Chapter 7
MATTY
Living with Elias is the perfect kind of torture.
Whenever he comes home from work, he always smiles extra, even if his eyes reflect his exhaustion. Most nights, he puts Calum to bed and then flops onto the couch beside me to grunt and groan and stretch his muscles.
Which does things to me. God, does it do things to me. I don’t think I’ve been this horny since I first started testosterone, and I often find myself getting off after he wanders back to his room.
My subscription app has been getting a plethora of fantasies lately. Little tidbits of thoughts I can’t get out of my head, like how Elias walks around in nothing but a towel after his showers, or that he thinks nothing of lounging in his boxers in the mornings.
Not that I’m going to complain. Elias’ body is incredible. He’s got the tight physique of most dancers, but with a broader chest, and come to find out all of his compulsive touching isn’t exclusive to other people.
If he doesn’t have someone to have constant contact with, then his hands are always busy with something.
Whether it’s rubbing his palm over the back of his neck, running his hands through his hair, tapping his fingers on his thighs, or the time I caught him casually stroking his bulge while scrolling through his phone.
I need to get laid, but the last thing I want is to go hook up with some random guy. Not just because they’re always weird about the trans thing—which they are—but because my heart isn’t in it, and that’s the whole damn problem.
Yeah, I want to have sex, but I don’t just want to be fucked. I want unbridled, enthusiastic participation from someone who loves me and my body, no damn questions asked.
This is why I miss Riley. Because I had that once. We weren’t enough for each other. We hurt each other, but Riley never saw me as anyone other than me. It didn’t matter that I was pre-op when we met, that I’d barely been on hormones for six months.
We became friends. As our mutual respect and care for each other grew, we became more.
I never felt the need to hide who I was.
Not that I was gay. Not that I was trans.
Eventually, Riley’s fear of loving me out loud was too much for me to take.
I know that it was his hangups about his own sexuality, but a part of me will always wonder if some of it didn’t have to do with how my identity could complicate things.
Especially since he recently soft launched his relationship with his fellow Chattanooga Hornets teammate to the public.
I’m happy for him. I told him as much. Told him to get his head out of his ass and love that man properly, because for years while we were together, that was all I wanted.
It still is. Not with Riley, but with someone.
Someone who doesn’t bat an eye at letting me use his bed to fuck myself into oblivion.
Elias is at therapy with Calum—which he does twice a week—and since I’ve kept the visual media to a minimum lately, I figured it might be time to put something out there.
Maybe also because I’m a little pent up. I saw a video from Elias’ job of him on stage, and it both got me itching for dance and extra hot beneath my waistband.
I started almost immediately after they left so I’d have time to get done and clean up any mess I make. My phone and tripod are set up beside the bed, little blinking recording light going as I move the six-inch, ridged and ribbed blue dildo in and out of my front hole.
At first, I take it slow, because it’s been a long ass time since I took cock—real or otherwise—and working it into my hole meets some resistance.
It feels good now, though. Better than good. I forgot how much I like being fucked.
I moan as I chase the edge of an orgasm I know I’ll never reach. Getting off from penetration alone isn’t entirely unheard of for me, but the handful of times it’s happened definitely weren’t when I was doing it on my own. I can’t multitask for shit, so using my vibrator is out of the question.
Oh, how much easier this would be with an extra set of hands.
Elias’ hands. Holding me still as he fucks the toy into me like I’m a goddamn fleshlight.
Oh fuck.
It’s so close. So close. I might fucking cry.
“Please, please, please,” I mutter under my breath, bracing my legs to push and make the dildo hit harder, deeper. “Elias, please.”
I’m so fucking horny. I want him to touch me. I want him to fuck me. I want him to make me come right this fucking minute.
God-fucking-dammit!
I can’t reach it, and I feel the tears spill down my cheeks a moment before a sob breaks free from my throat.
It’s more than just being horny and wanting release. It’s working through these goddamn feelings I’m starting to have. Feelings that we’ve both agreed not to act on.
