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I shove my jeans farther down and spread my knees and work myself the way that actually feels good instead of the way that’s the fastest. On the up stroke, I twist my fist over the head. Moisture coats my palm for the glide back down. I bunch the shirt in my other hand, at my mouth so I can breathe him in.

Thank god the door is locked.

I moan as I picture him in his sweats, bare chested. The line of hair that leads down to his cock. Pink nipples hard from the cold air. I had told myself it was the thermostat. But now, I think, maybe it wasn’t just the temperature.

I groan into the cotton. My glasses slip sideways, and I leave them. I don’t have a free hand, and I’m not letting go of the shirt.

I picture him coming back early.

That’s new, too. A sort of fantasy. I let it unfold. Him opening the door and seeing me like this. His smile doing that whole-face thing, before he closes the distance between us.

My cock kicks in my grip, leaking even more down over my knuckles. I would die. I would also not stop.

“Daniel—”

I bite it off too late, because now his name is out in the open, given to the universe to do what it wants with. I stroke faster, messy, wrist aching, and the fantasy grows. I picture his hand around me, stroking me. His words from last night taking on a new meaning. You can touch me however you want.

Fuck.

The heat gathers fast, too fast, a hard pull at the base of my spine, my balls tightening. My mouth opens against his shirt. I can imagine I can taste salt that isn’t mine on it. Him.

My back bows.

I come so hard I end up folding forward, a broken sound punching out of me, spilling over my fist and onto my jeans and the edge of the comforter in thick pulses that keep going. My vision spots at the edges. My thighs shake. I clutch the shirt to my face and breathe him through it while my cock jerks and jerks, and I can’t make it stop.

It’s never been like this before. Not even close.

I keep stroking through it until it turns painful and I have to let go, panting, my forehead almost to my knees, and the shirt still in my grip.

The room comes back into focus. The sound of the fridge. Someone in the hall. My own heart slamming against my ribcage.

I fix my glasses and stare at the mess. Then at the shirt. Then at the door.

Guilt arrives as I process what just happened. I used his clothes and said his name while picturing him doing it. I should feel disgusted with myself.

I feel empty and shaky and like I could go again right now if I think about his voice saying after practice one more time.

I sit there until my hands stop trembling. Then I make myself move. I clean up what I can with a towel from my basket. Then I notice I got a little cum on his shirt. I take it to the bathroom as though I’m going to wash it and end up standing there holding it under the light.

If I wash it, the smell is gone.

If I don’t wash it, I’m a person who keeps his roommate’s dirty shirt because it made me come harder than I ever have in my life. I force myself to wipe off the tiny bit of semen on it and then bury it in his laundry basket. He won’t notice.

Then I wash my hands, twice. I come back out and sit at my desk and open a book I already read last year. But all I can think about is what just happened. It was intense. Is that why people like one-night stands? Because they are intense?

I can still smell him on my fingers, which is impossible, I washed them. But it doesn’t stop the phantom smell from teasing my senses.

I close the book and pull out my laptop. Demisexual, that’s what he called me. I do a search.

You have to develop an emotional bond with the person to be attracted to them. I lick my lips. I know him. I know what he likes at the coffee shop. And the way he snores. And that he struggles with reading. And that he didn’t laugh at me last night when he really could have.

I push my glasses up and press the heel of my hand against my eyes. My body likes him. That much is obvious.

Before I can process it much more than that, my phone goes off with a text from Lincoln. He wants to meet for lunch at Nana’s after his practice. I send back a quick text telling him I’ll meet him at the gym where he practices. And I tell myself I don’t have ulterior motives. Like seeing Daniel on the ice.

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