Chapter 5 #2
“ Imperiled by Love !” Perky says, seeming to forget for a moment that he can’t see or hear David. “Ames, please also tell David, if you see him, that a true soulmate would seek to understand what’s important to me and why .”
I nod and tap my temple. “I’ll make sure he gets the message.” I roll my eyes at Jana. “In the meantime, I’m gonna go get started on the bread for tomorrow.”
“Nope. Rocco already did it,” Jana says. “And before you ask, yes, he did it perfectly, and I checked the shaping myself.” She winks. “Your kids are all grown up, Dad. Go upstairs and relax.”
Great. The very thing I was avoiding. But now I have no excuse not to do just that, so I give her a smile and a salute and head next door to the stairs that lead up to my place.
My apartment over the restaurant isn’t large.
Back when the guests of the Abigail—the inn next door that my family’s owned for over a century—arrived in horse-drawn carriages, Watchfire was the stables, and the slant-roofed top floor I call home was where the groomsmen slept.
When I renovated the downstairs into a restaurant, there hadn’t been a lot of money left over to renovate my apartment, so I’d gone for broke on my personal kitchen and left the rest of the space wide open to figure out later.
There’s a living room area that’s really just a couch and a TV, a bedroom area in the back that’s a bed, nightstand, and dresser, with a cramped bathroom between.
It’s the bed that I head for once I’ve kicked off my shoes and hung my coat on the hook. The stuffed otter Robbie won at a carnival when we were fourteen is propped against my pillows, its little paws raised in a permanent cheer. I don’t even bother to move it before I face-plant onto the quilt.
And, as expected, the second I’m alone, my dick decides to remind me of how fucking neglected it is, especially since I was just thoroughly kissed.
I roll over with a groan, get my lube out of the drawer, push my jeans to my thighs, pull off my shirt, and get my dick out. No seduction needed.
Besides, this isn’t going to take long. I’m already half-hard, and I have plenty of material to work with tonight. I close my eyes and think about Auden—how he tasted, the needy, high-pitched noise he made when I shifted closer, the way his hands felt against my chest .
But just as I’m really getting into it, my phone buzzes beside me on the bed. My eyes open, and I don’t mean to, but I can’t help seeing Robbie’s name on the display.
I huff out a breath and close my eyes again, trying to shake off my mild annoyance. It’s not Robbie’s fault that he interrupted me. He couldn’t have known. But suddenly now, it’s hard to picture Auden’s face and to remember what?—
Buzz buzz.
Another message from Robbie. I grab the phone with my free hand, not stopping what I’m doing, to see what the fucking problem is.
Robbie
Hey, can you come in early Monday? Ruiz’s kid has a thing and he needs to leave by 4.
OMG, remind me to tell you about Brie’s science fair thing.
“Jesus Christ, Robert,” I say to my empty apartment.
This is Robbie’s pattern, and if I wasn’t so… ahem, occupied … I would’ve remembered. It’s ten o’clock, meaning he just got off shift and he’s wired, so he’s downloading all his thoughts to me.
Before I can throw the phone down and get back to work, another message comes in.
Robbie
OMG. You will not believe what just happened!
Then a photo flashes up… and I stop breathing.
It’s a selfie that’s clearly taken in the harsh light of the station locker room.
Robbie’s held the camera away from him, so my view is only from his mouth down.
His sweat-drenched T-shirt is rucked up over shiny, sweaty abs.
His department-issue cargo pants are hanging so low on his hips, I can see the sharp V of muscle that disappears beneath his waistband and the dark, furry happy trail leading down from his belly button.
His pants are unbuttoned and unzipped, hanging open in a way that means his dick is literally one tiiiiny inch below the upper edge of his boxer briefs.
My straight best friend just sent me a thirst trap.
A second later, the caption appears.
Robbie
Button fell off my pants! Lol. Gonna have to safety pin these bastards or be arrested for indecency!
Correction: my best friend just sent me an accidental thirst trap.
This isn’t the first time he’s done this, of course. I know anytime I send a harmless “What are you doing?” text, I might have my eyeballs assaulted with a half-naked gym-mirror selfie or a sleepy, rumpled bed-head pic. It’s something I’m… well, not used to , exactly, but resigned to .
I just don’t usually get them while my hand’s on my fucking cock.
I stare at it, drinking in every detail as if wishing it would give me X-ray vision.
Jesus Christ, the man is so hot it’s actually unfair.
Unjust.
Unendurable .
Those abs. That happy trail. The way his jeans are hanging open, the V pointing to his dick like an invitation. RIGHT HERE, AMES. LOOK RIGHT HERE.
