The shower water, now aimed directly at my face, sprays across my flushed skin. I gasp, sputtering, too wrecked to move. Water streams down my neck, pools in the hollows of my collarbones. My legs are trembling. My hands are trembling.Everythingis trembling.
“Jesus Christ,” I pant at the ceiling. The fluorescent light above me buzzes indifferently, wholly unimpressed by the fact that I ejaculated hard enough to lose the use of my legs.
My heartbeat thuds in my ears, heavy and insistent, gradually decelerating from its sprint.
That was…a lot. Even by my standards. Even compared to the fantasy that left cum in my hair. This was a different magnitude entirely, all because I thought of Ryan. Again.
I am so, so screwed.
I drag a hand down my face, wiping away water and the last traces of post-orgasm haze. My legs feel like they belong to someone else, not ready to support a six-foot-three hockey player standing upright.
I give myself another thirty seconds, then grip the edge of the tub and haul myself up. I steady myself against the wall and stand under the spray, letting the water rinse away the evidence of my spectacular loss of composure.
By the time I step out of the shower and wrap a towel around my waist, the mirror is completely fogged over. I swipe a hand across it and meet my reflection.
Flushed. Damp. Green eyes still a little glazed. My hair is plastered to my forehead in dark, wet spikes.
“Get it together, Jacoby,” I tell my reflection. “You’re watching an eclipse. You’re being a friend. You’re not going to think about his eyes or his hands or the way he says ‘totality’ in a British accent. You’re going to be the best goddamn friend Ryan Abrams has ever had.”
My reflection is unconvinced.
I pad upstairs to my room, leaving wet footprints on the hardwood. The hallway is quiet. Drew and Gerard have retreated to their respective corners of the house, and the late evening light filtering through the window at the end of the hall has shifted from orange to deep violet.
In the safety of my bedroom, I drop the towel, my ass clenching at the sudden change in temperature and check my phone.
Jackson
Dropping Ryan off in 20. Take care of him tonight, yeah?
Me
Always.
22
RYAN
Jackson drops me off at the curb with a cheerful “Have fun, space boy!” and peels away before I can dive back into his passenger seat.
I walk up the driveway, clutching the strap of my messenger bag for dear life. Inside the bag is my star chart, a couple of bottles of water, and a blanket that belonged to Mom.
The front door swings open before I can knock.
“RYAN!” Gerard Gunnarson fills the doorway. “Bestie! You’re early! This is perfect! Come in, come in!”
Before I can protest, a massive hand clamps around my wrist and drags me into the foyer.
“Oliver’s upstairs getting ready,” Gerard announces, steering me toward the living room. “Which means we have time for bestie bonding!”
“Gerard, I don’t think?—”
“Drew! Drew, he’s here!”
Drew Larney materializes from the kitchen, a beer in one hand and a grin on his face that immediately puts me on edge. He’s wearing sweatpants and a T-shirt that says “I Put the Cute in Barracute-a,” and his expression suggests I’m about to be hisentertainment. “Ry-guy. The man of the hour, and the reason our fearless captain has been stress-cleaning since noon.”
“Stress-cleaning?”
“He alphabetized the spice rack,” Gerard stage-whispers. “We don’t even use spices.”
