The way his eyelashes flutter when Grant bottoms out, and the way his lips part when Grant’s thrusts push him up the mattress. I watch the way his eyes roll back, showing nothing but white, and the way he drools. The way he bites his lip to avoid making a sound, and the way he sometimes fails.
Walker is next, then Finn, then Miles. Each of them takes a turn on Kit’s gaping hole, pulling his hips higher or arching his back more, using him like he’s nothing but a toy. Kit comes twice—once when Walker’s drilling into him so hard it shakes the whole bed, and once when Miles jerks him off during his turn—and I watch his face the whole time.
And the whole fucking time I’m thinking, not for the first time, that he’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
12 Loads
Here’s the thing nobody tells you about having a kink that involves your roommates using you like a shared appliance: the part that actually wrecks your brain isn’t the sex, it’s the morning after.
And the morning after that.
It’s every regular Tuesday where nothing is happening and you’re just living with these guys—eating with them, watching TV with them, getting drunk with them—and the whole thing is justnormal.Like nothing shifted. Because technically, nothing did.
Except Grant spends a solid hour calling me a “disgusting house-bitch” while he’s hollowing out my guts, and then, thirty minutes later, asks if I want the last wing with the same “big bro” energy as always. Except Finn feeds me his load while he’s mid-game, then later asks if I’m hopping in the lobby for the next round. Except Walker grinds his sweaty asshole into my mouthand forces me to swallow his musk, then one hour later asks for a spot on his max-rep set. Even Miles nurses on my nipples like a freak until they’re permanently bruised, dumps a load on my chest, and then casually passes me a joint when I come around.
It’s a lot to absorb. You just have to tell yourselfthis is fine.
I’m a pro at fine, though. I’ve always been a high-level performer in that category.
What I’m less prepared for, it turns out, is whatever’s happening with Reid.
I’m not saying it’s a problem, let me be clear. It’s just something I’m noticing. My brain locks onto it and won’t let go.
Reid’s been here for six weeks. In the grand scheme, that’s nothing. I’ve had situationships last longer where I knew the person less, which says something about me, I guess.
Usually, when you meet someone new, you put on the Premium Edition of yourself—the smoothed-out, easiest-to-consume version. I do itall the time. The guys do it too, except maybe Miles. It’s just what people do when the relationship is new.
Reid doesn’t do that.
He’s the same guy at 8 AM as he is at midnight. Same dry-as-hell humor. Same picky eater regardless of whether someone cooked or bought the food for him. He also moves through the house as if he’s always lived here, which should be annoying, but somehow, it isn’t.
It’s comfortable. Reid is comfortable in a way I deadass can’t explain.
It starts, as with most things, without an announcement.
I’m at my desk at 11 PM, doing that thing where I stare at my robotics project and wait for my brain to stop buffering and actually start processing. The joint linkage on my current build is wrong. I’ve known it was wrong for a week. The stress distribution is off by a factor that’s going to cause a cascading failure the second it’s under load. I’ve been circling the solution without landing on it, and it’s making me lose my fucking mind.
Reid walks in and stays quiet for a beat.
“What’s wrong with it?” he eventually asks.
“Joint linkage,” I mutter. “Stress distribution’s off somewhere, and I can’t find where.”
He moves in to look at the monitor. He doesn’t touch anything, which I appreciate (there’s nothing I hate more than someone reaching for my keyboard without an invitation.)
“Start over,” he says.
I look at him, genuinely salty that I’m taking advice from a pre-law student about a mechatronics problem.
“Bro! Seriously?”
“Some errors can’t be found in the middle of everything that’s right,” he says, sounding as if he didn’t just tell me to torch a month’s worth of work. “You’ll keep looking at the same spot, and your brain will just show you what it expects to see instead of the reality. Start from zero.”
Then he just sits down and opens his book.
I stare at the screen. Then at him. Then back at the screen.
“I’m not starting over, you crazy fuck.”
