7
Spencer
I don’t turn around right away, because if I do, Milo will see exactly what his hands did to me, and there’s no dressing gown of professionalism big enough to cover that up.
So I stand there with both palms flat on the dresser and my head down, thinking about how I’ve spent thirty-one years attracted only to women, no exceptions.
But my dick has clearly not read my resume, and none of it makes sense.
“Spencer.” Milo has never used my name like that before. “Turn around.”
I exhale slowly through my nose, the way I do on the sideline when a play’s gone wrong. Then I close my eyes and turn.
Milo pulls in a breath and holds it, and I open my eyes. He’s staring straight down at the front of the jockstrap, at what the green fabric is doing an increasingly poor job of containing. He’s got his bottom lip caught between his teeth so hard I’m convinced he’s going to draw blood.
“Fuck,” he says softly, and his hand drops to the front of his own pants, a quick, helpless adjustment, and that’s when I see it: the same problem, mirrored back at me, straining behind black fabric.
My chest loosens, marginally, at the sight of it.
“Sorry,” I say, and my voice comes out rough. “That’s just… it’s a bodily reaction. It’s been a while for me.”
“Oh, yeah, no, totally.” Milo’s still not looking at my face. His eyes are locked exactly where they were, and I feel it like a hand. His voice has gone thin and quick. “Totally get it. No big deal. Happens to the best of us.”
“They need me on set in five minutes,” I say, mostly to give both of us somewhere else to put our attention. “I’ll just wait it out. It’ll pass.”
“I don’t think it’s going anywhere anytime soon,” Milo murmurs.
My cock twitches at the sound of his voice, pitched low and close, and I have to look at the floor for a second.
“You’re not helping,” I say. “Please, just leave me alone for a minute.”
He doesn’t leave.
“Let me help you,” he says instead.
My head comes up. “What? No. Absolutely not.”
“Is it because I’m a guy?”
“It’s because you’re my PA.”
“Shh,” he says, and he moves before I can react, crossing the room in two steps to the door, and I hear the lock click over. Then he’s back in front of me, closer than before.
“You’re right,” he says, and the playfulness is creeping back into his voice. “I’m your personal assistant. So let me assist you.”
There’s a whole sentence on the tip of my tongue about lines and power dynamics, but none of it comes out.
Milo leans in, and his mouth is so close to my ear that the words land on my skin.
“Please, Spencer. Let me help you.”
I curse because his hand is already on me, cupping me through the jockstrap. The fabric’s so thin his palm might as well be direct contact, and my hips want to move into it before my brain has decided whether that’s allowed.
“Let’s take this off before you ruin it, yeah?”
I don’t answer that either. I stand there, gripping the edge of the dresser behind me, and let him hook his fingers into the waistband and drag the fabric down over my thighs, my knees, until it’s pooled around my ankles and I’m bare in front of him.
My cock springs free, hard and flushed, and Milo’s eyes go wide at the sight of it.
He licks his lips. Looks up at me.
“Can I?”
I should say no, but what comes out instead is, “Just your hand.”
“Okay.” He says it like I’ve just told him no dessert, but he reaches for the oil and pours some into his palm without arguing the point.
His hand wraps around me, and I groan before I can stop it.
It’s not like touching myself, because the angle is different. And his hand is bigger than a woman’s, callused along the fingers, with a firm grip. Nothing has ever felt quite like this before.
He starts moving slowly, testing, and I already know this is going to be embarrassingly fast. I close my eyes and drop my head back.
“Milo,” I manage, “we… shouldn’t.” There’s no weight behind it, and I hear that myself.
I open my eyes and find him watching me, lips parted, breathing like he ran here.
“Tell me to stop,” he says, “and I will. Just say the word, Spencer.”
And then his grip tightens, twisting on the upstroke, thumb dragging over the head and gathering the wetness beading there. I groan, not caring anymore who might hear it through the door.
When he talks next, his voice has changed. “That’s it, big boy, show me how much you like it. Make a mess for me, Spencer.”
That does it, and I go over hard and fast, my whole body locking up.
Milo’s free hand slaps over my mouth right as the sound tears out of me, muffling it against his palm.
His other hand keeps working me through it, catching most of what spills out, though a few drops hit the floor.
I hold on to the dresser so hard I’m sure the wood will splinter, and ride it out until there’s nothing left.
Sound comes back first: someone laughing outside the door, muffled, a woman calling for wardrobe, twice.
Milo’s in front of me, already pulling a wad of paper towels off the dresser and holding a few out to me.
I bend down and drag the jockstrap the rest of the way off, stepping out of it, and take them. I clean myself up as best I can, my hands unsteady, and when I glance over, his face is flushed, his gaze flicking up to me.
“Better?” he asks.
“Uh. Yeah. Thanks.”
He nods toward the door. “They’re waiting for you on set, so you should hurry. Don’t worry, I’ll clean up here.”
I grab the jockstrap and get into it faster than I’ve ever gotten dressed in my life, glad they told me I could keep whatever I wore today, so nobody else is wearing this one.
I put the towels down and then I’m out the door, moving down the hall without looking at him.