Chapter 10
Lane’s scent lingers on my sheets the next morning. Predictably, it makes me hard, just like everything about him makes me hard, especially now after two nights of bare-knuckled self-restraint and resulting blue balls.
I inhale, his scent flooding my nose. My hands clench as I remember the way he rubbed himself off in my lap and how his eyes grew half-lidded with bliss as he came. Fuck, he’s just delicious. And I haven’t even tasted him yet.
Grunting, I ignore my erection and get my gym shorts on. I’d better keep myself distracted during the day if I want the night to arrive quicker. Keeping Lane on edge is part of the fun, but I also can’t wait to be more than an observer in our nightly trysts.
I have to be careful not to spook him, though. It took a lot of careful consideration to even get him to take his shirt off, and I suspect getting him totally stripped down and bare will follow a similar pattern.
That’s fine. I can be patient. I’m in control. Waiting just makes the reward all the sweeter.
I follow my usual routine for upper body day: back, shoulders, and abs.
I use an app to keep track of my progress, and in the short amount of time since I got back home, I’ve broken numerous PRs.
Prison made it pretty hard to keep track, and besides, shit got depressing in there.
With a broken spirit, it’s hard to even move.
Prison didn’t break me fully, though. It got bad sometimes, but I managed to pick myself back up, knowing I was only stuck there for a couple more months, while some of my cellmates were far worse off.
Most didn’t have a wealthy family to rely on, that’s for sure.
I should be grateful, and I am. It’s just hard to know that my life as I knew it is over.
My sentence will forever be a stain I can’t scrub away.
After a shower and a swim, I sit hunched over the kitchen table as I apply for jobs. Like I told Tess, I don’t have very many credentials. A little over a year of bartending, and then an almost two-year gap where I fucked off to prison. Not exactly an ideal candidate.
By sundown, I’m plagued by an antsy restlessness that crawls into my very bones.
I’ve already worked out today, and I’m pretty sore, so I settle for painting my Transformers by my desk.
It’s a tedious sort of fun to pick out the colors and get all the intricate details right.
At least it holds my attention for an hour or so before I give up and crash on the bed.
I glance at my phone. Nine. Hours yet before it’s bedtime for Oliver and playtime for me and Lane.
I could jerk off, but I want to save it for tonight, even though there’s plenty to go around.
Besides, I’m pretty tired. My eyelids grow heavy, and as I sink into the mattress, I think about Lane’s soft skin, the desire burning behind his big brown eyes, and the heady pressure of his weight in my lap.
I jerk awake to the sound of my door opening. I didn’t mean to fall asleep.
Lane’s in my room, his soft steps approaching me shyly. “Oh. Were you sleeping?”
Even though I obviously was, I reply, “No,” and rub my face. I feel disoriented and drowsy, like you tend to after a long, unplanned nap, but my body wakes up quickly at the anticipation of what’s to come.
This is the moment I’ve been waiting for all day, and I’m not about to turn him down just because I’m a little tired.
“Maybe I should leave,” Lane says, frowning as he turns around.
“No. Come here, puppy.”
He spins to face me, and his reaction is the same as every time I call him by that nickname—he gets this annoyed but intrigued expression.
He glares, his pupils blown wide and his cheeks flushing crimson.
He likes it; I know he does. He just doesn’t want to admit it, and that’s part of why he’s so fun to mess with.
I’m still wearing clothes, so I take them off real quick. Lane follows my lead by pulling his shirt off, but when it comes to his boxers, he hesitates.
I reach a hand out and brush his thigh. “How about these?”
Lane stares down at my hand. He tugs at the waistband of his boxers, sliding his thumbs back and forth over the fabric.
I chuckle at his hesitation. “Come on. You’re cute with your little clothes-on humping, but you’re kinda chafing my dick off.”
It’s true; I didn’t notice the first time, but last night, the friction started to get a little too rough to be pleasurable.
“Come on,” I coax. “It’ll feel better for you, too. All nice and slippery.”
I nod toward the trusty bottle of lube by my nightstand, and Lane’s cheeks flush with color.
