Chapter 20 Callum
CHAPTER TWENTY
CALLUM
Anita’s office is warm and inviting as always, and I settle into the small armchair for another scheduled session. As much as I’m okay and functional for the most part, I don’t want to settle for that—anything could happen to me, and I need a solid, independent emotional foundation.
“So, what’s new with you, Callum?”
I let out a dry, humored huff. “Where do I even start?”
“Perhaps from where we left off last time.” She checks her notes. “Your dorm was damaged, you moved in with your friend, and you had certain feelings toward him.”
Oh, there’s so much to catch her up on.
“Yeah,” I start. “So long story short, Ian came out to me, I came out to him a day later, then we hooked up, and now we’re kind of dating. We went out for the first time last night.”
Anita pauses, her fingers hovering over her tablet. She blinks, smiling, and picks up her pen. “That’s great!” she says, writing something down with furious speed. “And very fast. How do you feel about all these developments?”
I run a hand through my hair, smiling as I'm reminded of how Ian tousled some of my new styling paste in before he left for the day. “Really good. I feel safe, and there's no pressure to do anything I don’t want to.”
What I don’t reveal is how Ian hasn’t asked me to get him off once. Sure, it’s kind of difficult to start anything when he gets on his knees out of instinct and has me shaking and tongue-tied before I have a chance to offer, but I know I could take the lead in that area, too.
Anita speaks to me, snapping me back to the present. “I’m glad you’ve been able to get comfortable around him, especially this quickly. You were very concerned during our last session.”
I shrug. “He makes it easy. Like, he doesn’t hide anything.”
“Do you want to explore that a little more? After all, you’ve mentioned how much you look up to him.”
Oh, Jesus, saying anything more out loud won’t come naturally, but pushing through is what I’m here for.
“Okay, yeah. I keep thinking he’s too good for me, but Ian makes it clear that he likes me.
That’s, I don’t know, reassuring, I guess, to see that someone who I consider to be amazing and experienced and confident likes me back the way he does. ”
Anita thinks for a few seconds, nodding and taking my answer in. “And I’ll be direct here, since this is something that comes up in people with similar backgrounds to yourself—do you have concerns with any mismatch in sexual experience?”
Embarrassment creeps up my neck and into my face. Despite having sessions with Anita since January, I've never fully told her the extent of my sexual hang-ups. It didn't seem appropriate, but hey, now she’s asked.
“I did,” I admit. “Intimacy was demonized when I was growing up. But I don't know, maybe it helps to share that experience with someone who doesn't beat themselves up for having urges.”
“Demonized?”
Discomfort threads through my core. I’ll keep things brief. I don’t want to go back to that part of my life. “Long story short, anything sexual was on par with a drug addiction. Forbidden and repressed.”
“But you’ve said it’s getting better?”
“Oh yeah. I’m not saying he’s the only reason that’s the case, but he’s definitely helped.”
Thankfully for both of us, Anita steers the topic away from my sexual developments and more to healthy attachment, anxiety management, and communication.
I came to the session in a decent mood, and I’m leaving with even more of a lighter chest. It’s rubbing off on me, this therapy thing.
Hopefully I’ll get to see some of those long-term effects I’m excited about.
The empty apartment is gloomy when I get back, so I flick the heating and a few lamps on. This is Ian’s house for sure—it isn’t the same when he’s gone. It’s too quiet, too empty, and I don’t get nearly enough hugs.
I check my watch, my heart skipping when I see it’s almost six. He’ll be back sometime in the next half hour, and I can hardly wait.
Taking a breath to focus myself, I repeat a mental reminder that we’re still friends, and we haven’t spoken about anything beyond that. What’s unspoken is how we’re also hooking up—friends aren’t exactly known for doing that, but I’m not gonna complain one bit.
Why on earth would I complain about having a ton of sex?
That one little thought opens up the floodgates in my mind, filling my brain with sweet, sweet visuals of Ian working me over, and in mere seconds, I’m hard. Again. What a surprise.
Running a hand across my face, I let out a quiet laugh. Permission and reciprocity make all the difference between me beating myself up for thinking about Ian and daydreaming about his heaven-sent blowjobs.
Oh, hell, I’m out of control. As much as I love how good he makes me feel, it’s definitely time for me to give back.
