Max
If I thought Kyle would get used to this temporary arrangement the longer it goes on, I was sorely mistaken.
It’s been a week since he got the brace on his sprained left wrist off with strict orders to keep it well-rested and avoid any strenuous activity, and I’ve already had to physically stop him from nearly spraining it again more times than I can count.
On Monday we narrowly avoided getting into a physical fight because he wouldn’t accept that he couldn’t open a jar of pickles, and yesterday he smashed his heaviest casserole dish because his wrist didn’t play ball when he lifted it down out of a high cabinet trying to “help” me cook.
I get it—he’s bored out of his mind, frustrated and feeling like a spare part in his own home.
I’d probably be the same. I’ve been trying my best to distract him, but the options are starting to wear thin, and after the incident in the shower, my mind keeps taking me to places it absolutely should not be going.
So tonight, like almost every night, we end up on Kyle’s sofa with a bowl of popcorn balanced precariously between us.
Distracting both of us with something low-effort and low-risk to his wrist has become my top priority—it’ll stop him from breaking more cookware, and me from having a minor crisis every time I have to see him walking around in that one pair of ridiculously low-slung sweatpants.
Movies are safe: no heavy lifting, no pride-damaging physical challenges, no reason for either of us to get worked up. It’s Kyle’s turn to pick, and he predictably chooses an over-the-top blockbuster action flick that I think we might have already watched last year.
Simple. Easy. Safe.
The movie’s barely been on for twenty minutes before a sex scene starts up between the lead alpha and his omega love interest. I snort a laugh as there’s a totally unnecessary shot of the omega’s boobs, and Kyle groans, throwing his head back.
“I swear action movies are 50% car chases and explosions, and 50% pure fucking these days,” he chuckles.
“Right? I never thought I’d find myself wanting more dialogue.”
We go back to watching the movie, but the scene drags on.
The omega is moaning breathily as the camera tracks her softly lit curves, her eyes fluttering closed in pleasure.
It’s standard Hollywood stuff, nothing to write home about, but after another minute I feel Kyle shift beside me.
I inhale, the scent of hazelnut deepening around me, and I know Kyle’s scent well enough to know exactly what that means.
He’s getting turned on.
I glance over at him, the orange glow of the television screen the only thing illuminating his profile. He wordlessly puts the popcorn bowl on the rug, grabs a blanket from the arm of the sofa and tosses it over both of us, covering his lap. I huff a laugh.
“Shut up,” he mumbles, bumping his knee against mine hard enough to hurt. “The omega chick is hot.”
“Sure,” I laugh, turning back to the screen.
She is hot, in a generic kind of way—some actress I’ve seen before but can’t remember the name of—but I find myself stealing glances at Kyle every few seconds instead, watching the way his nostrils flare as the scene continues, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows.
He hasn’t pulled his knee away, and his thigh is still pressed up against mine under the blanket.
An image of Kyle half-obscured by steam, slick with soap, muscles straining and hard against my palm, flashes across my mind.
It’s been happening more and more since the shower incident a week ago.
I’m not entirely sure what it means, although nothing has been different between us.
I’ve been telling myself I was just taking care of a friend in need; no different from making him a sandwich or doing his laundry while he can’t do it for himself.
But maybe I’ve been seeking out his scent more. Maybe he’s been a little less grouchy when I help him get dressed. Maybe sometimes I catch him looking at me for a beat longer than usual, too.
Or maybe I’m imagining it.
His thigh nudges mine again as he sinks a little further down the sofa with a small huff, eyes focused on the screen.
My hand moves before the rational part of my brain can catch up, but when my fingers brush Kyle’s thigh, he doesn’t react.
It’s a feather-light touch, so imperceptible I could definitely pass it off as accidental if I needed it to.
The only sign that he’s even felt it is a slight twitch in his quad muscle.
When I slide my hand further up, toward the unmistakable heat coming off his crotch, there’s no way he doesn’t register it. No way to brush it off as unintentional. And yet, Kyle’s gaze stays steady on the screen.
He’s hard. Rock hard. His eyelids flutter when I ghost over the bulge in his sweats, but he recovers quickly, shifting his hips just slightly to give me better access.
Permission. I wonder if he has any idea how aggressively my heart is pounding, or if he can sense the way my scent is starting to change alongside his.
