Lennox
“Shit. Shit!” I attempt to pull back the flaming marshmallow but it melts off the end of the stick and lands directly in the middle of the fire pit. “Blimey. Do you think Pierre’s going to charge me for that?”
Jace laughs, and I have to admit, that sound is a lot better than the rippled sound of annoyance that dripped off him when we first met.
Talking to him tonight after we read lines was like a dam being opened and now we can’t hear enough about each other. I haven’t shared anything too personal. I mean, childhood wise at least.
The mood is too good for that.
But we’ve talked about work and his schooling. My social media persona and how that grew into what it was.
It’s been light hearted and fun. It feels like I’ve known him my whole life.
I can’t stop thinking about our read-through earlier. I felt transformed into my character. Into the scene. I bounced off his energy and we fed off each other like the script was written for us.
I suppose it was. At least that's what Pierre said, but I didn’t really believe him. Until a few hours ago when we could have shot the log panels right off the sides of this cabin with the surge of passion between us.
I almost fucking kissed him. I wanted to. I wanted to so badly.
Crack.
Both Jace and I look in the direction from the sound of wood snapping. It’s across the lake, which has to be at least forty feet across at the shortest width from the shore.
“Don’t worry. If it’s a moose, we have at least three minutes before it crosses the lake and gets to us. Plenty of time to bolt into the house,” I say sarcastically because I think he’s realized by now, there are no moose here.
He throws a marshmallow at me.
The next hour passes by quickly and we both finally, reluctantly, decide to call it a night.
I flip off the propane from the fire pit and grab the chocolate and marshmallows while Jace grabs the box of graham crackers, and we head toward the house.
I’m right on his heels when he stops before opening the door and I run into his back.
“Shit, sorry.”
When he turns to face me I’m concerned with the expression on his face.
“So, hey,” he says, palming his forehead.
Oh, no what?
“I feel bad—you, sleeping on the couch. There’s no reason we can’t…you know, share the bed. There’s plenty of room.”
“Yeah,” I say, relieved. “Brilliant. The stiff pain in my neck loves you right now.”
“Good, I—” He pauses for a beat debating his words. “I just have to sleep on the right side. It’s…just something I have to do.”
“Sure, no problem. I’m not picky. It’ll be like I’m not even there.” I wink at him and he dips his head once then turns back around.
I toss the s’mores makings on the patio table so we can do this again tomorrow, then follow him inside.
It’s no big deal, right? Sleeping in the same bed as your childhood crush.
Nope, no big deal at all. I stare at my groin and preemptively curse him out to behave himself tonight, begging for him not to give me away.
“We’re practicing celibacy, you little bastard, don’t let me down,” I whisper.
“What was that?”
“Oh, nothing. Talking to myself.”
A few minutes later we’re climbing into the queen-size bed and I’m internally laughing at his ‘there’s plenty of room’ comment, because, well, there really isn’t any room at all. It’s okay though, it’s way better than the sofa and I can’t say I hate the circumstances.
Waking up to a well-behaved dick in the morning is a blessing considering every time I shifted in bed last night I had full flesh-on-flesh contact with Jace.
His skin was soft but his body was hard and muscular, exactly the strong juxtaposition I love.
Fortunately, he’s awake, because apparently he’s a ‘morning person’, and he’s already in the shower.
I roll over onto my side and push myself up into a sitting position. The same warm scent from when I had him pinned against the wall yesterday permeates the air as I ruffle the sheets and I hate the immediate effect it has on me.
Then a distinct moan echoes behind the wall and my previously well-mannered dick changes its mind.
“Oh, bloody hell.” I throw my body back on the bed. “Why, why am I being tortured?”
His moans ascend and I can tell he’s trying to be quiet but the shower is literally on the other side of this bedroom and there’s no better megaphone than that of tiled walls and ceramic flooring.
The water sloshes behind the paper thin barrier in a rhythmic pattern and I shove the base of my palms into the sockets of my eyeballs.
Fuck.
Fuck.
