Chapter 17
Seventeen
I Touch Myself
Ryan
It’s been two days.
Two days since the exhibit.
Two days since Spencer Stark leaned in close, said those smutty, wrecking things in that low, controlled voice. And then he took it back. He just stepped out of the limo like it was nothing. Like he didn’t leave me sitting there, half out of my mind, completely undone.
Go home, Ryan.
Yeah. I tried that. Problem is, he came with me. Not physically. But his words? His tone? Yeah, they fucking came home with me. He can try and deny it all he wants, but the filthy thoughts swimming in his irises betray the cold exterior he puts on for the world.
His lewd words have been playing on a loop in my head like a pornographic soundtrack… and I haven’t been able to keep my hands off myself.
It’s pathetic.
Like right now, steam curls thick around me as hot water rains down from the showerhead, sliding over my skin, soaking into my hair, and dripping down my chest. I brace a hand against the tile as I impale myself on the purple dildo I have stuck to the wall of my shower.
My head tips forward, breath uneven as I chase that same edge I’ve been riding for two days straight.
“Spence.”
His name slips out on a whine. It’s quiet, strained.
Everything about him lights a fire in my belly—the sharpness of his voice, the confidence, the way he says exactly what he wants and then looks at me like he’s daring me to do something about it.
I fuck myself faster, chasing the feeling, chasing him. Maybe I can proxy-fuck him out of my system. But it won’t work. It hasn’t worked the past two days and it’s not going to work this time.
My head tilts back, water cascading over my face as the tension snaps, my body convulses and I scream out his name again as I shoot a load on the shower floor.
For one measly second, my mind is at peace. Quiet. Only the sounds of water, heavy breathing, and my pulse hammering in my ears fill the space. But my old friend, reality, quickly creeps back in.
I stay there a moment longer, palms flat against the tile, letting the last of it ebb out of my system before I straighten and reach up, shutting off the water. The sudden silence is jarring. Cold, even.
I step out, grabbing a towel, dragging it over my skin, through my hair. My muscles feel loose and spent, but my mind is still stuck on him. Still restless.
Still wanting.
I tie the towel around my waist and step up to the bathroom counter, bracing both hands on the edge as I look at myself in the mirror.
Water beads along my shoulders. My chest rises and falls slower now.
I huff out a laugh full of disdain at the man staring back at me in the mirror. My eyes look tired.
“Aren’t you tired?” I murmur to my reflection. “Aren’t you tired of lying to the world? To yourself? Your best friend went through hell, yet managed to live his truth. And you can’t even…” The words hang there, heavy in the air. Because yeah, I am tired.
It was easier before. A hell of a lot easier to keep everything separate when I didn’t have what I’m missing shoved in my face. What I don’t let myself have. Lately, it’s everywhere. No, it’s always been there. I’ve just been blissfully ignorant to it.
Watching those couples at the exhibit was torture. Men with their hands on each other—seemingly without a care in the world. Like they don’t have to think twice about it. About who might be watching. About what it could cost them.
I hate when my brain goes that place. To self-pity. I don’t know their stories, and it’s arrogant of me to assume it’s easier for them. Maybe it’s not. Maybe they’re just braver than I am. Probably doesn’t hurt that their father isn’t the face of the “conservative family values” movement.
Still. I want what all those men have. And it’s not just the people I met last night. It’s Anthony and Chance. The way they look at each other like the rest of the world doesn’t matter. It’s clear that everything they went through only made their bond stronger. Sharper. Untouchable.
It does something to me. Something dangerous. Because when I’m around them it gets harder to pretend I don’t want the same thing. Harder to keep playing the part.
The little vein that protrudes on my forehead when I’m stressed makes an appearance as I continue to stare at the idiot in the mirror. What if I just stopped? What if I blew the whole thing up? Walked away from the expectations, the image, the carefully constructed life.
What if I just lived as the man I was born to be?
My grip tightens on the counter. The only thing I know for sure is that one man is at the center of every single one of these thoughts. It’s his own damn fault. He pushes. He provokes. He looks at me like he sees straight through all the bullshit. Or like he’s waiting for me to crack.
I exhale sharply, dragging a hand through my wet hair. “But there’s nothing I can do,” I mutter. “Not if he won’t make a move.”
But you know what? I’m tired of waiting for him to do it. I’m hanging by a fucking thread here. I’m closer than I’ve ever been to crossing a line I can’t uncross.
