Page 33 of Puck Your Feelings
***
Becker
I AM GOING to die.
That's it. That's what's happening. I'm going to die right here in this top bunk from a lethal combination of sexual frustration, inappropriate arousal, and the universe's apparent mission to destroy any remaining shred of my sanity.
I woke up about twenty minutes ago—some shift in the cabin's ambient noise pulling me from sleep. I was lying theredebating whether to check my phone when I heard Kane move below me. A restless shift. Then another.
I was about to ask if he was okay when I heard it.
A breath. Different from his normal breathing. Deeper. Caught in his throat.
And now, my entire body has gone rigid, because—
Oh no.
Oh fuck.
Oh Jesus Christ no.
The quiet rustle of fabric confirms what my brain is frantically trying to deny. The subtle, rhythmic movement. Kane's breathing getting slightly deeper despite obvious efforts to stay silent.
He's jerking off.
Right below me.
I should make noise. Cough or shift obviously or say something—anything—to let him know I'm awake so he can stop and we can both pretend this never happened and go back to our regularly scheduled mutual antagonism.
But I'm completely paralyzed.
My heart is pounding so loud I'm certain he can hear it. Every muscle in my body is locked tight. I'm barely breathing, terrified that any movement will give me away.
Another soft sound from below. Barely audible. A quiet gasp Kane couldn't quite suppress.
My cock twitches.
No.
Absolutely not.
We are not doing this.
But my body apparently didn't get the memo because I'm getting hard. Actually hard. From listening to my annoying, uptight, frustratingly hot roommate touch himself in the dark.
This is bad.
This is so astronomically bad.
The sounds continue—so quiet, so controlled, but unmistakable once you know what you're listening for. The rustle of sheets. Kane's breathing getting slightly rougher. Small, breathy noises he can't quite hold back despite his obvious attempts at silence.
Each sound goes straight to my cock like a direct line.
I'm pressed against the mattress, my erection trapped between my body and the bed, and I don't dare move. Don't dare adjust. Don't dare do anything that might alert Kane to the fact that I'm awake and listening and getting increasingly, painfully turned on.
My brain is helpfully supplying images I absolutely do not want and desperately need. Kane's hand wrapped around his cock. Those long, scarred fingers. The focused intensity he brings to everything—skating, note-taking, organizing—now directed entirely at his own pleasure.
Stop. Thinking. About it.
