Page 34 of Puck Your Feelings
Except I can't stop. The sounds are right there. Quiet but devastating. My imagination fills in the rest—the way his abs would contract with each stroke, his head tilting back against the pillow, his lips parted around those soft gasps.
Would his face have that same intense focus? Or would it be completely undone, all that careful control shattered?
Another sound from below. Slightly louder this time. A gasp that's almost a groan, quickly bitten back.
My cock throbs painfully. I'm so hard it hurts, trapped against the mattress, and I still can't move. Or breathe. Or think about anything except what's happening three feet below me.
The rhythm of movement increases slightly. Kane's breathing gets heavier. He's close—I can tell from the subtle changes, the way the sounds are coming faster now.
This is torture. Actual, literal torture.
I shouldn't be turned on by this. We're teammates. We've known each other for five days. Five days of mostly arguing and mutual irritation. This is an accident. He thinks I'm asleep. I should not—absolutely should not—be lying here with my cock hard and aching, hanging on every quiet gasp like my life depends on it.
But I am.
God help me, I am.
Kane's breathing hitches. A soft, breathy groan he can't quite suppress—
I hold my breath, my entire body wound tight as a bowstring.
Then silence.
Complete, devastating silence.
I lie perfectly still, not daring to move, my erection pressing insistently against my stomach. My heart is racing so fast I'm worried I might actually be having a medical emergency. Every nerve ending in my body is on fire.
Seconds pass. Maybe a minute. I've lost all sense of time.
Below me, I hear the quiet rustle of tissues. Movement. Then Kane settles back into his bunk with a soft exhale.
Minutes tick by in agonizing slowness. Kane's breathing gradually evens out, deepens, falls into the steady rhythm of sleep.
He fell asleep.
He just came and fell asleep like it was nothing.
Meanwhile, I'm lying here in the dark, harder than I've been in months, having a complete mental breakdown.
This is fine.
Everything is fine.
I wait until I'm absolutely certain Kane is asleep—his breathing deep and even for at least ten minutes—before I let myself move.
Carefully, slowly, I shift onto my back. My cock is still achingly hard, tenting my boxer briefs, demanding attention.
This is wrong, I know. But I'm so fucking turned on I can barely think straight, and the memory of those sounds is burned into my brain like a brand.
My hand slides into my waistband.
The first touch sends electricity shooting through me. I'm already so worked up that it's not going to take much. I wrap my fingers around my dick, and it's almost too much sensation after lying there wound tight for so long.
I bite down hard on my lip to keep from making any sound. The last thing I need is for Kane to wake up and find me doing exactly what he just did.
My hand moves slowly at first, cautious, but the need builds too fast. I speed up, working myself with quick, efficient strokes, trying to stay as silent as possible.
The sounds replay in my head on loop. Those quiet gasps. The soft groan he couldn't quite hold back. The rustle of fabric and the subtle shift of movement.
