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5

Things are officially weird.

It’s been five days since Brandon and I jerked each other on the couch, five days since I licked his precum off my fingers in a fit of insanity, and ever since, I’ve been so fucking horny I can barely function. Classes are a blur. I walk around half-hard all day and have to strategically hold my books in front of my crotch.

Last night I dreamed he was fucking me.

Not some hazy bullshit I forgot by morning. Full HD. Surround sound. I was on all fours in that stupid maid outfit, and he was behind me, sliding in, his big hands digging into my hips. And instead of fighting him off, I was pushing back into every thrust, moaning his name, begging him to go harder. I woke up with my dick throbbing, boxers damp with precum, sweat sticking to every inch of my skin, and my hole twitching like it had its own goddamn heartbeat.

See? Weird.

I’m losing my mind.

I’m not gay. Never looked at a guy twice in my life. But for some reason Brandon’s dick is living rent-free in my head. The weight of it in my hand. The thickness. How he throbbed against my palm when he got close. And that slick I licked off my fingers, fuck, I can still feel it on my tongue sometimes. Musky. Sweet-salty. Not like anything I’ve ever tasted before.

It’s the challenge. It has to be. All this buildup with no release has my brain completely screwed up. I’m horny, frustrated, and spending way too much time around Brandon. Throw in some competitive bullshit that got out of hand, and no wonder I’m having weird thoughts. That’s all this is. Once November is over and I can get off like a normal person again, everything goes back to how it was. I’ll be chasing girls instead of thinking about my best friend’s cock.

That’s what I keep telling myself, anyway.

Nineteen days to go. I’m on the couch playing Candy Crush like the degenerate I am when Brandon walks in and slams the door so hard the wall shudders.

“Bad day?”

“Fucking terrible.” He drops his gear bag by the door and kicks it. His dark hair is damp, plastered to his forehead. He yanks his shirt over his head, balls it up, and throws it at the laundry basket. Misses.

Does he always have to go shirtless the second he walks in? Muscles still pumped from practice, abs cut deep enough to hide a pen in, skin glistening with sweat. My cock stirs in my sweats and I force my eyes back to my phone.

“What happened?”

“Coach benched me.” He paces the living room, hands locked behind his head, every muscle in his torso coiled up. “Said I was playing sloppy. Unfocused.”

“Thought you said you were sharper than ever.”

“Shut up, Dylan. Just shut the fuck up.”

“Sorry.”

“No, you’re not.” His sweats are hanging off his hips, barely holding on, showing that deep V-line cutting down into the waistband.

My eyes follow it down to the bulge straining against the fabric before I even realize I’m staring. I know exactly what’s behind it now. How it looks hard. Where the veins run. The way the head flares out when he’s close. I’ve had it in my hand. Felt it throb.

“This whole thing is fucking with my head, Dyl.”

“You should’ve finished me when you had the chance, then.”

“Don’t you think I know that?” He stops pacing and stares at me. “I had you right there. One more stroke and you would’ve blown all over my fist.”

“Well.” My throat is dry. Him talking about it brings it all rushing back. “You didn’t.”

“No, I had to be all noble about it. Wouldn’t take the easy win.” He scrubs a hand over his face. “Look where that got me.”

He turns and yanks the fridge open. Grabs a gallon jug of water, tips his head back, and drinks. His throat works as he swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing, water spilling from the corners of his mouth, running down his neck and chest in thin streams that trace the grooves between his muscles. A drop catches on his nipple, hangs there for a moment, then slides down his chest.

I grip my phone so hard the case creaks.

The jug lowers. “What are you looking at?”

“Nothing.”