Chapter 1 #2
I’m stronger, thanks to three years of weightlifting. I yank him to his feet and against my chest. I didn’t mean to do that. Nope. No sir. We stagger, and it’s only by clinging onto each other that we manage to remain upright.
“What do you want?” he asks.
I blink. “Umm…”
He pushes away, turns, and staggers down the pavement. Oh! That’s right. I catch up to him and spin him around. His face goes a funny shade of green.
“Don’t throw up.”
He presses his lips together and sways from side to side. “What do you want?”
“You can’t sleep on the floor.”
“Why?”
“‘Cause it’s cold.”
He frowns. “No, it’s not. I’m toasty warm.” He gives me the ghost of a smile.
Come to think of it, I’m warm, too. Beer shield! Have I drunk any beer? Spirits, check. Wine, check. Beer? Not sure. “Come... Come to mine.”
He narrows his eyes. Is it me, or is he swaying even more?
Or maybe I’m swaying, too. Back and forth like a pendulum.
Tick tock. Tick tock. I chuckle. What happens when the clock hits twelve?
Will we turn into pumpkins? I bet Flynn would turn into a pretty pumpkin.
I’d turn into a turnip. Jimmy the turnip. My eyes water.
“Don’t wanna.” He turns around and stomps off.
Somehow, I manage to jog in front of him, stopping him in his tracks. “Don’t be stubborn. I have a comfy sofa.” I do. It’s true. It might have a few broken springs from, uh, sex gymnastics! I snort more than laugh. I’m good at sex gymnastics. On the sofa. Hmm, comfy sofa.
He stands still and slumps his shoulders. “How far is it?”
“Ten minutes. Oh, wait. Maybe a bit further.” Wait. Why do I care where Flynn sleeps tonight? I hate him. No. I don’t. I love him. Nope. Hate him. Hate. Hate. Hate. Boo Flynn.
“My legs feel funny.”
“So do mine.”
“Really?”
“Yeah.” I fall into him. “We’re drunk.”
He blinks. “Yeah.”
“Sofa?”
“Fine. Do you know the way?”
“‘Course. It’s my house.”
“I don’t.”
“Why would you?” I prod him in the chest. “You’ve never been there.” I lick my lips. “Why are you here?”
He looks around. “No taxis.” Tears well in his eyes.
I grab his wrist and drag him along the street. “Don’t cry.” He’s far too pretty when he cries.
“I’m not.”
“Are.”
“Not.”
We weave and stagger down the street, bashing into each other more often than not, which must be worse for Flynn, because I’m tall and he’s short.
Well, not that short, but shorter than me.
Plus, I’m built like a barn, ‘cause I work out. But Flynn is just a city boy pretending to be a country boy. Yup. That’s what Billy said.
Flynn will get bored playing farmer, you wait and see.
But Flynn didn’t get bored, and now there’s no more Billy and Flynn, sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-I-I— What comes next? Who fucking cares?
“Are you sure you know where you’re going? We’ve been walking for ages.”
I stop and stare at the unfamiliar street we’re standing in. I can’t focus on the street name sign, and the doors of the houses keep getting bigger and smaller.
“Nope. We’re lost.”
“Huh?”
“This way.” I stomp the way we came, retracing our steps—I think—until I see something I do recognise. “This way!” I point triumphantly.
Eventually, we arrive at my front door. It’s painted bright yellow, like many of the other student housing buildings in this area.
It takes me five tries to jab my key in the lock and turn it.
In my defence, my hands have swollen to five times their standard size.
They look kinda normal, though, which is weird.
We totter into the lounge and collapse onto the sofa.
“Comfy,” Flynn says.
“Told ya.”
We grin at each other before scowling and looking away.
“We should drunk water,” I say.
“Drunk water? I didn’t drink water. That’s why I’m drunk.”
“Or more beer.” I haven’t had any beer tonight. Have I? Maybe. I lost track.
“Beer.”
I nod and use the walls to support and guide my way, returning not long later with two bottles of beer and a bottle opener. I can’t for the life of me figure out how to use it.
“That’s a fork,” Flynn says.
“A— Are you sure?”
“Yeah.” He pulls a packed keyring out of his pocket and shows me a bottle opener. “Use this.”
I pop the caps off the bottles and toss his keys aside. They land somewhere with a jangle. We half-sit, half-slump on the sofa, swigging the beer.
After a few gulps, Flynn stares at the brown bottle in his hand. “I don’t even like beer.” He downs the rest, the liquid glugging as he does so.
I stare at the curve of his mouth, wrapped around the end of the bottle. Holy fuck, I wanna kiss him. I lick my lips. Nope. Don’t want to kiss him. I hate him.
“Why are you drinking it?”
“Can’t taste it.” He pats his hand over his face. “Can’t feel my face.”
I pat mine and laugh. “Can’t feel mine, either.”
We cackle so hard my eyes water and my chest heaves, and I have to chase my hiccups down with more beer. Our shoulders bash together as we laugh, and we end up falling over each other, propping each other up, until laughter becomes wheezing, and wheezing becomes calmer.
We sit abruptly, which—for me at least—makes the room spin. Flynn’s face is green. Is he sitting on a spinning top, too? Why does that shade of green suit him? Damnit, he’d even look adorable puking his guts up.
“You’d better not puke.”
He glares at me. He has a sexy glare. “You’d better not puke, either. I couldn’t carry you to the bathroom.”
But I could carry him. I have muscles. Why am I flexing my arms? Oh, yeah, to show him my muscles. They’re big.
Flynn widens his eyes to anime proportions. “Whoa! They’re huge.” He drains his bottle, drops it on the floor, twists onto his knees on the sofa, and squeezes my biceps. “Wow! Huge and hard.”
