Page 17

What is this feeling?

EIGHT

DANIEL

That was a success. At least I think it was. He might be a hard nut to crack, but I’m determined now.

Although, this little attraction I have for him needs to be put into a box. I definitely can’t be having sexual thoughts about my roommate going forward. Even if he has perfect lips. And a sexy fucking brain.

If I have a type, it’s someone who is smart. I’ve always been this way. Someone who can talk circles around me and not even notice they’re doing it. Quinn talked about science over a muffin, and I could feel it in my spine. Not to mention his laugh. The real one, it is like music.

Friends.

That’s it. Shit. I scrub a hand over my face and take the long way back to our dorm. I only have an half hour before our afternoon practice and need to get my head in the right space. A quick orgasm should help, and since I know Quinn is in class, the room is a safe space.

I lock the door behind me. My gaze tracking over his side of the room. It’s still perfect, while my side is a disaster. My eyes land on a framed picture on his nightstand I hadn’t really looked at before. It’s Quinn and a pretty girl, her mouth open mid-laugh, him almost smiling and looking slightly uncomfortable at the attention. She’s pretty. He’s⁠—

I really shouldn’t pick it up.

I pick it up.

My eyes tracking over his face. My mouth goes dry. If I thought I could tell myself I’m not attracted to him because he’s my roommate, I lied to myself. Because the girl is just a convenient lie I tell myself for three seconds and then it’s just him. Plain white t-shirt, faded jeans, thin framed glasses. And the little crease he gets when he’s thinking about something.

“Friends,” I mutter.

But that doesn’t stop me from shoving my free hand under the waistband of my sweats. I wrap my fingers around my already hardening cock and pull myself free. The cool air of the room brushes against me, and I suck in a breath through my teeth.

This doesn’t count. I’ll make it fast. Then I can concentrate on the ice.

I wrap my hand around myself and stroke, squeezing tight, base to tip, thumb swiping over the crown on every upstroke because that’s what gets me there. The picture shakes a little in my other hand. I keep my eyes locked on his mouth and feel warmth build low in my gut, my cock swelling into my fist until I’m fully hard and leaking through my fingers.

It feels good. Too fucking good. The first slick of pre-cum coats me, making my hand slide easily back up. My hips kick forward, chasing the feeling. I plant my feet so I don’t sway into his nightstand.

The girl is gone. I can only see him. But I imagine him like he was in only his sleep shorts. Soft and lean at the same time, that happy trail leading to a place I’ll probably never see. I squeeze harder, and I moan into the silence.

My thighs shake, heat building at the base of my spine, followed by a rolling pressure that means I’m close. I stroke faster, fist twisting over my head, my breath coming out in raged gasps. Pre-cum making a mess of my hand, but everything else is better somehow.

“Fuck—”

It rushes over me all at once. My stomach clenches. My cock throbs in my fist, and I come hard, pulsing long ropes of cum over my fist, while my vision goes white at the edges. I try to cover the tip with my fist to catch it. But I miss the first few spurts. They land across his nightstand and on the pale fabric of his pillow case, while I stroke the last little bit from my body to drip onto the floor next to his bed.

For a moment, I stand there with my sweats shoved barely down, cock still twitching in my fist, and come cooling on his pillow. The pre-orgasm high evaporates so quickly I get dizzy.

“Oh shit⁠—”

I shove myself back into my sweats and turn to grab the box of tissues from my desk. I wipe up the proof from his nightstand and place the picture frame back down where I hope it was before. Then I take fresh tissues and blot the pillowcase, and it smears it, a shiny stripe across the side of it.

“No. No, no⁠—”

He will know. I know he’ll know. My heart is doing sprints. I’m not going to need warm-ups at practice, because my body is doing them now. I strip his pillow and take the case to the bathroom. I run the spot under cold water and use soap to wash it. Better. Not perfect…but better.

I grab the hairdryer and turn it on high, quickly drying the fabric. Then I put it back on his pillow and hope to God it’s back in the same spot he had it in.

That’s the best I’m going to be able to do. Practice is in twenty minutes, and it’s about a twenty-five minute walk across campus. I have to go.

Blue has a puck bunny pressed up against the outside of the building when I arrive, so I’m obviously not that late. Either that or he has a death wish, because Peter is bigger on being on time than Coach is, and he will make him skate suicides until his legs feel like they are going to fall off.

I push my tongue into my cheek and then decide not to leave him out here. He probably can’t even remember his own name at this point with how she’s grinding against him.