I try to banish the thought from my mind.
I don’t want to be filled.
Not by a guy.
Obviously.
And yet, the image remains in my mind, and my nerves skitter, as if they take pleasure in the idea even when I should not. For a moment, I remember being sixteen, and I remember Cal pressing me against the brick wall, so my whole world was him.
Normally, I’m the coordinator of any bedtime activities. I lift my female companions’ legs up and place them over my shoulders. I tell them when they should kneel so we can do doggie style together. I suck on their breasts. I give them pleasure.
But what would it be like to not have to be the person in charge? To not be expected to do everything? To not be conscious that my every move might be analyzed at length during brunch with my bedtime partner’s closest friends? To not have to perform like a professional athlete?
My cock deflates. Maybe I should pull up my trunks.
But this is a good time for sexy thoughts. It’s not like I can jerk off when he’s nearby. He might get ideas. Ideas that he’s the cause. Ideas that would be absolutely false.
Because he’s not lying near me. His skin is not warm against mine. My eyes do not fill with visions of his toned body. There’s no ear to imagine nibbling on. No chest I could burrow myself on. No arms to clasp around my body.
But my cock throbs, and when I take hold of it again, it leaps in relief. I inhale and brush my fingers over it, stroking up and down. My fingers move lazily, but every nerve ending soon awakens, and my mind is soon filled with the image of Cal.
I stroke my cock faster and faster, until my mouth drops down, and my eyes close, and my whole world is Cal. Cal’s broad shoulders. Cal’s broad chest. Cal’s wide jaw. Cal’s angular cheekbones. The curve of Cal’s neck. The feel of Cal’s chest hair against my fingers. The sensation of Cal wrapping his powerful thighs around mine. The press of his cock against mine, and—
I come.
I groan and bite my lower lip too late. Something rustles.
Did he hear me?
I probably scared an animal or something. My breath comes out in heavy bursts, the way it does after the last period of a hockey game during the playoffs.
I rake a hand through my hair, trying to steady my breathing. My skin is sticky, my trunks are clinging in all the wrong places, and I’m suddenly aware I just jerked off like a feral animal behind a tree. I tug my trunks back on and stumble down the narrow path through the trees, ducking under branches, until the trees open again.
Then I do the only logical thing left to do after orgasming to the thought of the sports reporter sent to profile me. On my single pair of clothes, when I sleep in his arms at night.
I head for the water to clean.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Cal
Jason strides to the beach, and I glance up from the water and its now familiar shimmer of turquoise waves that lap around my ankles. I wonder if I can teach myself to swim. I don’t want to try. Memories of being stranded on the jet ski are too strong. My eyes automatically bounce over Jason’s muscular frame before I yank my gaze away.
Jason isn’t mine to look at.
And everyone knows he’s not exactly the most gay-friendly guy.
“Hi,” I say, my voice hoarser than I intend.
“Hey.” His face is flushed.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
“Yes,” he says too quickly. He hesitates. “Why?”
“I-I thought I heard a yell.”
He’s silent.