The thought makes my heart race; I’d be lying if I said I wasn't nervous about living up to the standard Ian has set, which is why I find myself pulling up my phone searching up exactly how to do that. It seems like taking care of him should come naturally to me since I know what I like, but he’s uncut—the equipment might work a little differently.
He's never used lube on himself around me, but I haven't seen exactly how he does it.
A quick search confirms that there are a few things to keep in mind. I might not have to use lube, and I'll need to move my hand with his skin instead of sliding on top of it.
Seems simple enough.
Checking the time again, I jolt myself into action so I’m ready to welcome Ian back. I take a quick shower, dry off, and put some clothes on, contemplating my next move.
Ian knows how much I'm into him, and boy, does he take advantage of that.
He started strolling around the house in a tank top, then he moved on to nothing but those skimpy gym shorts that show his ass off.
All that progressed in, like, a day and a half, and now he makes a point to hang around me with the express purpose of frying the paltry remnants of my self-control.
It isn’t like he even has to try. He could touch my arm, fully clothed, and I’d still go all weak for him.
Still, it's not right if I'm the one constantly drooling over my hot friend-turned-roommate-turned-hookup. I should give him a surprise, too, and the mere idea sends heat twisting down my shaft.
Huh. Yesterday, I found him reclined on the bed, buck naked with only a blanket covering his crotch, beckoning me over with a shit-eating grin and an irresistible lick of his lips.
That could be something to work toward. I chuckle as I toss my shirt away, before hooking my thumbs in the waistband of my sweats. Going completely naked, entirely unprompted, still makes my gut twist a little.
Ian should be home any second now, and I can't wait to see his face. Then he can take my pants off for me.
Ha, I’m being the kind of wicked temptress my parents told me to avoid at all costs, seducing men with nothing more than bare skin and harlotry.
I don't give a damn what my parents think anymore, but even if I did, they never told me not to be a wicked temptress.
Smiling to myself, I discard my sweatpants too, and as I’m deciding whether I should cover up something, the lock clicks.
Bolting across the room, I make it to the couch to take my position before Ian opens the door, and I lie back with a hand tucked casually behind my head and my shirt on top of my crotch.
“Hey, Cal,” he says, tossing his keys into the basket next to the front door. “How was your—”
He stops dead in his tracks the millisecond he rounds the corner.
“Motherfuck.” He drags his molten eyes over me, greedy and intense. A lopsided smile curls across his lips, and he drops his gear bag on the floor, stepping closer.
“Is anything wrong?” I ask with fake concern. “You're awfully quiet.”
“Cocky, are we?” Ian rolls his eyes and plants his palms on my chest, leaning down to kiss me. It's gentle, like all his casual kisses, but there's a certain hunger behind every brisk swipe of his tongue across my teeth, which turns me on to no end.
“My god, you’re a fucking dream,” he mutters, moving his hands lower. He starts to bend down like he always does, and I hook a hand under his arm to stop him.
“I was thinking we could try something different,” I say. “Bedroom?”
“You don’t have to ask me twice. I have to shower first, though. There was a line in the locker room after practice, and I stink.”
“Mmm, sexy sweaty jock. Gimme.” Did I read that line on the internet somewhere? Yeah, I did, but I still play into it.
Ian freezes before pressing his lips together and snickering. He's unable to hold back, and he bends over, laughing his ass off and resting his forehead on mine. “Cal, you're a hidden gem. Never change, buddy.”
“You take ages in the shower,” I complain. “I don't know if I can wait that long.” For effect, I grab his wrist to stop him from walking away. Purely as a joke, of course.
“Hey, let me take a shower,” he says, and because I'm already being cheeky, I keep up the act and don't let go.
He snorts, stilling for a moment. “Alright, Cal. You asked for it.”
I don't have time to wonder what he means because he twists around, tackling me onto my back, and—
Oh fuck. He's pinning my arms above my head, and my only complaint is that he isn’t holding tighter.
“That's what bad boys get,” he teases, nudging my barely-covered erection with his knee.
Out of instinct, I try to bring my arms down, and as soon as I feel him put more weight on my wrists to stop me from moving, I immediately relax.
Call me weird, but I don't want to break free. Ian is super strong, and I can't move an inch.
That predicament sends a tidal wave of arousal straight to my groin. My already-hard dick stiffens even more, which I didn't even think was possible, and it starts to hurt.
What the hell?