He counted.
He knew exactly how long it had been. He hadn’t just moved on; he had been counting the days just like I had. The realization shattered me. I stood there,stripped naked by his words, unable to form a defense because he was right. I was starving.
Cal watched the realization hit me, and he didn’t offer comfort. He just looked annoyed, like I was wasting his time with my denial.
“Get in the car, Silas,” he ordered, tossing the keys at me. They hit my chest with a dull thud. “You drive. I’m done with this conversation.”
The drive to the hotel was torture. Pure, unadulterated torture.
I was driving. I had to drive. If Cal drove pissed off, we’d end up in a ditch. But my hands were shaking on the steering wheel, and the erection throbbing in my jeans was making it impossible to think straight. Every bump in the road was agony.
The car was silent, save for the hum of the heater and the rhythmicsoundof the tires on the wet pavement.
Then, I heard it.
The sound of a belt buckle hitting the plastic of the center console. The heavy clink.
Then thezzzzzipof a fly being dragged down.
My heart hammered against my ribs. My eyes darted to the right before I could stop myself.
Cal had reclined the seat. His knees were spread wide, jeans pushed down to his thighs. His head was thrown back against the headrest, exposing the line of his throat to the passing streetlights. His hand was inside his underwear.
“Cal,” I choked out, my voice tight. “I’m driving.”
“So drive,” he whispered, his eyes closed, his breathing heavy. “I’m not touching you. I’m staying on my side.”
He wasn’t hiding it. He pulled his hand out, his fist wrapped tight around his cock. He was stroking himself, slow and deliberate. The wet, slick sound of his hand sliding up and down filled the quiet car.
I hit a red light.
I should have been watching the intersection. I should have been watching for pedestrians. Instead, I turned my head. I couldn’t look away.
I watched the way his knuckles turned white as he pumped his hand. I watched the tip swell with pressure, glistening in the dashboard lights, a bead of precum catching the green glow of the streetlight. I watched the way his hips bucked slightly off the leather seat, seeking more friction. I watched a bead of sweat roll down his throat and disappear into the collar of his shirt.
“Green light,” Cal panted, not opening his eyes.
I jumped, slamming on the gas. The car jerked forward, tires spinning for a second on the slick asphalt.
“Fuck,” I groaned, shifting in my seat, trying to adjust the painful pressure in my pants. It felt like I was going to explode. I bit my lip so hard I tasted copper.
“I hear you,” Cal murmured, his voice strained, edging closer to the finish. “I hear you shifting over there. You’re biting that lip again, aren’t you?”
“Shut up,” I begged, my knuckles white on the wheel. “Cal, seriously.”
“You like watching,” Cal groaned, his hand moving faster now, his pace frantic, the sound of skin-on-skin becoming louder, wetter. “You like seeing me lose it while you have to be the good boy and drive the car. Don’t you?”
“Cal, please—”
He came with a sharp, broken cry, arching his back off the seat, spilling over his own hand and stomach.
I drove the rest of the way in silence, gripping the wheel until my hands went numb, my entire body vibrating with a need I wasn’t allowed to satisfy, hating him and wanting him in equal measure.
The next night, the tension hadn’t broken. It had calcified.
Showdownwas live from the Allstar Arena. We had just won a six-man tag match, and the locker room was a chaotic swirl of shouting, tape being ripped off, and the smell of Icy Hot.
I moved through it like a ghost, slamming my locker shut with a ringing clang. I needed to get out of here. I needed to get back to the hotel before I did something stupid.