He shakes his head—at himself or me, I’m not sure at first—but then he sucks in a breath and shucks his boxers off.
He steps out of them, lifting one foot after the other, and sends them sliding across the floor.
And just like that, he’s naked before me.
I try to look at him with polite approval, though I can’t deny I want to stare.
His cock is just as pretty as I’ve imagined: smaller than mine, flushed pink at the tip, full and erect, and pointing straight ahead.
His soft balls are shaved and smooth as he seats himself on top of me, and we both moan when we meet skin-to-skin.
I’m not fully hard yet, my body still waking up from my nap. My cock slumps by my thigh, and Lane frowns down at it, humping my groin but not quite getting the pressure he’s after.
“Go on,” I say. “You can touch it. Position it the way you want.”
His eyes widen, and there’s hesitation, sure, but my lips part in wonder as his hand closes around the base of my shaft. He gasps and lets go of it as if it burned him, blushing madly.
Fuck, he’s cute. I don’t think he’s a virgin, but he sure acts like one sometimes.
After a deep breath, he tries again. His grip is loose but determined as he lifts my dick to point it toward my stomach so he can seat himself just right. As soon as our cocks align, he thrusts forward, and a rushed breath slips from his mouth—a little “oh” that makes my dick twitch.
“Much better,” I say. “Now doesn’t that feel nice?”
It sure does for me. I reach for the bottle of lube and squirt some over our cocks. A long strip lands on the top of Lane’s shaft, and he gasps as I close my hand around us to spread the lube, leaving nothing dry.
I glance up to gauge his reaction, aware that he might get spooked and think I’m going too far. His eyes are glazed over, though, and his brows are pinched in pleasure, as if he’s close to coming already.
I close my fist tighter around our cocks, jerking us off with more intent. It’s a little difficult at this angle, but it gets the desired effect.
“Oh,” Lane moans, and he bucks into my hand. “Oh, shit.”
“Yeah. Feels good, right?” I slide my hand back and forth, meeting his thrusts. “Would feel even better with you on your back.”
Lane shakes his head, but he keeps bucking into my hand, and the tip of his cock leaks a pulse of precum, giving me even more lubrication to work with.
“No? You want to stay on top?”
He nods, eyes closed.
I chuckle. “Your choice, puppy.”
This is nice, too—having him in my lap, right where I want him.
More than nice. His cock rubbing against mine and his trembling thighs locked around my hips are everything I’ve dreamed of for the past couple of days.
I’m close already, but I want to make sure he comes with me.
One hand jerking us off leaves me with one hand free to touch him elsewhere. Hmm… How about…
I let my free hand skirt past his hip and grip his ass. He stiffens, but he doesn’t tell me to stop. Squeezing his right ass cheek, I lift it to the side and bare his hole.
That does the trick. Lane bucks desperately one more time, and then he shoots all over my stomach, shuddering and moaning. I watch him through all of it, transfixed, as I explode in my hand, my release joining his in a mess of lube and sweat and cum.
I’m nothing if not greedy, and I recover faster than Lane, so while he’s still a boneless, panting mess in my lap, I dip my finger in the cum pooling on my stomach and bring that finger to his backside.
There, I rub at his clenched hole—not pushing inside, just circling it gently.
Can’t wait until he lets me do a lot more than that.
A few days ago, he didn’t even want to look in my direction, let alone touch me, so we’re making quick progress, all things considered.
He doesn’t move, either too weak to shove me away or not minding my touch. He gazes at me through half-lidded eyes, a little sullen, a little embarrassed, but looking a lot satisfied.
“Got what you needed, puppy?” I ask as I keep circling his hole with my finger. He’s tight and warm here, and my finger glides over the soft wrinkles of his rim.
He takes a couple of deep, sobering breaths, then shoves my arm away. “This doesn’t mean anything.”
“That? Or this?” I glance down at my stomach, at our spent cocks and the cum pooling in the ridges of my abs.
“All of it,” Lane breathes. “I just want to get off. That’s it. I just want to feel good.”
I smirk, happy that he’s finally speaking more than a few words to me. “And I make you feel good?”