I suck in a breath as I realize my hand is still moving, stroking my dick, cupping my balls, pressing firmly against my taint. Which means I’m jerking off to my best friend’s broken button pic.
I need to stop. Right now. Right… now .
I should think about Auden. I should think about Jonathan Bailey, or Jacob Elordi, or all three of them oil wrestling. I should think about literally anyone in the whole goddamn universe other than Robbie fucking Wojcik, because I promised myself I was done with this shit.
But as has happened so damn often the last few weeks, when I’m hard and aching, Robbie’s all I can think about.
I imagine walking into the locker room and finding him like that picture, shirt rucked up and jeans hanging low.
I imagine him laughing as he shows me the damage.
I imagine pressing him back against the lockers, dropping to my knees, pulling those jeans down just a few more inches, and tonguing his slit. Just enough to tease him.
I imagine him groaning, “Ames. Fuck. That mouth .”
His big hand gentle but firm in my hair. His harsh, panting breath echoing off the metal lockers.
His murmured reassurance. “So good, Amesie. So good for me on your knees like that.”
My balls draw up as imaginary me locks eyes with imaginary him. The same affection is there, the love that’s been between us for over a decade. Only this time, it’s electrified by something new. Something hot and slithery. It burrows under my skin and stiffens my cock.
Imaginary locker room Robbie wants me .
“Your throat, baby,” he murmurs, thrusting gently deeper into the back of my mouth. “Show me how much you can take.”
Hot tears slide down my face as I squeeze my cock. I want to be so good for him. Want to show him how much better it can be with me than with L… anyone else.
His thumb brushes the tears away. “Gonna come.” His guttural warning sends me over the edge as I imagine hot, salty spunk landing in my throat and on my tongue.
My whole body goes tight, every muscle coiled. And when my orgasm hits, it’s like a fucking shipwreck, all scattered pieces and frothing seas. Destruction, but also freeing.
For a few seconds, I can’t think. I’m floating on the waves, even as the ship disappears into the murky depths, as my sticky hand moves through the aftershocks, as my heart slams against my ribs, as my tongue worries the copper-tangy spot where I bit my lip.
But then the waves recede… and guilt crashes in right behind it. I’m alone in the still water.
Goddamn it. Pity party much? Fuck.
I’m stronger than this! Besides, I’ve moved on, for fuck’s sake.
The phone’s buzz draws my eyes against my will.
Robbie
Hey, are you at Watchfire? I am dying for a hot sausage
I blink.
Robbie
^flatbread. Sorry. SORRY!! Lol. Typo. Can I grab one on my way home?
“Arghhhhhhhh.” I glare at the stuffed otter, who’s slumped on his side, thanks to my recent athletics. “Do you see this shit? Do you? I am just one man. How am I supposed to cope?”
But Hippyottermus doesn’t answer. He never does.
I roll off the bed and stride to the bathroom to clean up, furious with myself. But by the time I’ve grabbed new underwear, splashed water on my face, and gotten dressed, I’ve regained my composure.
This was a moment of weakness, that’s all.
So I do something a little unorthodox, to prove to myself that I can.
Not working, but I’m home. Come over and I’ll make you something.
Robbie
Sweet! OMW!
Robbie’s not kidding about being on his way. I barely have time to pull ingredients out of the fridge before he’s knocking on my door.
When I open it, he’s standing there grinning at me with no clue whatsoever that I just defiled the fuck out of his innocent selfie.
“New fashion for spring,” he says, stepping inside and throwing his coat beside mine on the hook by the door. He strikes an Adonis pose to show off his muscles, then points two fingers down at his junk. “All the guys are gonna want this.”
I refuse to look. “Yes, all the boys will want to be safety-pinned disasters. Get in here. I’ll make you something.”
He follows me to the kitchen, his presence immediately filling my small apartment. Robbie’s too big for most spaces—not just because of his size, but because his whole personality is warm and encompassing, and you can’t help but get caught in it.
At least I can’t.
“Sausages and peppers okay?” I ask, already pulling containers out of the fridge. “I don’t have flatbread up here.”
“Perfect. I’m mostly craving the sausage right now.”
I shoot him a look, ready to roll my eyes at his dumb joke, but Robbie’s not looking at me. His cheeks are flushed, and he’s staring very intently at my ceiling.
Weird .
I can’t help but wonder if this is a reaction to me blurting out that suck my dick thing last week.
“So… any callouts tonight?” I ask, dumping pre-chopped peppers and onions in the pan.