I let out a quiet, humorless laugh, shaking my head. “Yeah,” I mutter under my breath. “I need to do something about this.” And I’m going to. Because damn it, I’m a slutty slut who likes it in the butt, and I’m going to get that man to give me his nut.
I head for my dresser, still damp, still a little wrung out.
Yanking open the top drawer, I grab a pair of my shortest gym shorts.
The ones that toe the line between athletic wear and a public indecency charge.
Then I grab my favorite white tank. The material is thin and it fits tight against my pecs.
I pause in front of my underwear drawer, my hand hovering over the knob. I chew on my lip. “Fuck it.” I shove the drawer closed.
Going commando for you, Perfect.
If Spence wants to run his mouth like that and then disappear, he can deal with the consequences. I’ve been blessed with junk that hangs nice. Let him get an eyeful of dick print. See what he’s missing out on.
I tug the shorts up, adjust everything, and pull on my trainers. I take one last glance in the mirror. “Absolutely no shame,” I snicker. Then I’m out the door.
The morning air in downtown Phoenix is already warming up, sun climbing fast as I jog the few blocks to Spence’s building. Each step breaks a little more confidence free. And maybe a little more ridiculousness…
I glance down at my hog bouncing around in these tiny shorts and snort under my breath. Yeah, this is either genius or incredibly dumb.
When I reach his building, I push through the doors and head straight for the elevator, waving to Spence’s concierge, George, as I wait. He’s a fan, much to Spence’s disdain.
Once in the elevator, my pulse ticks higher with every floor that passes. By the time the doors slide open, I’m fully in my head. I step up to his door, look down at myself, and adjust my cock. Just a little fluffing.
Half a minute passes after I knock. Nothing. I wait a few more seconds, then knock again. I raise my fist to knock again, but stop when I hear Spence. “Coming. Calm down.” His voice is rough. Grumpy. My confidence falters immediately.
Great. Perfect timing, Ryan.
I swallow, suddenly hyper-aware of exactly what I’m wearing—or not wearing—as the lock clicks.
The door swings open, and…
Jesus.
Spencer looks like absolute hell. His hair is a mess, sticking out in every direction. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a single strand of his out of place. Dark circles drag under his eyes. His nose is red, his skin is pale, and he’s wrapped in a blanket.
“What do you want, Ryan?” he rasps.
I blink, thrown.
Then I take him in again, slower this time. “Wow,” I say. “Okay. Well, it’s our workout day. I came to get you, but clearly that’s not happening.” I tilt my head. “Are you okay?”
He coughs and fixes me with a glare. “Do I look okay?”
“No.” I grimace. “You look like shit.”
“Gee, thanks.” He turns on his heel, shuffling toward the couch. “I’m so glad you’re here,” he mutters. “I’m sick, ass-hat.”
I step inside, shutting the door behind me. “How was I supposed to know you were sick? You could’ve texted me.” I’m sure I sound irritated, but jeez, he could have told me he wasn’t feeling well. I would have taken care of him.
“I’ve been sleeping,” he shoots back, dropping onto the couch with a thud.
“That sucks.” I sigh, the irritation dissolving just as quickly as it came. “I’m sorry. When did it start?”
He shifts, glaring up at me through half-lidded eyes. “Last night. Probably picked it up at that dumb event. Those things are giant petri dishes.” He squints at me. “This is all your fault.”
“Hey.” I point at him. “You would’ve been there regardless. Don’t pin this on me.” I shake my head. “I’m sorry you’re sick, but you’re the one being an asshole.”
He exhales, long and tired, then rubs his fingertips in circles over his temples. “I know. I’m sorry,” he mutters. “I’m just cranky. I’m the worst when I’m sick.”
I raise a brow. “Only when you’re sick?” That earns me a laugh, which immediately turns into a coughing fit.
“Don’t—” cough “—make me laugh, jerk.”
I can’t help smiling. “Alright, alright.” I glance around, taking in the battlefield of cold and flu medicine on the coffee table. “What do you need? I see you’ve already raided a pharmacy.”
Then, as if summoned, Fucker trots out from the hallway. Spence groans softly. “Shit. I haven’t fed him today. Would you mind?”
I grin, bending down as the cat approaches. “You want me to feed your pussy?”
“Jesus—” he starts, laughing into another cough, stringing together what sounds like at least three different swear words at once.
I bend down and scoop the cat up. “Hey F-Bomb. Is your daddy trying to starve you?” When I straighten, Spence has gone quiet, and he’s staring. Not at my face…
Lower.