He grumbles something unintelligible. The only word I manage to make out is “Oliver.”
“What’s that?” I ask.
Lane pierces me with a glare. “Oliver can’t know.”
I keep smirking, but my expression stiffens the longer he glares at me. “Of course not, puppy.”
Haven’t we already been through this? I’ve already told him I won’t let Oliver know. Oliver and I are barely on speaking terms anyway. It’s not like I have a reason to chit-chat with him about who I’m sleeping with, even if that someone happens to be his best friend.
With that, Lane crawls off me, tugs his clothes back on, and leaves.
I’m covered in lube and cum, so I jump in the shower soon after he’s left, but what he said keeps grating on me.
“This doesn’t mean anything.”
Oh, yeah? It means more than he thinks.
It’s not like we’re boyfriends now or some shit—I don’t do boyfriends—but it does mean a couple of things.
It means he wants me.
It means that despite his better judgment, he can’t stay away from me.
It means he needs me to get what he wants, and he doesn’t mind me using him to get what I want.
It means I was right about him.
I keep playing it over like a mantra in my head as I scrub myself clean, but no matter how many times I repeat it, the message doesn’t quite sink in.
The next day, I’m eating breakfast by the kitchen table—a huge mound of scrambled eggs with hot sauce, a glass of milk, and a glass of orange juice—when Oliver comes down the stairs. He’s usually got Lane in tow, but this time, he’s all alone, his light brown hair ruffled from sleep.
“Aren’t you supposed to get a job?” he mutters as soon as he sees me.
“Good morning to you too, little brother,” I say, taking a big swig of milk.
“Isn’t it part of your parole or whatever?”
“Been doing some reading?”
He nods. “Unlike you.”
“Where’s your little friend?” I ask casually, acting as if I don’t care about his lazy insults.
“His name is Lane. And he’s still asleep.”
My mouth twitches at the corner, and Oliver is on me like a hawk.
“Have you been doing something with him?”
“Doing something?” I repeat slowly, skeptically. “Like what?”
“Like… You know. Touching him.”
I roll my eyes. “You say that as if I’m a fucking creep or something.”
“Well, I don’t know what sort of freaks you met in prison. Maybe you got influenced.”
“I’m freaky enough as it is,” I say with a grin.
His cheeks flush, and he turns away. “Just… stay away from Lane.”
“You’ve already told me that, little brother. And I’ve already told you I won’t follow your rules.”
He spins around to face me, aghast. “So you have been touching him?”
“Did I say that?”
His shoulders slump in relief. Christ, you’d think he was asking me if I’d maimed him or something. My brother really needs to learn to be more relaxed about sex. It’s just sex—it doesn’t mean anything, and it’s not the danger he seems to think it is.
“This doesn’t mean anything.”
I scowl at Lane’s voice repeating in my mind. Why did he say it like that?
Oliver starts making breakfast. After a while, the thud of footsteps on the top floor tells me Lane is finally awake.
When he comes downstairs, his eyes are heavy-lidded, and he’s wearing the same black T-shirt he wore to my room last night, but paired with skinny jeans and a studded belt. He fiddles with his collar while he waits for Oliver to finish cooking.
“Slept well, puppy?” I ask casually.
Lane turns halfway, gives a little shrug, and keeps fidgeting with the velvet band around his neck.
I keep my eyes fixed on him as a storm rages inside me. So yeah, he doesn’t want Oliver to find out about what we’re doing at night, and that’s fair. But this—pretending like nothing happened between us, like it doesn’t matter to him at all?
It bothers me more than I’d like to admit.
Oliver finishes whipping up their breakfast, and Lane licks his lips at the sight of the pancakes on his plate.
I follow him with my gaze as he turns toward the stairs, and still, he doesn’t look at me.
A cold feeling creeps into my chest, and after a while, I manage to pinpoint where it stems from.
It feels like rejection.
I should be glad that Lane isn’t getting attached to me, following me around and bothering me like some of my previous hookups, but him ignoring me is somehow worse.
This won’t do. It’s time to show him he’s mine, even if it’s just for the summer.