I switch the camera view. His eyes are dazed, but still bright. There’s something in his soft tone that has my chest aching, and me doing exactly as he says. I stare into his eyes as I jerk my dick, and it takes only a few pumps before I’m coming, too. My lips part, brows furrow, and I groan deeply, trying to see the excitement in his eyes at watching me, but the pleasure overtakes me and it’s hard to focus. I don’t miss Miles’ lips parting, his pupils dilating as he watches me in the most intimate situation one can be in.
“Fuck, that was hot,” he says quietly and slowly.
“Yeah,” I agree, wiping the cum from my hand on my pants.
“Where are you?” he asks, his voice still quiet but not quite a whisper anymore.
“California.”
“For what?”
I blink, not sure how to answer that.
“Just visiting someone,” is what I say, not wanting to ruin this moment with mention of anything to do with Franklin.
Which is so fucked up.
But I shouldn’t feel bad for it. All Franklin does is hide me.
“Can we meet up when you get back?”
“I’d like that,” I say.
He smiles, biting his bottom lip. The way he looks right now… it’s making my chest tight. He’s so fucking gorgeous. There’s a bang on the door, and his head whips in the direction of it.
“Miles, come on out, baby!”
He rolls his eyes, bringing his attention back to the camera. “That’s Rudy. He’s my best friend, but he’s annoying as hell.”
“I can hear you in there, sweet cheeks. Open up!” Rudy calls.
“I should go.”
I should laugh. His friend sounds fun and sweet, much like him, only I don’t like the fact they’re there together and I’m here… alone.
Chapter 12
Miles
My hangover has lasted two long and torturous days. I was so sick Friday morning that I had to call out, which is entirely Rudy and Maxwell’s fault. They had me out until three am. I don’t remember getting home. But I did get home safely and woke up in my bed without vomit anywhere. Which I think is part of the problem. Had I gotten rid of some of the alcohol, maybe I’d have felt better.
When my alarm went off for work, I was not only sick, but I was still drunk.
I never call out, so it wasn’t that serious—I have plenty of time to use. Now I get a long weekend, only I don’t get to enjoy it because I feel like I was hit by a car and force-fed rat poison.
It’s almost six on Saturday now. My house is a mess and smells stale and sour. I should shower and drink five more gallons of water to flush all this toxicity out of my system. All I’ve eaten is greasy ass pizza that I ordered yesterday at lunch and have been munching on since. Gross, I know, but it’s the best when you’re hung over, and though I am nauseous, I’m keeping everything down.
I shuffle to the bathroom and force myself into the shower. I feel slightly more human after it, brush my teeth and even brush my hair, which only gets poofy.
“Whatever.”
I put the brush down. It falls to the floor, but there’s no way I’m bending down with my head pounding like it is, so I leave it as another day’s problem. I step into my room and the stench hits me. Sweat.
“Ugh,” I mutter, pulling the sheets off my bed and tossing them into a pile in the corner. I fight a rough bout of nausea and my pounding head as I remake my bed with new sheets—sheets that don’t smell like stale alcohol and body sweat.
I slide into bed and close my eyes, hoping to go back to sleep for a little while and not wake up until I feel better.
My phone rings sometime later, waking me up.
