Page 1 of Rocking the Receiver
CHAPTER 1
(I CAN’T GET NO) SATISFACTION
Elliot
Morning wood is the best.Well, it’s a promising start to the day and exactly what my body requires before I fuel it with a hearty breakfast.
“Damn right,” I murmur to myself.
I lazily yawn while extending my arms above my head, stretching my sleepy yet yearning body, and breathe in the light breeze entering through the French window that leads to a small balcony. The Rhône Valley is known for its hot and dry summer weather, but it’s been on the cooler side lately. As cool as my current mood, however that will surely derail when I face my surprise later today. At long last!
For now, I have all the time in the world and have no desire to jump out of bed to fetch said surprise myself. Actually, that’s a lie. As eager as I am for it, jacking off is the best way to start the day, and I pride myself on keeping my good mood in check.
“Damn right,” I repeat, my lips stretching into a content grin.
I point my toes like I used to when I did ballet as a kid, desperate to make them curl with the wicked ideas I have in mind.
My heart races in anticipation.
Who cares that I remain a permanent resident of the family estate until I depart for Austin next year. Who cares that my bedroom shares a wall with Tim’s? Who cares?
Thank goodness, my parents’ quarters are on the opposite side. Maybe I shouldn’t be so thankful, though. The jealous part of me wanted my big brother to get caught whenever he snuck girls inside his room, but the prodigal son always found workarounds to make his life easier. So easy… Some of us have to work twice as hard.
Sucking in a breath, I don’t hear a thing, although friends and family are arriving for his upcoming engagement party. I shake my head to chase Tim out of my head and focus on the task at hand. “Thank you, God, for this welcome reprieve,” I shout at the top of my lungs to verify my assumption. Nobody screams at me to shut the fuck up. Success!
Yelling at the top of my lungs is a stretch, though. My mouth feels like sandpaper from last night’s excesses. Partying. Singing. Drinking. My typical vacation regimen until the usual suspects are off to far-flung destinations, which will happen next week. Then, I’ll have ample time to myself to catch up with my intense football practice: American Football, that is. Not your typical French activity, but it might earn me a scholarship to a prestigious university, so I can’t complain. Football is a passion I share with my American mom, who was a die-hard 49ers fan, back in the day. Unfortunately, I’m well-aware that my focus has been off lately. I have no one to blame but myself. I usuallyemploy strict discipline when it comes to football, but these last couple of weeks have been the exception to the rule.
“Soon, I’ll behave,” I tell myself. “Damn right!” I chuckle. I’m such a mess, but I know exactly why I’m not quite myself…
I sigh, then embrace the blessed silence of the household. Being the youngest of seven—and far from the quietest—enables me to enjoy this rare occurrence. I suspect they all left for the bike ride and didn’t dare wake me since I was out until the wee hours of the morning. I had to unleash the tension that’s been building since Tim broke the news two weeks ago.
Unabashed, I slide my hand under the covers. I’m not chasing a quick and messy release. No, no, no… My patience has paid off, and I’m celebrating the occasion; I’ll take the slower route and make my morning routine last longer. Teasing my chest. Closing my eyes. Twisting my nipples.
Call me boring if you want, but when it comes to certain things, I love my routine. I have my parents to thank for that. When we were kids, my mother insisted on daily bike rides. We’re no longer kids—aside from me—nevertheless, she has corralled my siblings and extended family into a morning ride. As for Dad, he claims that running the family’s winery estate demands routine. Looks like I had no choice, right?
That said, I only allow this natural tendency to apply when it comes to football and rubbing one out. And come, I do and will, especially today, considering how much my imagination loves to play variations of the same fantasy. My experience is limited, and after a few attempts, porn doesn’t cut it. It’s been three years, and I stay fixated on a person that I haven’t seen since I was a little kid. Sue me!
Is it genuine attraction? Teenage hormones? Inept obsession? I’ll soon find out.
I don’t even have social media to blame, but rather said older brother… well, half-brother if we’re being specific.
My pulse accelerates. Eventually, I reach down, grip my throbbing erection, and slowly tug on it. “Mmm…” Frustrated by my own restraint, I groan, keep stroking, keep pinching my balls, and keep embracing every single sensation.
So fucking good…
My brain short-circuits when filthy images take the forefront, and I worry my lower lip.
I’m on my knees, my caramel gaze caging his green eyes as he fucks my mouth. My filthy mouth waters, and my brain fast-forwards to him on all fours on my bed, his gorgeous face swiveled my way as I slam into him from behind. My rock-hard dick swells. We’re crying out each other’s names as his orgasm hits him like a tidal wave. He didn’t even touch himself, and I follow suit. My skin tickles.
Sweaty, I gasp for air, sitting on my hand until I nearly burst. This guy is going to be the death of me. I want him so fucking bad. Strike that, Ineedhim… period. I’ll do anything to make him my first. The thought alone has my spine arching, and my heart hammers in my chest and I shoot my load across my abs. Sated, I pop my eyes open. “Holy shit, that was phenomenal.”
Then, I roll to the side of the bed, snatch some tissues from the box on my nightstand, and clean up.
Staring at the ceiling, I pant, incapable of evening my breathing. Hands splayed on my almost hairless chest, I manage to pace myhectic heartbeat by starting to count the beauty marks around my belly button that’s also surrounded by freckles.
“… Fifty-four, fifty-five, fifty-six…” My mouth is so parched that my throat itches. Covering my mouth with the crook of my arm, I cough, then bite my tongue to get some moisture, debating whether to stroll to my en suite bathroom for a sip of water.
Instead, I select to bask in my post-coital glow for a moment longer. Soon enough, the stickiness grosses me out, even though the smell of sex is enticing. “Come on, fucker, move it!”
