Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
T hat night, a persistent sound wakes me. Half awake, half asleep I drift in and out of consciousness, rubbing my face against my pillow. Suddenly, I tense up when I hear the sound again and pause to listen for a moment.
Soft panting breaths, and skin on skin.
I whip around and freeze. Arkin is by my bedside in the dark. It takes me a moment to realize what the fuck is happening, but then I push onto my elbows, and the quilt pools around my waist as I drop my eyes to his hand on his cock.
Arkin fucks himself with abandon, jerking his long length in rough strokes that have my heart pounding in the silence. I don’t know what the fuck to say or do. My shocked brain is slow to catch up, but my cock sure as fuck likes the view. Arkin huffs a breath, and his eyes bore into me as my stomach swoops low.
I’ve never watched a guy masturbate before. Still, there’s something excruciatingly erotic about the eagerness behind his harsh strokes, not to mention the dark look in his eyes.
It almost feels like a claiming. And I’m the object of all that pent-up desire, and now he can’t help himself.
When he makes a gravelly sound in his chest, my dick tents the thin quilt like an excited puppy eager for a bone, and I wish he’d say something because now I’m craving his voice and the husky, unused notes of his tenor. I bet his voice is deep and raspy, like the rumble in his throat, which reminds me of summer storms and Impalas.
“What are you doing?” I ask breathily, feeling each stroke like it’s my own dick he’s touching. “You can’t masturbate in front of me like this.”
Arkin picks up pace, tugging on his cock while filling the room with his harsh breaths.
My own dick has a throbbing pulse, and I crease the sheet to stop from reaching for Arkin. “Fuck,” I whisper, my hips jerking involuntarily because I’m so turned on that it’s almost embarrassing.
Arkin braces his knees on the edge of the bed and then groans when he comes, strings of cum spurting over my chest as he keeps milking his cock. Two more squirts land on me, and I flinch as one hits me on the chin. It’s warm and sticky and surprisingly arousing to be marked like this.
Arkin’s labored breaths break the tense silence as he calms down. He doesn’t move, and neither do I.
His cum is gliding down my throat, but I don’t dare break eye contact. Because if I do, he might grab me, or worse, I might reach for him.
Arkin roams his eyes all over me in the dark, as though he wants to memorize his sticky release on my chest and chin—his branding. I’ve come all over Amy’s tits in the past and treated her to facials, which she was always very enthusiastic about. But this is different. It’s more than living out some porn flick fantasy. I don’t know what the fuck it is, but it’s something primal.
Arkin’s burning eyes connect with mine, and my heart jackhammers before he turns and walks back to his bed.
I blink at him as he lies down with his back to the room and pulls the quilt to his neck. Is that it? What the hell is he doing?
I’m wide awake and aroused. I’m also trembling. Like I did the time I lost my virginity, which was arousing but also scary as hell. Naturally, I didn’t want to be some saddo who came in his underwear or shot my load after three pumps. That’s the kind of reputation a guy never recovers from. Twenty years later, at some drunken reunion, someone will undoubtedly bring it up and guffaw at your expense. Everyone else will join in, clinking their beers and spilling that shit everywhere. Do you remember it, Zach? Three pumps and squirt. Guffaw. Guffaw.
No, thank you.
Leaning over the side of my bed, I swipe my T-shirt off the floor and use it to wipe clean. Arkin soon falls asleep, and I listen to his steady breathing, still hard and aching, questioning what we let into our home.
Should I fear him? Is he dangerous?
Fuck…
A heavy breath whooshes out of me as I drag my hands down my face. What he did now isn’t normal behavior, but that doesn’t change anything because I’m still turned on beyond belief, my cock rock hard. In truth, if he changed his mind and walked back over to finish what he started—whatever that may be—I might let him.
Nah. Who am I kidding? There’s no ‘might.’ I have zero fucking self-control when he’s around. That much is clear.
Sliding my hand beneath my boxer briefs, I wrap my fingers around my aching length and jerk myself from root to tip while listening to Arkin’s deep breaths across the room. What would he do if he woke up now and saw me fucking myself? Would he get hard again?
Forcing down a moan, I shudder, about to come after only a few strokes. But then Arkin rolls over and I watch him in the darkness, careful not to wake him.
Minutes later, my cock swells as I slow my strokes, trailing my thumb through the slit and smearing the cum gathered there. Arkin likes it rough, judging by how he touched himself. Does that mean he fucks rough too? The head of my cock aches at the thought, so I squeeze it, needing to ram it deep inside something warm and tight, like his throat.
The filthy thought has me sinking my teeth into my bottom lip. Because damn you, Arkin, for making me this horny. It’s not fucking fair that a punk ass kid that my parents brought home to make themselves feel righteous turns me on like this. But he does, and I’m slowly going insane.
For long minutes, I work my hard dick, chasing my climax until the pleasure becomes too much.
God. It feels so fucking good. Like I’m spinning out of control.
A gruff groan slips out, and I clamp a hand over my mouth to muffle it. Cum coats my fingers, soaking through the front of my briefs.
When I finally slide my slick hand out, I’m so spent I fall asleep covered in my own release.
The next morning I’m pissed off—pissed because I’m sexually frustrated but also because Arkin eats his breakfast like everything is fucking normal. Because it’s not like he, oh, I don’t know, shot his load on my bare chest and chin in the middle of the night. Perhaps that’s something he does a lot? Fucks himself at the bedside of unsuspecting sleeping men his age.
