Chapter 6
six
MAVERICK
“And done,” I say aloud, taking a step back to look at the wall decor. It looks great, set up exactly how I want it. When I left Walt, I left all my decor behind, not wanting to take the time to pull shit off the walls.
Walt was involved in picking out wall decorations and pictures, and he had awful taste.
I must have really been in love to ignore how tacky he made our place look.
The colors clashed, the pictures too loud, not blending with any of the furniture.
The setup was atrocious, none of the pictures aligning, no matter how hard I tried to fix them. It was a fucking mess.
But now, I have everything how I want, the pictures, hanging shelves with plants and photos, inspirational quotes. It looks fucking great.
I grab my phone and snap a picture, sending it to Sawyer.
Me: What do you think?
He responds quickly, making me bark a laugh at his reply.
Sawyer: SOOOOOO much better than Walt’s bullshit. Most of it even matches your hideous recliner.
I look up at my wall and realize that he’s right. There are a bunch of navies and greens and deep violets that look great with my recliner.
Huh, was that a conscious choice on my part, or did I just like the stuff I bought, and it just happened to match?
I’m going to go with the latter because the former is too weird to even consider.
I shoot Sawyer a text back.
Me: My recliner is not hideous! It has flair, and it smells good, and is comfortable as fuck. When you visit, you have to sit on it. It might be old, but it’s held up in the years since production.
Sawyer: I’ll take your word for it. We still on for your housewarming next weekend?
Next weekend is my first full weekend off.
As a pastry chef, my days are usually pretty chill—waking up at four in the morning to get to the bakery by five to start breakfast, then off by one or two once the normal daily rush is over.
Recently, my boss has been training me to take over the day-to-day job as well as manage the kitchen, so I’ve been pretty busy.
But he gave me next weekend off after all my hard work.
I invited my friends over so they can see my new place, and we can hang out without Walt breathing down our necks.
Walt hated when I had company, always lingering around, asking what we were doing but never joining. A few times, he tried to start an argument so he could kick my friends out and he could have me to himself. Just being weird.
I push thoughts of my ex out of my mind. I’m single and living alone for the first time in my life. I don’t need to think about that cheating bastard.
Me: Yep. BYOS.
Sawyer: BYOS?
Me: Yeah, bring your own shit.
He sends back a ton of laughing emojis and I smile as I stuff my phone in my pocket. I can’t wait until next weekend. All my friends in one spot, playing games and just being silly. No one to tell me to keep it down or ask when company is leaving.
Sighing, I stretch my arms over my head and do a slow spin to look at my living room. It’s perfect, exactly how I imagined it would look. The black couch set doesn’t even look out of place beside my yellow recliner. In fact, it complements it really well.
“Shower, then reading,” I murmur to myself. I don’t usually have a bunch of down time to read, but my unpacking didn’t take long today.
Every day after work, I’ve unpacked a few boxes, trying to get everything moved in and settled so I can relax within a week. I beat that by two days.
Now that I’m done and everything is in its rightful place, I can use the few hours before bed to get into this queer romance book Sawyer’s girlfriend, Katrina, let me borrow. Hot hockey players fucking whenever they’re in the same town? Sign me the fuck up.
As I make my way to my room, I eye the recliner, breathing in that leather and coffee and book scent. My dick throbs, like it has pretty much every day I inhale that spicy fragrance. I’ve had to beat off before bed to get my dick to deflate so I could sleep.
Being a stomach sleeper is the worst.
I want to laze while I read, but I need to shower first. I can never relax if I don’t wash myself before bed.
My shower is long and soothing, the piping hot water rolling over my sore muscles.
Being a chef isn’t super physically demanding, not like a construction worker or something like that, but I spend hours on my feet in a hot kitchen, rolling dough, carrying heavy loads, and I do more disinfecting counters than I want to admit.
Some days, I come home so footsore I can barely function, but I love my job and wouldn’t have it any other way.
After I wash myself and make up imaginary scenarios in my mind, I shut the water off and step out. My dick is hard as a rock, but I ignore it for now. Jerking off is a bedtime activity.
I wrap a towel around my waist and pad to my bedroom to throw on a pair of pajama pants.
I stop just before I open my dresser drawer.
For the first time, I can walk around with no clothes and lounge around my apartment butt-ass naked. I can even cook naked if I want to.