“That’s not the only part of me that’s huge and hard.”
We stare at each other for a beat and then splutter-laugh until we’re cackling again.
He sways, loses his balance, and crashes into me.
Which is fine, because Flynn isn’t huge.
Or it would be fine if I could keep my balance, which I can’t.
We sprawl on the sofa, him on top of me, our chests heaving, eyes locked, and now I’m hard all over.
His eyes get even wider. He pushes away, slams against the far arm of the sofa, and winces and rubs his back.
“Shit! Are you okay?” My heart is hammering. I’m beside him in an instant.
Our eyes meet again, and then we’re kissing.
Who started it? No clue. It’s messy and frantic, and we can’t seem to get our noses or chins or tongues in the right places.
We’re gasping and panting, and our hands are everywhere.
And then we’re pulling apart, retreating to opposite ends of the sofa, glaring at each other.
Fuck, I hate him. I hate the way his lips and chin are glistening with my saliva.
Hate how good his mouth felt against mine.
“My muscles look even better with baby oil.” What the fuck am I saying?
Flynn blinks. If we were in an anime, someone would throw a chink chink sound effect over his exaggerated blinks. “Baby oil?”
“Yeah. Wanna see?” He’s going to say ‘no’.
“Okay.”
Huh?
“Your muscles are big.” He sounds so awestruck.
Well, who am I to disappoint? If he wants big muscles, I’ll give him big muscles.
My kit bag is in the corner of the room, so I don’t have to go far to find a small bottle of baby oil.
I whip my top off, and smooth oil over my arms and chest until my skin is glistening.
I stand and do my best strong man impression, face expressions and all.
“Wow.” Flynn is drooling.
Yeah, I’m sexy. I’m not in control of myself as I take my jeans and socks off, so I’m wearing nothing but my tight, white pants, which do nothing to hide my erection. I rub baby oil over my legs. I give him another strong man show, flexing my muscles so much that my veins become prominent.
“Wow. You’re big. And strong.” His stare travels up and down my body, spurring me to show off even more. “How’d you end up looking that hot?”
Flynn thinks I’m hot? That shouldn’t make me happy. Nope. Because I hate him. I don’t care what he thinks.
Not that it stops me from grinning like the Cheshire bloody Cat. “I work out.”
“Yeah, you do,” he says breathily.
“I showed you mine, now you show me yours.” What the fuck? My mouth is moving, sound is coming out, but I have zero control over what I’m saying.
“My—?”
I gesture at him. “Muscles.”
He guffaws. “I don’t have muscles like that.”
“Most people don’t.” The next moment, I’m straddling him on the sofa, my hands tugging at his overshirt. I freeze.
We stare at each other. Is it me, or is he getting closer?
Or maybe I’m getting closer to him. His breath warms my tingling face.
We’re kissing again, his hand hooked around the back of my neck.
I’m tearing at his shirt and his T-shirt, desperate for a look at his muscles.
At him. We manage to keep kissing as I take them off, sit upright, and stare at him.
He’s not built like me, but he’s not scrawny, either.
I can tell he does manual labour, even if he doesn’t work out or lift weights.
And fuck, he’s gorgeous. My cock leaks precum.
“You’re sexy.” Did I say that, or did he?
We’re kissing again, our hands exploring each other’s torsos.
Somehow, we’re lying on the sofa. Weren’t we sitting?
My body blankets his. I fumble with the button of his chinos.
Why is it so fucking hard to open? My fingers won’t function.
I’ve never been this bad at kissing in my life.
Or at getting someone undressed. I should not be undressing my brother’s ex-husband.
I should not want to get into his pants, but I do.
Fuck, I do. And from the desperate way he’s feeling my body, and the frantic way he’s kissing me, he wants it, too.
I manage to get his chinos undone. I yank them off him and toss them. They end up dangling over the TV. The next sock comes off and ends up over the light shade. It was too hard to tug off, so I can’t be bothered with the other one.
We pause, staring at each other. My hands are on his pants.
His hands are on mine. He swallows. So do I.
Then we’re fumbling to tug each other’s pants off.
It’s chaotic and clumsy, and I end up hopping and falling over, then we’re laughing and kissing, and I have a raging hard on, and his hand is around it, and I put my hands on his arse, squeezing, searching with my finger for— Ah! That’s it!
He gasps and stiffens. “Lube!”
“Fuck.” I don’t have any lube. But I have the next best thing. I scoop up the bottle of baby oil.
It’s on again. Every movement is frantic and fumbling.
My body is buzzing, my extremities are tingling, the room is spinning, everything swims in and out of focus.
This is so wrong, but it’s so right. I hate him.
I want him. I need him. We’re laughing, gasping, kissing, and groaning.
Sounds meld into one. I can’t tell where I end and he begins.
My finger is in his arse, and it’s so fucking tight.
He’s stroking my cock. I’m so fucking hard it’s painful.
He’s on his back, his legs in the air, and I’m between them.
Somehow my cock is glistening with baby oil.
I don’t remember doing that, but I must have.
We’re kissing. His hands are all over me.
He’s groaning, and moaning, and so fucking gorgeous.
I’m trying to find his hole, but my cock keeps missing.
I’m in him, and he's so hot and tight. We’re kissing and touching, and I’m fucking him.
Fucking him.
Fucking him.
I’m coming, and so is he, and his cum is everywhere. Over him, over me. And I’m laughing, and gasping, and I can’t fucking breathe. And I’m in his arms, and we’re kissing.
We’re still. Quiet. And the only thing that stops the room spinning is closing my eyes. I’m thirsty. I’m tired. And I’m in his arms.