Chapter 23 Ivan
We eat pizza on the bed, sitting cross-legged facing each other with the box between us like a barrier.
It's cheap and greasy. The kind of pizza that comes from a place that doesn't care about quality, just about being fast and filling.
And it's probably the best thing I've ever tasted.
Or maybe that's just because I'm eating it with Jay, in this sad little room that somehow doesn't feel as sad anymore.
We talk about nothing important. Safe topics.
Normal conversation, the kind people have when they're just getting to know each other, when they're on a first date or meeting for coffee.
Except we already know each other. We know the deepest, hardest parts, the trauma and the survival and the things that shaped us.
And now we're filling in the gaps. Learning who we've become in the years apart.
Learning the small things, the everyday things, the things that make up a life.
Jay laughs at something I say, some story about Caleb getting into Rosalyn's makeup and giving himself a makeover.
His eyes crinkle at the corners and his mouth curves in a way that makes him look like the boy I remember instead of the man he's become.
His smile makes me want to lean across the pizza box and trace that smile with my fingertips.
But I can't let myself go down that road. It's too dangerous, too confusing.
"I should shower," Jay says when the pizza's gone, when we've eaten every slice and picked at the crust. "I smell like the shop. I probably reek."
"You smell fine." The words slip out, and I feel heat creep up the back of my neck because what kind of man notices how another man smells?
"I smell like motor oil and sweat," Jay says, but he's smiling a little, like my words pleased him somehow. "You're just being polite."
He stands up, stretching, and his shirt rides up just enough to show a strip of stomach. Pale skin, a glimpse of muscle, the waistband of his jeans riding low. I look away quickly, my face burning, staring at the empty pizza box like it's the most interesting thing in the world.
"You can use the shower after me, if you want," Jay says, like he has no idea what he's doing to me.
"Okay. Yeah. Thanks."
He disappears into the bathroom and I hear the water turn on. I sit on the bed, staring at the closed door, my heart pounding.
What is happening to me?
I've never felt like this before. Every time Jay moves, I notice. The shift of his weight, the gesture of his hands, the way he tilts his head when he's thinking. Every time he looks at me with those dark eyes, I can't look away.
It's not normal. This isn't how you feel about your foster brother, about someone you grew up with, about family.
This is pure, raw physical attraction.
The water shuts off. I hear movement behind the door, the slide of the shower curtain, the rustle of fabric, footsteps on tile.
The bathroom door swings open and a rush of warm, humid air rolls out first—thick with the clean bite of soap, and something unmistakably Jay, like engine oil and summer heat baked into him after a long day.
It rolls over me, flooding the small room, wrapping around me until I can taste the scent of him on the back of my tongue.
Then he steps into view.
His hair is soaked, black strands plastered to his forehead and the sharp line of his neck, water dripping in slow beads that catch the dim lamplight as they slide down his throat.
One droplet clings to the hollow at the base of his collarbone before it falls, tracing a glistening path over the rise of his chest.
His skin is flushed from the heat of the shower, still beaded with moisture that makes every inch of him gleam.
His shoulders are broader than I ever let myself notice, strong, sculpted from years of leaning over engines, hauling parts, twisting wrenches until muscle carved itself into clean, hard lines.
Water clings to the slope of them, running in thin rivulets down the defined curve of his pecs, catching on the small, dark peaks of his nipples, now tight and peaked from the cooler air.
A scar on his right side—thin, pale, jagged—cuts across his ribs like a lightning strike frozen in time. My fingers twitch, wanting to trace it, to feel the slight ridge of healed skin under my touch.
Lower, his stomach is a tight grid of muscle, abs flexing subtly as he shifts his weight. A single bead of water slips from his navel, traveling down the dark trail of hair that starts just below it, coarse, damp, arrowing straight beneath the towel like it's daring me to follow the line.
And the towel. Christ.
It's slung dangerously low, the damp terry cloth clinging to his hips like it's barely holding on. The sharp V of his obliques cuts deep, framing the low slant of muscle that disappears under the fabric.
The towel molds to him shamelessly, soaked enough to turn slightly translucent in places, outlining every thick inch of his cock—half-hard, heavy, the clear ridge of the head pressing against the fabric, the long, veined line of the shaft shifting as he moves.
