the room, and I tip my head back, eyes closed, willing the heat to meltaway the tension that Drew and Gerard couldn’t quite talk out of me.
I grab the soap and start lathering, working on autopilot while my brain does what it’s been doing nonstop for weeks: constructing Ryan Abrams in high definition behind my eyelids.
Ryan, without his glasses, eyes catching the lamplight in the archives.
Ryan, tonight, face tilted toward the sky, bathed in the red glow of a blood moon, explaining the geometry of light and shadow while I memorize the way his lips move around words liketotalityandpenumbra.
I reach around to soap up my ass, and that’s when it happens.
The mental image shifts—Ryan’s eyes going dark with want the way they did in my fantasy two weeks ago—and my cock quickly rises to the occasion.
“Down, boy,” I mutter, glancing at the offending appendage. It throbs in response, as if to say,absolutely not.
I try to redirect my thoughts to hockey drills, Coach Donovan’s angry face, Elliot in a tutu. Anything other than Ryan, but nothing works.
I can’t stop thinking about him.
I want him.
Not just physically—though, Christ, the physical wanting is its own category of torment—but wholly. Completely. In every way a person can want someone.
I want to be the first person to kiss him. To feel the tiny gasp he’d make when our lips meet. See his hands tremble before finding purchase on my shoulders. I want to take my time with him. Show him that intimacy doesn’t have to be a performance or a transaction. That it can be slow and careful, that you can pause to askIs this okay?and have the answer beYesbreathed against your mouth.
I want everything, and I can’t have it. Not yet. And for all I know, maybe not ever.
Ryan needs someone who shows up without an agenda, whodoesn’t make his affection conditional on reciprocation. He’s spent his whole life around people who withheld love—a father who confused discipline with care, a brother who kept him at arm’s length until recently, a world that taught him to shrink. I refuse to be another person who takes from him before he’s ready to give.
My hand wraps around my shaft before I consciously decide to let it. A groan escapes me, swallowed by the steam and the rush of water.
There’s no point fighting this. If I walk out of this bathroom in my current state, I’ll spend the entire night trying to hide a raging erection from a man who will be standing close enough for me to smell his shampoo. That is not the vibe I’m going for. That is theoppositeof supportive friend energy.
So I give in. I close my eyes and let the fantasy take over.
Ryan is here with me. Not in the shower—that would be too much for my brain to handle—but kneeling in front of me in my bedroom, fully clothed in his button-down and khakis, staring up at me with those big eyes. No glasses. Just those dark lashes, the honey-gold flecks in his irises, and an expression of pure, focused concentration.
Oh. And his hand is on my cock.
They’re smaller than mine, his fingers longer and more delicate, and they barely close around my girth. He has to use both hands, one stacked above the other, and the image sends a bolt of heat straight through my gut.
Is this okay?fantasy-Ryan asks, his voice quiet and earnest.
“Yeah,” I breathe, my voice echoing off the shower tiles. “Yeah, buddy. Just like that.”
I pick up the pace, my fist sliding faster over the slick skin. The water pounds my skin, steam thick enough to choke on, and I brace my free hand against the tile wall for balance. My hips rock forward into my grip, chasing the friction. In my mind, Ryan adjusts, tilts his head, watches his hands tear me apart.
My balls tighten. The pressure builds faster than I expect,coiling at the base of my spine and spreading outward through my thighs. I grip tighter as I pump upward, and a raw and hungry sound tears from my throat.
Hearing myself, my pleasure is the catalyst.
I come so hard my vision whites out.
The first rope hits the shower wall with an audible slap. The second follows immediately, thick and hot, streaking across the tile. My toes curl against the wet floor, gripping for purchase they can’t find. My mind is blank, the image of Ryan jerking me off gone. Replaced by fuzz.
And then my knees buckle.
I try to catch myself, but my body has stopped taking orders. My back hits the tile wall, the surface slick and warm against my skin, and I go down hard. My ass hits the shower floor, my legs splay out in front of me, and I end up in a crumpled heap—chest heaving, cock still rock-hard and twitching against my stomach. Another weak spurt pulses from the tip and drips down my shaft.
