“No fucking way,” I mutter under my breath, blushing so hard I look red in the face. “This can’t be happening.”
I close my eyes for a second. Here I am. A full-grown man, hiding in a tiny bathroom because another man said to call him “good boy” as a joke.
I let out a quiet groan and try breathing through it. But the tension only gets hotter and reaches a boiling point, like my body’s sick of acting like it’s not affected by Stan, his jokes, his stare, and all the noises he makes that help me forget what lonely feels like.
“Get it together,” I tell myself. My reflection looks back like it disagrees.
There’s no way I can walk back in there like this. Not with Stan grinning at me. Not with Em watching every muscle in my face. Not with the scanner ready to broadcast my thoughts.
My pulse bumps hard. My hips buck forward. The want becomes an aching, throbbingneed.
I brace both hands on the sink, breath unsteady.
I need to deal with this.
Now.
Before Stan asks me why I disappeared, before Em logs more “inconsistencies” on her tablet, before I humiliate myself in the MedBay with a reading that looks like an earthquake.
So with a deep breath, I splash cold water on my face until it drips down my collar. It shocks my nerves, steals my breath…but it doesn’t help. Not even close.
My pulse is still racing in the wrong places. My skin’s gotten too hot. My thoughts areworse. And Stan’s voice won’t stop replaying in my skull.
Good boy.
I shut the tap off too hard. I drag a hand over my face and force myself to breathe.
This is fine. I can shut this down. I can—
No.I can’t.
I push out of the powder room, needing to deal with this in my damn mattress. My hand wraps around a rung of the ladder to my bunk, ready to bury myself face-first into a pillow and fix this.
Except the moment I’m standing close to the bunk beds, his scent hits me harder. Sweets. Smoke. Warm sugar.Stan.
It’s drifting up from his bed. His pillow. His sheets.
I freeze when my hand lands on his mattress. My body goes tight.
No. Absolutely not. I’m not that desperate. I’m not—
My muscles move anyway. I drop down silently. Stan’s bed isn’t made, blankets shoved aside. The pillow gives under my cheek. His scent hits me full-force, knocking out whatever discipline I had left. My breath shudders. My fingers fist his sheets.
God, this is pathetic.
But my body doesn’t care about pride. Or logic. Or consequences.
It wants relief. It wants pleasure. It wants… I don’t even know what it wants, but it wants itnow.
I bury my face deeper into the pillow. My pulse pounds. Everything in me coils tighter.
My other hand slides down inside my sweats, feeling my leaking cock. I’m painfully fuckinghard.
And breathing in Stan’s pillow makes me twitch in my own hand and groan into the fabric.
“Fuck.” My hot breath hits me back. “Stan, fuck.”
My fingers wrap around my girth, pumping fast. My neck’s burning. My ears feel hot. My dignity is somewhere at the bottom of the sea.