I throw an arm over my eyes and drop the toy like it’s the reason I’m so frustrated. It’s still half inside me, and I don’t give a shit.
The tears come on quickly, demanding my breathing shake and I gasp through them. A few minutes, I can give myself that, and then I’ll clean up and call it good.
My subscribers won’t care that I didn’t orgasm; they’ll just be happy to see me use the toy. It’s been … a while.
Pretty soon, my gasps are dry, and my chest aches from the weight of them, but I think I’m starting to feel better.
Maybe I need an emotional outlet; I just have no idea what that would look like.
“Matty?” There’s a knock on the door that makes me jolt and jostle the dildo, drawing a moan from my throat. Shit. “Are you okay?”
It is nowhere near time for them to be home yet.
I pull the dildo out of my hole, shuddering at the sudden emptiness, and hop up from the towel I’m laying on. It’s damp from all the lube and my own wetness, but nothing soaked through the bed, so I sigh in relief and wrap the toy and lube bottle up in the towel and shove them into my toy box.
I’ll wash the towel later.
“Hey,” I croak out, trying to assess if my voice sounds like I’ve been having sex. “Just a second.”
“You’re alright. No rush.”
I’m sure he has some idea of what I was up to, given that this is what he gave me explicit permission to use his bedroom for.
Still, I hunt down my boxers and throw them on, and once my phone and tripod are also tucked neatly into my box and I’m sure I’ve left nothing unsavory for Elias to discover, I head to the bedroom door and unlock it.
Cracking the door open, the first thing I see is Elias’ patient smile on the other side.
“I’m sorry,” he says, bashful eyes flicking away from mine. “Didn’t mean to interrupt, but I heard … well I thought …” He shakes his head. “I thought I heard you crying, and I got worried.”
Of course he did, because there’s no one sweeter in the whole world than Elias Lee.
Even if his worry brings out my own smile, it also fans the flames of heat rising in my cheeks. I push the door the rest of the way open, box tucked under my armpit because there’s no hiding it, and move out of the doorway a step too close to Elias.
He smells like coconut, and the proximity mixed with my recent indecent thoughts makes my head spin.
Hands brace my arms when I stumble, and his skin on mine does nothing but stoke the fire in my belly.
“I’m okay,” I say, finally bringing my eyes to his, but when I do, his stare isn’t aimed at my face. I follow his gaze and suck in a rough breath.
Fuck. Shit.
We haven’t had this talk yet, and we should have absolutely, but I just haven’t found a good time to bring it up—and maybe just maybe a little part of me is scared he’ll lose the attraction he feels for me when he finds out.
His eyes are taking in my chest—my bare chest—surgery scars on full display. They’re dark and a little jarring, and I self-consciously rub a finger over them as I try to find my voice.
“Matty?” He sounds confused, and fuck he probably is.
With a shake of my head, I clear my throat and walk around him to the bookshelf where I usually keep my hearing aids and carefully lift the box onto the top shelf.
I contemplate putting the hearing aids in, but I’ve found I like having the quiet around the house without them—at least when Elias is home.
He usually speaks pretty clearly, and if I can’t see him, his words are usually right in my ear anyway.
I turn back to find him facing me, hands stuffed in his joggers and a curious but calm expression on his face. The urge to cover up is strong, but I don’t lean into it.
Instead, I cross the handful of feet between us and stand in front of him, painstakingly aware that not only am I shirtless, but the only stitch of clothing I have on is underwear.
“I’m trans,” I say softly, monitoring his expression for any minute change. His gaze wanders my body, and I feel too fucking exposed, somehow more embarrassed about him seeing me like this than if he had walked in on me with the toy.
His hands graze my arms, giving me the option to pull away.
I don’t.
They skirt up my shoulders, cup the back of my neck, and I tilt my head as his fingers get lost in the loose strands.
Our eyes lock, and he sighs contently with a gentle smile. “Okay.”
My breath rattles in my lungs. “Okay?”
His fingers tighten in my hair. Not painfully, but I gasp anyway because every touch from Elias feels like too much. He drops his forehead to mine and exhales a breathy chuckle.