The weight of his balls is visible too, full and low, the faint shadow beneath making my mouth water and my throat close up all at once.
My body reacts before my brain can catch up.
Heat slams into me, pooling low in my gut and surging downward in a rush that leaves me dizzy. My mouth is suddenly bone-dry, lips parted as I drag in a shaky breath that tastes like him.
My cock throbs hard against the seam of my jeans, swelling fast, achingly full, the head already slick and leaking, soaking through my boxers in a warm, humiliating spot.
Every heartbeat sends another pulse of blood south, making me throb harder, the friction of denim almost unbearable.
My skin prickles, too hot, too tight, every nerve lit up and screaming for contact—for his hands, his mouth, the press of that hard body against mine.
I shift on the bed, thighs clenching involuntarily, and the movement drags the fabric across my erection, sending a sharp jolt of pleasure up my spine that nearly pulls a sound from my throat.
This is wrong.
No, this is fucking everything.
And I can't stop wanting it.
"Bathroom's free," Jay says casually, as if he hasn't just walked out half-naked and wrecked me completely.
"Thanks," I choke out.
He turns toward the dresser, giving me his back, and I should look away but I don't. I can't.
Water still clings to his skin, catching the lamplight in tiny shimmering beads that slide slowly down the long line of his spine, tracing every ridge and dip of muscle. His back is broad, powerful—shoulders tapering to a narrow waist, the kind of body built from real work, not mirrors and gyms.
The towel sits lower now, loosened from his movement, revealing the twin dimples just above the curve of his ass and the barest hint of the cleft between firm, rounded muscle. One more inch and it would slip completely. My breath catches hard in my throat.
He bends slightly to pull open a drawer, and the towel shifts again.
The fabric pulls tight across his ass, outlining the heavy shape of him beneath.
Muscular thighs, and lower, the unmistakable weight of his cock hanging heavy against his leg, still half-visible through the damp cloth.
The sight punches the air from my lungs.
I stand up too fast, legs unsteady, nearly kicking over the pizza box. "I'm gonna—shower now. Yeah."
I bolt for the bathroom like I'm escaping a fire, slam the door, and sag against it. My chest heaves. My cock is so hard it hurts, straining against my jeans, the seam digging in with every throb. My hands shake as I fumble with the lock.
I'm attracted to Jay.
Not just attracted. I want him desperately. I want to drop to my knees in front of him, tug that towel away, feel the heat of his skin under my mouth. I want to taste the water on his chest, drag my tongue down that dark trail of hair, take him deep until he groans my name.
The thought alone makes pre-cum leak steadily, soaking through my boxers in a warm, sticky pulse.
I rip off my clothes, hands clumsy, and stumble into the shower. I twist the knob all the way to cold, but even the icy blast doesn't help. The shock makes me gasp, makes my skin prickle and my nipples tighten, but it does nothing to the ache in my cock.
I brace one hand on the tile wall, head bowed under the spray, and give in.
My other hand wraps around myself immediately, grip tight, almost punishing. I'm already slick with pre-cum, and the first stroke drags a ragged groan from my throat. I bite my lip to muffle it, terrified Jay might hear through the thin door.
But I can't stop.
I picture him exactly as he was minutes ago, water sliding down his throat, over the hard planes of his chest, catching on those tight nipples.
The sharp cut of his hips. The thick outline of his cock under that towel—heavy, long, thick enough that my fingers wouldn't meet around it.
I imagine it bare, flushed and hot in my hand, velvet over steel, the head slick and dark, leaking for me.
I stroke faster, hips jerking into my fist. The cold water streams down my back, but I'm burning up.
I imagine Jay stepping into the shower behind me, pressing that hard body against mine, his rough hands sliding over my wet skin, one wrapping around my throat, the other taking over, stroking me slow and deliberate while his cock grinds against my ass.
I imagine the low growl of his voice in my ear, "You want me, don't you?"
My balls draw up tight, pleasure coiling sharp and unbearable low in my gut. I'm close already—embarrassingly close—just from the memory of him, the scent of him still clinging to the steamy air.