17. Ryan #3
I bury my face in his neck and let the stream loose. “Ryan, ohmyfuckinggod , I feel you. Oh fuck . What the fuck are you doing to me?”
Me? I want to ask. Scream. He’s got me marking his leg like a fucking animal and it’s somehow my fault?
“I’m going, too,” he says because he can’t let a single thing happen in silence. Nothing goes unnoticed or unremarked upon with him. I have this awful realization then, that if he asked, I would have let him piss on me, too. It would feel like— closure .
What I’m doing to him feels wrong, though.
Like the same reason I shouldn’t have left a mark on the back of his neck last night is the exact same reason I shouldn’t be marking him like my own personal fire hydrant.
But the flood gates are open, and I let it flow until I’m done.
My body feels better but my mind feels sick and dirty.
He, however, is now washing himself with reverence, seeming to relish every stroke of his leg and his ass, his chest. He’s showing off, and it’s better than porn.
Good luck thinking about anything else today, Ryan.
Maybe I do need to take the day. Just—not with him.
I need the fuck away from him for a few hours—if not a day or two.
He’s got me ready to commit myself for physical and emotional exhaustion.
As I’m rinsing off and he’s running his hands all the fuck over my body, I start mentally shutting down.
I can’t handle this. If he were anyone else—maybe. Maybe I could deal with this like a mature adult, but he’s rapidly regaining traction in both my mind and heart. This can’t be real.
I’m part of some fever dream he’s in, and I can’t allow myself to get swept up in it like it means something for him. Or us. Especially for us.
In a couple weeks, Kaylin will be back, and he’ll snap back into his reality where he wears boring suits and tech vests and goes to brunch or sports bars with his straight friends or whatever the fuck they do together.
I’ll finish the internship and get my dream job in Seattle where Norah is lowkey waiting for me to hold her hand in the park.
Malcolm will remember—like he did when we were fourteen—that he doesn’t want me “that way.” That whatever room is suddenly open in his head is a place that leads to a life he doesn’t want, no matter how much fun he has playing in it from time to time.
It’s as much of a threat to his future now as it ever was, and he’s just being reckless.
I can’t allow him to be reckless with me.
He gets dressed in the bedroom while I’m in the bathroom. I closed myself in as soon as he went to grab his suit. The steamy air does nothing to wake me up or clear my senses, but the empty space around me is welcome. Work will be hell today on no sleep, but I’ve got to power through. Focus.
I’ve got to shut him out and not allow my mind to wander.
This all proves absolutely fucking impossible.
At work, my brain is as substantial as unset Jell-O.
Constantly melted with flashes of him out of the corner of my eye—the sound of his voice across the worktable, the memories of things he said, things I did.
The feelings I’m utterly defenseless against as they beat at my chest and deeper… like they’re part of my DNA.
After lunch, I go narcoleptic. Charlie tells me to go splash some cold water on my face and get an energy drink.
I don’t notice Mal’s following me until I’m in the unisex bathroom. I chose this one because I thought I might start crying from pure exhaustion on top of everything else, and I’d like to keep that shit private.
But he’s inside the small room with me before I have the sense or the reaction time required to stop him. I’m beyond defenseless as he walks me into the wall, his hands underneath my jacket and his lips sucking needily at mine.
My liquefied brain does nothing. My body responds to his with equal fervor. “You look terrible,” he tells me. “Hot as fuck but terrible. Did you not sleep?”
“Mm…” is all I manage before he’s rubbing his tongue against mine again.
I’m not sure how it happens, when or why or who does it—I guess him—but he’s got both our cocks clenched in one fist .
“We can’t,” I say weakly while we both look down at our leaking dicks. Our foreheads are pressed together, and he’s not wasting any time. I want to come. I need to come. I’m close. This is my favorite. I love him.
“Good, right?”
Fuck, did I say that out loud?
“So fucking close Ryan. I’ve been thinking about this all day. Come with me.”
Okay, maybe it wasn’t out loud. I don’t even know. There’s a rustle near my head, and it’s him grabbing a wad of paper towels from the dispenser, holding them near our cocks, ready to catch what comes out.
Distantly, somewhere in my addled brain, I think how much better this would be with lube and maybe we do this again later—in the shower maybe—after the gym—and I realize no way can I go to the gym today, which also makes me want to cry because I’ve been on such a good streak.
“Mal…” I breathe, and it comes out like the most pathetic sigh. It doesn’t even sound like me. “Coming…shit…don’t let me make a mess. Please… Mal…unfph…fuck…”
“I’ve got you. Shit, me too…hang with me, baby, fuck…yeah…oh God so fucking close.”
I’m spilling cum, and it’s probably getting everywhere, but I also feel half asleep.
I register the low sustained groan he makes as he jerks us—me with my far too overstimulated dick—and drops his head to my shoulder.
My hands are on him. Somewhere. They’re in fists, and I unclench them as the intensity of the orgasm and aftershocks pass, leaving me even stupider and more drained.
His kiss is sloppy and sexy and long while he holds the soaked paper towels over our still joined cocks. When he pulls away and makes sure we’re free of cum stains, he tucks me back in and does up my pants before taking care of himself. “Let me take you home.”
“I’m…” Okay isn’t the word. Not even close. But no—I need to get the fuck away from him. That was too much. This is too much. “I need to sleep.”
“We’ll sleep,” he says. “I’ll let you sleep all night. Promise.”
I put a hand on his chest and hold him back because he’s about to kiss me again. “No. Stop. Mal, I’m so sorry, but we have to stop.”