Okay, no cooking naked. I don’t want to burn my balls off just because I have my own place for the first time.
Well, maybe it would be fine if I wore an apron. It would cover all my important bits.
But I can just be—in my own space.
Grinning, I whip my towel off and toss it on my bed.
I march into the living room and over to my bookshelf, cock and balls swinging.
It feels weird, being this exposed to everything, but also oddly freeing.
The air kicks on and the soft breeze against my ass makes me giggle.
Okay, I’ll be doing this a lot more often.
I grab the hockey book from my shelf and head straight for my recliner. I’m sure the cool leather will feel great against my naked flesh.
Before I sit though, I look at the cushions, biting my lip as I eye the cracks. Will they dig into my skin? Will it hurt?
My thoughts shift to running my finger over the cracks the day I brought the recliner home and, even though they looked rough, they felt uniform to the leather. It was the oddest thing. Where I expected it to feel uneven and prickly, it just felt…warm and smooth.
Okay, I’m doing this. My bare ass on those cracked, but smooth cushions. It’ll be fine. If it hurts or pinches or something, I’ll get a blanket. But I am not putting on pants. My half hard cock likes the air rolling over it.
A long sigh leaves my lips as I sink into the recliner.
It’s almost like it molds to my body, making itself cozier just for me.
The leather is warm, but not overly so. The perfect temperature.
And none of the cracks hurt. In fact, if I didn’t know they were there, I’d assume this was a brand-new lounger.
“God, where have you been all my life?” I ask, eyes closed as I wiggle my body to burrow deeper. Almost as if in answer, the scent from the recliner grows stronger, the fragrance nuzzling my skin sensually.
Wait, fragrance can nuzzle skin?
Well, fucking obviously.
Every time I breathe in, the scent sends zings of arousal over me, like a full body caress.
I turn my head, pressing my nose into one of the creases and dragging the aroma in on a greedy pull. Being at work, smelling all the pastries and treats and baked goods is amazing, but this is fucking next level.
My steel-hard cock twitches, pushing the book from my lap. A thick droplet of precum makes a track down the sides of my overheated shaft.
“Okay, that’s enough out of you,” I whisper to my dick. “ I’ll give you some attention when we’re in bed.” I pick up the book and flip it open. I sat down to relax and read, not beat off because my recliner smells like sex on a stick.
As time passes and I get more into the book, the smell fades, but doesn’t entirely go away. I’m not sure if I’m glad about that or not.
After half an hour, my dick is still painfully hard, so I grab it and give it a few tugs, promising to take care of it before bed. Right now, I want to get more pages read to meet my goal for the year.
My hand still wrapped around my shaft, I awkwardly turn the page and start a new chapter.
I’m not sure how long I’m reading before the spiciest scene I’ve ever read pops up. And it. Is. Scorching! My god, imagining two large men, sneaking around to be together and being hot as fuck while they do it?
Yes please.
I don’t realize I’m stroking myself in earnest until that amazing scent wafts off my recliner again, stronger and more potent than before.
“Fuck, that’s…fuck it, that’s good,” I mutter as I drop the book to the floor and spread my legs wider to cup my sac. I slowly tug on my shaft, my back bowing when I roll my thumb over my cockhead.
The feeling of my hand on my dick and the scent in my nose is indescribable. It’s like every ounce of pleasure I’ve ever felt in my entire life, times one hundred, times a million. I’m so keyed up that I fear I might combust from the sheer ecstasy.
“You smell fucking phenomenal,” I tell my recliner, knowing I sound like a loon but not giving a fuck.
I’ve never felt this good while touching myself.
Sure, it’s always felt pretty amazing—I’m an old pro at getting myself off quickly—but never like tiny fingers caressing my skin, dancing across my flesh.
My hand speeds up, stroking at a frantic pace while the aroma fills the air and wraps itself around me like a warm embrace.
“Shit, oh fuck. I’m close…”
Who the fuck am I talking to? I’ve never been chatty with any of my partners, preferring to show my pleasure with moans and enthusiasm. But I need…someone to know how fucking good I feel.
Or something.
One of my legs jacks up as I pump myself off faster, inching closer and closer to the finish line. My opposite hand squeezes my balls, the grip tight, only heightening the electric sensation. I gasp as pleasure shoots through me, from the top of my head down to my toes.