I snort, stabbing the bacon like it has personally offended me, and Mum gives me one of those looks that says she wants to ask me what’s the matter, but she knows I won’t answer. Damn right, I won’t. This is her fault. I wouldn’t have woken up this morning covered in flaky cum, which I had to wash off in the shower—a cold fucking shower since I woke up hard thinking about what’d happened—if she hadn’t agreed to house a fucking weirdo in the first place. Yet here we are, taking out our frustration on the bacon.
I glower at Arkin, but he isn’t paying attention to me. And come to think of it, he hasn’t looked at me once this morning. Well, now I’m even more irritated and worked up.
Once Arkin has finished eating, I don’t hang around. Thanking Mum for the breakfast, I tear up the steps after him.
I’m about to let rip. I’ve earned the right to give him a piece of my mind for putting up with his shit these past few days. But when I enter my room, words fail me because Arkin pulls his gray T-shirt over his head and discards it in the hamper.
Muscles ripple in his back as he looks over at me, and I try not to notice the breadth of his shoulders, but it proves impossible not to. Why is he so ripped? The fuck?? And those dimples at his lower back… I shake my head to clear it before storming over and shoving him hard. “Fucking knobhead,” I growl.
Whipping around, Arkin recovers fast, and in the blink of an eye, he throws me down on the bed and secures my wrists over my head. He’s strong—I’ll give him that. But I’m an athlete and not weak by any means. Strength training is part of our weekly routine, no matter how much I fucking loathe the gym.
We wrestle on the bed, both of us grunting but neither admitting defeat. Arkin bares his teeth in a silent snarl while I curse every profanity under the sun.
“You motherfucker. Get off me.” I manage to free one hand and punch him in the face, but my aim is off, so I get no real power behind the blow. Not that it matters because Arkin has a bleeding cut on his lip. Seeing the blood trickling down his chin has my heart pounding harder as he uses some weird superhuman strength to overpower me.
“The fuck are you doing, man?” I spit when he shoves his big hand into my joggers, those blue eyes darkening dangerously as he wraps his long fingers around my hardening length, jerking me like he touched himself last night—unhinged and with enough depravity to power a nuclear plant.
“Fuuuck,” I curse, hissing a breath, his hand moving rapidly inside my joggers. Staring down at the filthy sight, I feel my heart climb into my throat.
A guy has his hand on my dick, and I’m about to come in seconds. But like, for real! This isn’t a joke. Thrusting into his hand, chasing my cresting climax, I try to free my wrists from his tight hold. He’s freakishly strong, or maybe I’m just not trying very hard. To be honest—letting someone else get me off is not much of a chore.
Flopping back down, I squeeze my eyes shut because it’s starting to feel really fucking good. So much better than when Amy touches me. Seriously, this is on another level.
“Dammit, Arkin.” My breathy voice comes out in a rush, and when I open my eyes, his blue ones bore into me. Anyone else would have gotten a cramp now. But not Arkin. He jacks me with such vigor that this is what I’ll think about next time Coach shouts at us pussies to show some goddamn guts on the pitch, for heaven’s sake.
A groan rumbles in my chest, and my lips part before I bite down hard on my bottom one to stifle another shameless moan. I’m not fighting anymore. Don’t judge me, okay? I don’t have that much self-control. It feels good. More than good, in fact. I just want to get off. Fuck, I want to get off so bad.
“Arkin,” I groan. “Fuck…”
A crash wave of ecstasy steals my breath, and Arkin bites down on a straining tendon in my neck. It’s not gentle, and I know it’ll bruise. But I’m orgasming too hard to care.
Cum soaks my joggers as my cock pulses its release.
This is the second time I’ve come in my clothes in less than six hours. Let’s not make a fucking habit of it, please.
It could be minutes, or it could be hours. Who fucking knows at this point? My heart eventually settles down, and Arkin slips his fingers out of my joggers, his hand slick with cum.
Heat creeps into my cheeks as he studies the milky semen with such intensity you’d think he’d never seen sperm before. Confused, I push up onto my elbows with a frown, about to ask him what his deal is, when he drags his tongue through it with the most provocative and damn right erotic expression.
My throat is suddenly thick and dry, but something in his darkening, slightly wild gaze makes my heart thud like a drumbeat before the chorus hits.
He’s still licking his hand clean when Mum knocks on the door and sticks her head inside. Panicked, I shoot up, hiding the wet patch on my joggers under one of Arkin’s pillows while smiling nervously.
She looks happy, taking our proximity as a sign that we’re finally getting along. I bet my inheritance she’ll tell the ladies at church that God is working in mysterious ways and according to his divine timing, or whatever bullshit they spew. It’s not like her new houseguest would throw her precious son down on the bed and make him come in his hand while she bakes cookies downstairs, like a good Christian housewife. No, absolutely not.
“Can you please pick up the dry cleaning on your way home from practice later, Zachary?”
“Sure.” My voice comes out croaky, so I clear my throat. “Of course. Whatever you need.”
She lights up like fireworks on Bonfire Night, not questioning why her son—who’d normally huff and puff and drag his feet—is suddenly so amicable. It must be the new guy’s influence, right?
The door shuts softly behind Mum, and Arkin looks pointedly at the pillow on my lap, a sexy side smirk dimpling his cheek. Refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing me flustered, I toss the pillow at him before heading for the shower. “Freak!”
Arkin is a damn thorn in my side, and the wet patch on my joggers is the proof.