9. Chapter 9
Atlas
Three flights of stairs and I'm still half hard. Fan-fucking-tastic. My body doesn’t care that we're back at the dorm or that the night is over because my dick is acting like what happened earlier is still happening, and honestly, it's pissing me off.
I flop onto the couch, drop my helmet on the cushion beside me, and pull off my vest. Tonight was supposed to be playing Call of Duty after taking another edible, not chasing Jenkins around his own campus. But here I am, adjusting myself on my own couch at midnight, still worked up.
Hunter walks over to the mini fridge in the corner, grabs water, and drinks half of it. Then he nods at my helmet. “Clean that before you go to bed.”
“Damn.” I hold it up, turning it in the light. There’s a smear of blood on the visor, but a lot more on the right side. “Jenkins really lost it.”
“You pushed a button.”
“I was just talking shit. Same as always.” I drag my finger through the tacky streak on the side.
Jenkins never looked at me that way before. If I wasn’t wearing my helmet, he might have bashed my skull in. And I didn’t even say anything that bad. Hell, last year I chirped some shit about his mom on her knees, and he didn’t look half as murderous as he did tonight.
Hunter finishes the rest of his water. After tossing the empty bottle into the trash, he looks from me to the helmet, then back to me.
I quirk a brow. “What?”
He pulls off his motorcycle gloves, eyes never leaving mine. “You want him.”
The helmet almost slips from my grip, my pulse suddenly hammering so hard it’s pounding in my ears. I put the helmet down and slip my gloves off, focusing on anything other than those dark brown eyes.
“Atlas.”
I dig my heel into the floor. My leg is trying to bounce, sweat beading on my brow like I just sprinted across the length of the ice. I swallow hard and look up, meeting his gaze. “Yeah. I think so.”
“Then he's ours.”
Before I can even respond, Hunter walks to his room and closes the door.
I stare at his door like he's going to come back out and say something else. But he doesn’t.
My chest tightens, and I rub it with my palm. Sometimes he’s such a fucking asshole. How do you say that and walk away?
He didn’t shut me down, though. Not like last time. But that night I’d been drunk, passed my feelings off as a joke.
Nope.
Absolutely not dwelling on that right now.
I hoist my ass up and head into the bathroom. I scrub the blood off my helmet. Once it’s gone, I dry it with a towel and set it on the counter.
At least Jenkins didn’t break anything. Not that I couldn’t replace the helmet, but fuck, it’s my favorite one.
I pump some foam soap onto my hands to clean them since there’s a bit of blood under my nails. “Ow, fuck.”
Dammit.
A deep scratch runs across the Patrick Star tattoo on the inside of my left wrist. Of course. It sits where my hockey glove’s going to irritate the shit out of it.
I turn off the faucet, dry my hands, and then head to my room. I strip down to my boxers, tossing my sweatshirt and jeans to the side near the other pile of clothes from the week. Need to do laundry soon.
After plugging in my phone and setting it on the small nightstand, I flop onto the bed and stare at the ceiling.
My eyes close, but I’m not tired. Well, I am, but I’m not. I shift to my left side, my skin too hot against the sheets. I flip to my right—that’s worse. The pillow is flat and warm, and I punch it, flip it, and shove my face into the cool side.
Ours.
I roll onto my back. My boxers drag across my half-chub and my hips twitch. I press the heel of my hand against it through the fabric, and my cock stirs under the pressure.
“Come on, man.”
I'm talking to my own dick on a Friday night. This is where I'm at.
Fuck this.
I shove my boxers down and wrap my hand around my dick. My thumb drags through the precum at the slit, and I start stroking, slow, base to tip. My abs tighten and my breathing picks up and my hips start rocking into my fist as my dick thickens.
Okay, come on, come on.
My grip tightens, pace picking up speed. I lean forward and spit on my dick, the wet drag louder. “That’s it. Almost there.”
Then everything starts to go away. The arousal, even my fucking erection. I tighten my grip, working my length faster as my teeth sink into my bottom lip. “Not now. Come on.”
I close my eyes, focusing on the friction. But my cock softens in my grip, and my hand is doing all the work now for a body that's already checked out.
Every. Fucking. Time.
A muffled squeak comes from somewhere. My eyes snap open, and I turn toward the wall. “What the fuck is he doing?”
The squeak comes again.
My dick twitches.
Another squeak.
Like Jenkins made earlier tonight. Twice.
My grip tightens, my cock pulsing so hard my hips jerk off the mattress. A groan rips out of my throat. My cock is thickening fast, swelling in my grip, and the difference between ten seconds ago and right now is so sharp my breath catches.
“ Ohhh, fuuuck .”
My teeth sink into my bottom lip, eyes closing. There’s Jenkins—the way he looked at me, how his gaze drifted to my hand on my cock, his mouth falling open.
He was watching me touch myself.
Precum leaks down my shaft, coating my fist as my hips rock up. “Mmm. Oh, god. Fuck, so good.”
His chest was heaving, lips parted as he stared. He liked it.
Liked me .
I grunt, fucking up into my fist so hard the bed frame knocks against the wall.
But it wasn’t just Jenkins.
Hunter’s helmet tipped up. And his fingers . . . they twitched. They twitched when he looked at me.
Both watched me. Me. They—
My free hand grabs my thigh, nails biting in, and the pressure in my cock is so intense my vision is going white at the edges. I need to come, I need to—
Electricity and warmth rush from the base of my spine to my cock.
My toes curl, thighs tensing so hard they shake, and my abs contract.
Cum hits my chin, my throat, streaks hot across my chest, and my fist keeps going, squeezing every pulse out while the moan that rips out of me is loud and wrecked and raw.
I sink into the mattress, hand on my cock that’s still twitching.
Still leaking.
My body finally relaxes, and I inhale, eyes drifting closed. Everything’s quiet. Even the squeaking coming from Hunter’s room has stopped.
I pull my boxers off and use them to wipe myself clean. Cum is everywhere. Can’t believe it’s on my chin. Some even got on the sheets. The only other time I ever went off like this is when I jerked off listening to Hunter fucking someone in his room. And even then, it wasn’t like this.
Wasn’t as strong.
No way this is because of Jenkins. It can’t be.
I toss the boxers onto the floor and then shove my arm behind my head. For five years, my body has only ever wanted one person. Ever worked for one person, even if he’s completely unaware. Except now it wants Jenkins too.
Out of fucking nowhere.
Would’ve been nice if my body had taken notice last year. As if it would ever act like everyone else’s. Nope. It’s got to act all mysterious and fucked up and give me no goddamn explanation for the reasons it does whatever the hell it feels like doing.
Like I’m just along for the damn ride.
Why am I even bitching? I should be happy there’s someone else I respond to besides Hunter.
Except Jenkins is a Titan. No way he’d want a Serpent—want me. Not when he tries to knock my teeth out every chance he gets.
Something ugly flutters in my chest. Not butterflies. Locusts. A whole goddamn plague of them. It spreads across my body, and my pulse kicks hard, then harder, beating up into my throat.
I shift onto my side, pulling my knees up to my chest, arms tightening around the pillow. I’ve been here before. Wanting someone who doesn’t want me back yet doing it anyway because my body doesn’t give me a goddamn choice in the matter.
But Hunter said ours. And my best friend doesn't let go of things he's claimed.
This time, neither will I.