Fuck. Fuck. I tear my eyes away from his profile and fix them back on the screen.
The alpha leading man is behind the omega now, his ripped torso covered in sweat.
I squeeze Kyle through his sweats, feeling the full shape of him flex in my hand, rigid and huge and so mind-bendingly different from the soft omega women I’m used to.
His hips rock up just slightly, enough to increase the friction between my hand and his cock, and warmth floods my system; my cheeks, my stomach, my dick.
I’d say I’m reacting to the scene unfolding on the screen, but my gaze has already drifted back to where my hand is moving rhythmically under the blanket.
Kyle’s breath hitches when I tug at the waistband of his sweats, but he lifts his hips so I can pull them down just far enough to free his cock, strangely eager to get my hand back on him.
He’s searingly hot in my hand, his bare flesh soft and hard all at once.
I’ve never touched another guy like this before, aside from last time in the shower, so I do exactly what I’d do to myself; slow strokes, my fist tight, my thumb pressing into the notch of his crown on every upstroke.
It seems to work. A distinctly alpha growl rumbles quietly in Kyle’s chest, his scent deepening and his hips lifting to meet my thrusts. He’s still facing the TV, but his eyes are unfocused, occasionally squeezing shut in pleasure.
My cock throbs in time with his. Last time, I passed my straining erection off as being down to novelty—the bizarre thrill of touching another alpha for the first time, the adrenaline of our clashing alpha scents in the shower. If it felt flimsy then, it feels threadbare now.
“Ah—shit—”
Kyle curses, tensing, and I know what’s about to happen a split second before his cock throbs violently in my hand and warmth spills over my fingers in pulses.
Kyle’s back arches, his hips pushing into my hand, and when I look back at his face, he’s staring right back at me, his eyes heavy-lidded and glassy.
The movie must have moved on from the sex scene a few minutes ago, because two entirely different characters are now having a heated discussion about something I couldn’t care less about.
“Fuck,” Kyle exhales, letting his head fall back against the sofa cushions with a lazy smile. He tucks himself away, then uses the excess blanket to wipe off my hand for me, a little sheepishly. “Sorry about ah—the mess.”
“So you should be,” I huff. “I’m the one doing all the laundry around here.”
Kyle laughs softly, the sound fading as the blanket slides off my lap. He nods at the obvious bulge tenting my sweats. “You—you’re—” he chews on his lower lip. “You need a hand?”
I wave him off, flattening myself back against the cushions, suddenly feeling exposed. “No, man, it’s fine.” There’s a beat of silence before both of us let out a breathy, incredulous laugh in unison. “This is kind of crazy. What are we—?”
“It’s whatever,” Kyle says. His voice is casual, but he’s rubbing his eyebrows like he always does when he’s nervous. “Just two friends helping each other out, right?”
I raise an eyebrow at him.
“What? Friends jerk off together all the time,” Kyle says.
I snort. “Do they?”
“Sure. Did you never go to summer camp?”
“Um, yes, I did. With you. And no mutual jerking was going on as far as I was concerned, unless I’m a way deeper sleeper than I think I am.”
Kyle sighs. “Okay, so maybe we didn’t do it, but remember Mack Humphries? He told me one of the kids in their cabin brought a dirty magazine to camp with him, so their whole cabin of alphas would—”
“Don’t go any further,” I interject with a laugh. “Mack also told me that his stepdad was a billionaire and they lived in a compound guarded by crocodiles, so he wasn’t exactly a reliable source.”
“My point still stands,” Kyle grumbles. “Look, I don’t like this being… one-sided.”
“Oh, so you’ll let me cook every meal for you for a month, but you draw the line at handjobs?”
He grunts, his cheeks flushing. “Maybe. Or maybe you’re just worried I’ll be better at it than you.”
My eyebrows jump up my forehead, and I bark a laugh. Trust Kyle to turn even this into a fucking competition. “I was more worried about your sprained wrist.”
“It’s mostly better. And even with a pretty serious handicap, I think I’d win.”
“You’re a dumbass.”
“And you’re chicken.”
“Have you ever even given a handjob before?” I say, definitely not deflecting. “I’ve only ever seen you hook up with women.”
“I could say the same to you,” he shoots back. “And you did a half-decent job.”
“Oh, fuck off.”
“So I’d probably make you come in thirty seconds, give or take.”