4. Chapter 4 #2
His hands are efficient, almost impatient.
He tugs my briefs down in one smooth motion.
The cool air of the locker room hits my skin for a split second before the heat of him replaces it.
He’s already stripped his shirt and pants, standing there in nothing but a pair of tight boxer briefs that leave absolutely nothing to the imagination.
He’s huge. Even through the fabric, the sheer scale of him makes my mouth go dry.
"Both of us," he mutters, stepping closer until our thighs brush. "Letting off a little steam."
He reaches out and grips me, his large, calloused hand wrapping around the base of my cock. He squeezes, and a choked groan escapes my throat. It’s the first time anyone’s ever touched me like this - not accidental, not a pat on the back, but a real, possessive hold.
"Fuck," I gasp, leaning back on the bench.
He doesn't wait. He pulls his own boxers down, and there it is. Thick, heavy, and already weeping a bead of moisture at the tip. It’s much bigger than mine, a blunt, intimidating weight that makes my pulse race.
My heart is slamming. Every reason from my airtight list flashes through me at once – the job, the house, the rules, the word I have refused to say – and then the beam comes down again behind my eyes, the heat, the closeness of dying, and none of the reasons weigh anything at all.
He brings his free hand down to his own cock, wrapping his fingers around the shaft and beginning a slow, rhythmic slide. At the same time, his other hand stays on me, pumping me with a steady, punishing tempo.
He brings our wet cock heads together and rubs them against each other.
The sensation is overwhelming. The friction of his skin against mine, the sight of him working himself, the way our breaths start to sync up in heavy, ragged heaves.
"You like that, don't you?" he asks, his eyes hooded and dark. He speeds up, his thumb circling the sensitive head of my dick, smearing the pre-cum around until the skin is slick and glistening. "You like feeling how hard you are for me."
I should tell him to stop, protest that I’m straight and this is all a mistake. But it’s not. I’ve been dreaming about this ever since I started here.
"Yeah," I moan, my head falling back against the metal locker with a hollow clank. "God, Chase... yeah."
He leans down, his face hovering just above mine, and then he pulls us both closer, forcing us to stand even as we continue the frantic friction. The friction increases, the heat building in the pit of my stomach until it feels like a fever.
He lines up our shafts so we’re parallel to each other, then with one hand gripped around both our cocks, Chase starts jerking us, one shaft rubbing against the other.
We’re both moving in a frantic, messy rhythm now. The sound of skin slapping against skin – the wet, rhythmic shlick-shlick of his hand - fills the small space between us. He’s watching me so intensely, his eyes tracing every twitch of my muscles, every shudder of my breath.
"Watch me, Jason," he grunts, his movements becoming more erratic, more desperate. "Watch how much you're making me leak."
I watch. I can't look away. The sight of him - the sweat glistening on his abs, the way his thick veins stand out on his cock as he pumps himself - it’s too much. My own hand finds his, our fingers intertwining around our shafts, a frantic, dual effort to reach the edge.
The world narrows down to just this: the scent of musk, the slick sound of friction, and the desperate, undeniable need to break.
"You want me to stop?" he asks. Quiet. Certain. Giving me the door. "Say the word and I stop. We never talk about it again."
"Don't," I breathe. "Don't stop. I want… I want this. Yeah. I want this."
Something breaks loose in his face. He makes a low sound, and then his mouth is on mine, and the bench, the smoke, the rules, the whole world goes up in flames.
It is clumsy, urgent and starving. His stubble drags rough against my jaw.
His hands, those huge careful hands, are not careful anymore – they are everywhere, hauling me into him, and mine are gripping his shoulders, finally getting at all that bare skin I have been pretending not to stare at for a week.
The heat of him against me undoes something I have kept locked my whole life.
The sensation is electric. His palm is broad enough to encompass the heavy weight of his own cock and the pulsing heat of mine, sandwiching us together in a slick, friction-filled vice.
He continues to pump, a singular, powerful motion that moves both our shafts in unison.
The feeling of our skin sliding against each other - the wet, tacky sound of our joined heaviness – is almost too much to bear.
His lips crash against mine. It’s not a gentle kiss; it’s hungry and desperate, tasting of salt and sudden, unbridled want. His tongue forces its way past my teeth, sweeping against mine in a messy, frantic dance that mirrors the rhythm of his hand below.
For a split second, the panic hits.
This isn't happening, my brain screams. You’re straight.
You’re just... you're just caught up in the moment. My mind flashes to the locker room hierarchy, to the guys who will walk in here in ten minutes, to the version of Chase that usually chides me as the rookie. This is the fantasy - the one that’s been keeping me awake, staring at the ceiling of my dorm, imagining his hands on my cock.
But the reality is so much heavier, so much more permanent.
What if this changes everything?
But then he groans into my mouth, a deep, vibrating sound of pure pleasure, and his grip tightens, squeezing us both harder against his palm.
The doubt is swallowed by a tidal wave of pure, unadulterated lust. There’s no more room for thinking.
There’s only the friction, the heat, and the way he's making my vision blur.
"Chase," I whimper into the kiss, my hands scrambling to find purchase on his damp skin, gripping his thick biceps. "Chase, fuck... it's too much."
"Don't think," he growls against my lips, his breath hot and ragged. "Just feel it. Feel how fucking hard we are."
He accelerates. The rhythm becomes a blur of motion - the frantic slap-sluck of our bodies, the heavy scent of musk and pre-cum filling our lungs.
He’s working us both with a brutal, efficient intensity, his thumb digging into the underside of my head, catching on the sensitive ridge every single time.
The tension in my gut coils tighter and tighter, a knot of white-hot pressure that's about to snap. My hips start to jerk involuntarily, meeting his hand, trying to force more friction, more pressure.
"I'm gonna…" I choke out, my eyes rolling back.
"Me too," Chase rasps, his voice breaking. "Jason, look at me... look at what you're doing to me!"
He pulls his face away just enough so we can breathe, but he doesn't stop the motion. He’s pumping us both like a machine now, his muscles corded and straining.
The snap happens.
A massive, pulsing jolt shoots from my base to my chest.
"Fuck!"
The word is torn from my lungs as my cock erupts. A hot, thick stream of cum leaps from the tip, splashing across his heavy, throbbing shaft and painting his abdomen in white, viscous streaks.
The sight of it - the sheer mess of us - triggers him.
Chase lets out a guttural, animalistic roar. His hand clenches tight, nearly crushing us both as he hits his limit. A massive jet of semen erupts from him, hitting me square in the chest, hot and heavy, before cascading down my body.
We both shudder, our bodies trembling in the aftershock, chests heaving as we stare at the carnage. We’re a disaster of sweat, spit, and spilled cream, our cocks still twitching and leaking against his palm.
The locker room is silent again, save for our ragged, wet breathing. The doubt is gone. There's only the warmth of him, the weight of the mess on my skin, and the undeniable truth of what we just did.
After, neither of us moves.
I am wrecked. Boneless. My back aches and my mouth is raw.
I am pressed against the solid heat of him, his forehead against mine, both of us breathing like we just came out of that house all over again.
His hand is spread warm and possessive against the unhurt side of my back, holding me there as if he is not ready to let the air in between us.
Nobody says anything. There is nothing safe to say.
I just crossed a line I cannot uncross. I can feel exactly how true that is, settling into me along with the bruise and the ache and the slowing of my heart.
And God help me, even now, even terrified – I am not sorry.
Neither, from the way he is holding on, is he.