Page 40 of Commitment Issues
Chapter Seventeen
Freddie
The bright sun awakens me, streaming into the bedroom and bringing its heat with it. The doors leading to the verandah are wide open, the breeze shifting the voile curtains. I stretch and yawn, and as the fog of sleep lifts, memories from the previous night rush in. Marcus and Gavin… admitting all to Andrew… but they fade to nothing as my mind fills with Elliot pulling me against him in the darkness. Pulling me hard.
Hard.
Heat floods my groin, and a low groan pushes through my lips as my hand, lying on my belly, slips down and wraps around my cock. I let my eyes drift back to shut and suck in a shuddering breath as my palm begins a slow slip and slide, pulling my foreskin up and over the engorged head, smearing the precum pearling at my slit.
Elliot’s next door, sprawled out on the sofa. And naked.
In my fantasy he’s naked, and it unrolls in my head like a ball of string.
The sheet pools on the floor where he’s thrown it off in the night. He’s on his stomach, his round, muscled arse tensing as he thrusts hard into the soft leather of the sofa. One hand’s buried beneath his taut and quivering body as he fucks into his fisted palm, the other clutching hard to the arm rest.
I bite down on my lower lip, forcing back the moan aching to escape my throat as my hips thrust upwards, meeting the downwards push of my fist, tight around my cock. My skin’s hot, sticky, and sweat-coated, my hips cant upwards, harder and faster, my breath strained and ragged as my juice-soaked fist picks up speed, my fantasy Elliot mirroring my every thrust and push and pull and squeeze. I clamp my eyes closed, as my balls tighten and lift, as heat burns low in my belly, as my breathing stutters and I fight to hold back the wail rising in my throat.
Biting down harder, I force myself to stem my moans, and gasps, and muttered curses. Tasting blood, I wince as together mine and fantasy Elliot’s releases burst from us, coating our hands in hot, sticky semen.
“Oh, fuck,” I whisper on a shaky breath. I swallow hard. Soon, I’ll be facing the living, breathing, and very definitely not fantasy Elliot. I sniff hard. Will he be able to smell the evidence? I look down at my hand, now lying limp and lifeless around my equally limp and lifeless cock. It’s time to wash away the evidence, if I can summon the strength to drag myself to the shower. The effort feels monumental, as I push myself up on quivering arms then onto trembling legs, the sheet falling away — and smearing my cum all over it.
“Shit.” Elliot’s supposed to be having the bed tonight, and there’s no way I’m going to let him crawl under sheets stiffened with my dried on jizz.
Fuck, fuck, fuck…There has to be some more bedding… I dash to the cupboard, about to open it when there’s a knock at the door.
Something that sounds like a high pitched whine escapes me, as I dither between jumping into the cupboard or making it across the room before the door opens.
“Freddie? You awake?” Elliot calls out, sounding too damn perky and not like a guy who’s just exploded in a cum bomb — which of course he hasn’t, because that’s been my morning fantasy.
“Yes. Be out soon. Just about to have a shower,” I squeak.
“We’re expected for breakfast in half an hour, out by the pool.”
“Yep. Fine. Sure. Okay.”
Silence.
I creep towards the en-suite.
“Freddie? Are you all right?”
I freeze, and stare at the door handle.
He won’t come in—will he?
“Be with you in ten.” Somehow moving my frozen limbs, I dash into the bathroom and lock the door behind me.
Is a morning wank really worth the hassle? But then my hot little fantasy smashes straight back into me, and I whimper as I remember Fantasy Elliot’s sated smile and lust-clouded eyes… Oh yes, it’s worth it.
* * *
The pool looks even more spectacular in the bright morning sunshine than it did last night when it’d sparkled from the flickering lights from the artificial flares.
The buffet style breakfast is laid out on a long table with three large round tables set up to the side of it.
Like the pool, the villa’s more beautiful in the warm sunlight, with its ochre walls and tall windows with white-painted wooden shutters open wide. It’s subtle and classic, and reeks of money and sophistication and if Marcus has been the designer master mind behind it, he’s got some serious taste. Yet, despite all this, I can’t help thinking of all those adverts that pop up on the telly just after Christmas, for villa holidays in the sun. Maybe they make some extra dosh renting it out to The Posh Villa Company, or Villa Holidays to Make Your Mates Jealous.
“I hope you found the gîte comfortable?”
