10. Next Time
Crap, I’m doing everything wrong. I’m fucking things up and making them weirder than they have to be, and Logan… Logan is just trying to do what he thinks is right. He’s trying to keep the boundaries clear between us, but they’re already blurred, damn it.
I felt his cock. I felt it twitch under my cheek—felt it thicken when I took his thumb into my mouth.
He liked it, being close to me like that.
There’s no way he didn’t. The rejection stings, though, and I keep thinking about how I should have done things differently, how I shouldn’t have put my head in his lap in the first place.
If I hadn’t, I wouldn’t have made things awkward between us.
I sigh into the pillow. The couch is comfortable enough, and the sheets smell like his clothes, so by extension, they smell like him. That’s my only comfort as I drift off to sleep.
Too soon, the morning comes, and I hear Logan’s alarm ring in his room.
I groan and turn around, hoping to catch a few more minutes of sleep.
The bedroom door opens, and I hear him rummaging around in the kitchen, but the lights are dim, so I snooze some more.
Eventually, I wake up again from the sound of his voice.
“Sweetheart.” His hand strokes my back. “It’s time to wake up.”
I make a noise of protest, pulling the blanket up to my chin.
“You can keep sleeping,” he says gently. “I’ll leave you the key.”
“No,” I mumble and sit up, wrapped in blankets. I need to get back home. I texted the twins last night that I was staying over with a friend.
“Do you want breakfast?” Logan is dressed smartly in a polo shirt and khakis, and he carries with him a scent of masculine shower gel.
“It’s fine,” I say with a yawn.
Logan opens the fridge. “I don’t have much. Is cereal okay?”
I get dressed, and we end up sitting next to each other on the bar stools by the kitchen island, sharing a breakfast of cereal, coffee, and orange juice. He’s being so quiet. It gets me nervous, considering what happened last night.
“Are you, uh…” I bite my lip.
“Hmm?” Logan reaches over and strokes the back of my head. It’s a fatherly gesture, but my breath quickens regardless.
I want to know if he’s mad at me for last night, but I don’t know how to bring it up without making things weirder than they already are. Besides, my brain’s not working right this early in the morning.
“Did you sleep okay?” His hand drifts to the side of my neck, holding me gently while he drinks coffee.
The touch is distracting. All I can think about is his fingers on my skin.
“Um, yeah.”
“You look more rested.” His touch turns a bit firmer. “Your neck’s stiff, though.”
“Yeah… It hurts sometimes.” Eyes half closed, I lean into his touch, and he kneads my neck with his big hand. It feels really good.
“I’d give you a massage, but I’m already running late.” His hand falls, and I can’t help but mourn the loss of his touch.
We get ready to leave, and I wait while he puts his shoes on and grabs his keys in the hallway.
“I’ll drive you and your bike home,” he says. “It’s on my way to work anyway.”
“Okay.” A part of me wants to protest since he already does so many things for me, but I won’t say no to spending a few more minutes in his presence. Pathetic, I know. I must look pathetic, too, because Logan ropes me into a hug.
“Hey.” He wraps his arms around me, and I lean into his chest. “We’re okay, right?”
“Yeah,” I mumble, inhaling his scent and letting it ground me. “We’re okay.”
I don’t know what he means by that exactly, but at least the hug means he’s not mad at me, I think.
We go down to the garage. To get my bike into the car, it turns out Logan needs to take the front wheel off.
If I had known, I would’ve insisted on biking home and saving him the hassle.
He says it’s not a problem, though, so I wait for him in the car, fiddling with the sleeve of my shirt.
We haven’t yet decided when or how we’re going to meet next time. If there will even be a next time.
The thought makes me spiral into a slight panic before I realize I’m just being paranoid. He said we’re okay. He’s not mad.
“Ready?” He climbs into the front seat, and we’re off.
Due to the morning traffic, it takes longer than last time to get to my apartment building, but I don’t mind. Sitting in the car with him is one of my favorite things. It smells so good in here, and he’s got this air of calm and competence as he weaves through traffic and follows every rule to a T.
He makes me feel so safe. I always feel safe in his presence, but getting into a car is dangerous, and I never feel like I’m in danger with him at the wheel.
I wish we could drive around all day, but inevitably, we arrive at the twins’ apartment building. Logan turns toward me, and the anxiety from before rears up again.
“When are you going?” I blurt.
“Going?” He raises a brow.
“Grocery shopping,” I clarify. He said he didn’t have much in the fridge, so I assumed he was going soon. He always likes to keep the fridge stocked.
“Tomorrow after work. Do you want to come?”
Yet another thing we used to do together. Other kids thought grocery shopping with their parents was boring, but I loved roaming the shelves and helping him find the items on our shopping list, and he always bought me a treat at the end.
I flash him a small smile. “Yeah. Can I?”
He puts a hand on my thigh. “Of course you can. I’ll pick you up at six.” His eyes are steady and unwavering as they gaze into mine, and combined with his touch, they cause a familiar arousal to pulse through my veins.
We climb out of the car, and Logan gets my bike out of the trunk. Seeing him like this—all focused and methodical, his big hands screwing the front wheel back onto the frame—makes me feel hot all over.
He hands me the bike with a smile. “All ready.”
I mumble a quick “thanks” and prepare to leave, not meeting his gaze.
“Oliver.” His hand reaches out to squeeze my shoulder. “We’re okay. Don’t worry.”
“Okay,” I breathe, and before anything else can happen—before he notices the effect he has on me—I say “bye” and wheel the bike inside.
When I get to my room, I throw myself on the bed and kick my pants off, last night’s memories on the couch playing on repeat in my head.
In my fantasies, he doesn’t tell me to get up.
He lets me unbutton his jeans and take out his cock.
He lets me put my mouth on it, lick it, taste the precum from his slit, all while holding an encouraging hand on the back of my head, telling me, “Good boy.”
I stroke my dick frantically, and the fantasy is so vivid, so hot in my mind, that I come faster than ever before, moaning and gasping into the pillow.
God, if that fantasy ever comes true, I think I won’t even need to touch myself. I’ll come just from his taste—just from the anticipation and the intensity of it all. Breathing hard, I turn onto my back and stare up at the ceiling, mind churning with all the things I want but can’t have.