Another long moan and my resolve is gone. I reach into the waistband of my briefs and wrap my hand around my stiff cock, giving it a languid pull. Pushing my head against the pillow, I drive my hips into my hand and let the harmony of his muffled voice and pattern of gushing water wash over me.
I need this. It’s just for relief, I tell myself—lie to myself.
There’s a whimper and a moan and the clear sound of words, too muffled to hear. I can’t help it. I stand, pressing my ear flush against the beige paint as I squeeze my eyes shut, still stroking my hard cock as I fish for his words.
“Oh, god. Oh, fuck.” I can even hear the heavy breath in between, then, “Lennox,” followed by a gut-wrenching, orgasmic moan.
My eyes saucer, my mouth falls open and my cock hardens instantly. The sharp tingle of my release comes quick as I lean down and grab the first piece of cloth I can find. I fucking explode into it, biting my lip hard to stifle the sound as my cock empties into the fabric.
“Fuck,” I stutter. Then panic sets in when I hear the shower turn off. I toss my makeshift cumrag on the floor, pull up my briefs, and flop into the bed, quickly covering myself up with the sheet.
I shut my eyes as I hear the bathroom door open. There’s a bit of rustling and I reach my arms up over my head in a long stretch, as if him opening the bathroom door triggered me to wake up.
Peeling open my eyelids slowly, I peer over at him.
You moaned my naaame. I sing-song privately in my head like a giddy, smug teenager.
“Morning,” I say, my voice intentionally a bit raspy.
“Hey, did you sleep well?” he asks.
“Great, actually. Really good. You saved my back,” I reply as I start to sit up.
His brows are pinched together as he looks at the bed, then the floor.
“Are you alright?” I ask.
“I put my clothes on the bed before I jumped in the shower. Now my shirt is missing.” He lifts up the sheet, looking underneath, then steps back to peer under the bed. “Ah, here it is.”
My eyes widen at the sight of his T-shirt. AKA: my cumrag.
He puts his arms through it without inspecting anything and then turns around, the sticky white liquid in the shape of a distorted oval sits in the bottom middle of his loose fitting shirt.
“I’ll make some coffee, then we can get to our lines again today,” he says in a questioning tone.
“Okay, yes. Absolutely,” I reply, jumping out of bed.
Do I say something? Do I tell him? Shit. Shit.
I slip on a pair of joggers as I yank a shirt over my head, simultaneously walking to join him in the kitchen.
He fills up the coffee filter with grounds then pours the water into the top opening, pressing the button for a full pot.
When it starts to brew, he starts telling me about the dream he had about a fisherman and some weird bait he was using to catch oversized lake fish. He said he’s never been fishing in his life so that’s super weird but I’m not really paying attention to any of that.
I’m hyperfocused on his hand, following its movement. The one I assume he used to stroke his cock and those plump lips that called out my name.
Was it the almost-kiss from our scene yesterday that pushed him there? Could he be curious? I know nothing about his dating life. I've never even heard of him having a relationship.
He pours himself a glass of orange juice, turns toward me then leans against the counter. He flinches, then quickly arches forward, reaching behind him.
“I must have leaned on something I think.”
“Oh?”
He pulls the back of the shirt around to his side, peering directly at the stain, then twists further to look at the counter.
“I must have spilled something sticky here.” He rubs the wet spot with the pads of his finger then sniffs it, then pats the counter with his other hand, searching for the culprit.
Oh my god. Oh my god.
I dip my face into my hands, peering up through my fingers.
Now’s the time to confess you bloody idiot.
“Smells light, but sort of sweet.” Then he licks the tip of his finger and shrugs. “Must have been some melted marshmallow or something. I’ll be right back.” He pulls off the shirt and rounds the small kitchen island, returning back a minute later with a new shirt.
Fuck my fucking life.
He pours us both a cup of coffee and slides a mug my way.
“You’re quiet this morning. You good?”
I smash my lips together, humming with a tight smile. “Yep, all good.”
And I’ve decided, never will I ever tell him that he just licked my cum off his own T-shirt.