“What did you think I would say, silly?”
It’s really, really hard to think with him this close.
I swallow down the impulse to kiss him, to just surge forward and take it—deal with the fallout later.
“You’re not weirded out? You know what it means, right? That I was born … that I’m not …”
Elias puts a little bit of distance between us. Nothing significant, just a few inches so he can direct his kind, yet intense gaze on me. One hand leaves my hair to ghost along my cheek and chin.
“I know what it means, Matty,” he whispers with a sort of mild amusement. “It doesn’t change anything. I still want you here.” His smile turns a little lopsided, and his cheeks fill with a heady blush. “I’m still super silly attracted to you.”
That’s good. Really good. Because the longer he stands there touching me the way that he is, looking at me the way that he is, the more “super silly attracted” I am to him, too.
The hand on my cheek travels down, exploring the expanse of my chest and pausing over one of my scars. His eyes never leave mine, and when I nod, he traces it with one featherlight finger.
“Does it hurt?” he whispers, and I shake my head.
“Mostly numb.” I reach up and grab his wrist because I’m near my limit. “Sensitive to some things.”
Instead of pulling his hand away entirely, he twists and slides it into mine. “Sorry.” His eyes dip to my chest, and I watch his throat bob before they bounce back up. “You look good.”
The thread on my self control is razor thin. Either we break apart or I’m going to fucking kiss him.
Why the hell am I holding back again?
An alarm sounds throughout the room, and Elias is the one to jump back, hands flying to his pockets and pulling out his phone.
“Oh shit.” He taps a button and holds it up to his ear. “Miss Jennifer? Oh, yes, I ran back home to get it. I meant to be back before he came to you, but I got held up.”
He looks at me again with as friendly a smile as ever. “Did he? Well, I’ll work with him on that at home, too. Thanks for calling. Bye.”
Shoving the phone back in his pocket, Elias bursts out into this deep, rich laugh that shocks me out of my frozen bubble. I take a step back and cross my arms over my chest, already eying my bag of clothes next to the couch.
“I’m really sorry about disturbing you. I said you could have this time to yourself, and look at me monopolizing it.”
I huff out my own laugh and drag a hand through my hair, already missing Elias’ hold. “It’s no big deal; I’ll be editing for the next little while.”
“I’ve got to head back to Cal, but if you need anything while I’m out, just text or give me a call.”
He steps back with a half wave and turns for the door, stopping to slip his shoes back on. His shoulders tense, and he stretches them back—I really should stop fucking watching him like a stalker.
Just before walking out the door, he turns back, wearing a bright smile and a strong air of determination.
“Now you can start sending me shirtless selfies while I’m at work.” He winks—fucking winks—and my jaw drops open. “It’s the highlight of my nights.”
Then, he’s gone, and I’m stuck with fifty-fucking contradicting emotions warring for control of my body.
Confusion because what in the hell just happened?
Relief because it feels like I can finally, fully relax while I’m here. I don’t have to feel awkward when I’m taking up the bathroom giving myself a shot. I don’t have to sweat through my t-shirt because I don’t want Elias to accidentally walk out in the middle of the night and have questions.
Arousal because I can still feel the heat from every bit of Elias’ touch. Because I never got off, and he just casually touched one of my most intimate spots. Because the way he reassured me only makes the fire in my gut grow hotter.
Happiness because he said my pictures are the highlight of his night. My goofy, borderline flirty pictures and messages that honestly started to make myself feel less lonely.
We’re straddling a dangerous line between friends and something more. Afraid to take the plunge because the early feelings like this don’t always last. It’s the shit that comes later, once you’ve grown comfortable, that really decides if these feelings can weather the storm.
I’ll likely be gone before we hit that point. With distance, this obsessive need to touch and be touched by Elias will fade. So will everything else.
As much as I want to, I won’t cross the line. Because falling in love with someone who openly admits they aren’t emotionally available would lend itself to immediate heartache.
Even as I trace the spots on my body where his touch still lingers, I know my heart is bound for damage either way.