Page 46 of Spilled Coffee

“Holy shit…” Ethan breathed as Logan’s hardness brushed his prostate, the intense sensation pushing him over the edge.

His release exploded, with rivulets of cum spilling onto the sheets beneath him. He wanted to collapse, but Logan held him firm, his own release coming fast.

“Fuck…” Logan growled. His climax was intense, and another shuddering groan spilled free. He leaned forward, keeping them connected as he savored every last pulse of their bond.

He eased out slowly and there was a light snap as he tied the condom and tossed it in the trash beside the bed. “Holy fuck… that was great,” he grinned.

He kissed Ethan’s shoulders, massaging them gently before he wiped them both with a towel from the chair, then flopped down next to him, arms wrapped tight, pulling him close in a warm, cocooning embrace.

Ethan remained quiet as he processed the moment—his body felt weird, and oddly empty, and he shivered a little. But eventually he turned, a smile breaking across his lips as he kissed Logan with a soft, lingering kiss.

“Thank you.” His fingers traced around the edges of Logan’s mouth. “I’m so glad you were my first.”

Logan offered a wide grin as he replied, “Me too.”

He kissed Ethan firmly, pulling him closer and draping a leg possessively over his thigh. “Now go to sleep,” he whispered, tucking Ethan’s head under his chin, and cradling him against his chest as exhaustion pulled them both under.

CHAPTER 24

Ethan yawned,with a slow, deliberate stretch that rippled through his body, muscles lengthening and flexing as he reached toward the ceiling.

His arms extended fully, fingers splayed wide, tendons pulling taut beneath skin still flushed with the warmth of sleep.

He exhaled and let his arms drop to his sides.

The bedroom was dim around him, its shadows deepened by the pale gray light of dawn seeping through the blinds. The slats split the light into sharp ribbons, casting jagged shadows across the walls. Those same walls, painted in beige that once might have been warm and inviting, now seemed tired and worn, like they’d given up trying to hold their color.I must redecorate soon,he reminded himself.

The bed bore the evidence of last night—the sheets twisted and bunched into knots, pillows half on and half off the mattress. And somewhere beneath it all, the faint scent of Logan’s cologne clung stubbornly to the fabric, a bittersweet reminder.

His head throbbed in protest against the light, each flicker of brightness sending a sharp jolt through his skull. He pressed his palms to his temples as if trying to physically contain therelentless pounding. It was an unforgiving jackhammer drilling straight into his brain, the ache dull but insistent, radiating outward like waves crashing against a shore.

He blinked sluggishly, his lashes fluttering against dry eyes that burned with irritation from too little sleep—or maybe too much alcohol—and his body felt like he’d been dragged behind a truck and left for dead.

Every joint creaked when he moved, stiff and unyielding, his muscles protesting even the slightest shift in position as though he’d been sparring all night instead of sleeping—or whatever had passed for sleep these last few hours.

A sharp sting pulsed low in his backside, a raw and aching reminder of last night’s intensity. It wasn’t unpleasant—far from it—but it was enough to make him wince as he shifted on the mattress.

“Ughhh…” The groan carried with it a note of frustration as much as discomfort, and he rolled onto his side with some effort. The sheets tangled around his legs like stubborn vines, clinging where they shouldn’t. He shoved them off with an annoyed grunt before turning his head toward the other side of the bed—Logan’s side.

It was empty.

A pang hit him square in the chest—unexpected but sharp enough to leave him breathless as his hand drifted across the mattress to where Logan had lain.

His fingers brushed the cotton, but it no longer carried Logan’s familiar warmth and there was no indentation in the pillow. It was like he hadn’t been there at all—like last night had just been some hazy dream conjured by exhaustion and tequila.

Ethan swallowed, his chest painfully tight as disappointment threaded through the fog of his hangover. He told himself not to overthink it, not to read anything into Logan’s absence, but logic held little sway over the ache gnawing within him.

He forced his eyes open, squinting against the light that seemed to grow brighter by the second, and sat up.

It felt like he was scaling a mountain, every move sending fresh spikes of pain through his skull, but eventually he managed to prop himself against the pillows that smelled faintly of Logan’s shampoo.

The apartment was eerily quiet—a hollow kind of silence that felt heavier than it should have. It was broken by two sounds: the steady drip of water from the kitchen faucet and the distant hum of early-morning traffic filtering through a crack in the window.

“Logan?” he called, but the word hung in the air for a long moment before fading.

No reply came back, not even a muffled sound from another room or an accidental shuffle that might hint at someone else being there.

“Logan,” he tried again, softer this time, but no less desperate.

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