Page 41 of Golden

My hands are sweaty from gripping the phone, and I wipe them on my bedsheets as he types out his reply.

Wes:Where’s my photo evidence?

I feel a little drunk, despite not having touched a drop of alcohol, as I lie down and bend one arm behind my head, flexing my muscles as I snap a photo, making sure to include as much of my bare chest as I can. My hair is still a little damp from my shower, falling across my forehead.

He doesn’t reply immediately, and I stare at the screen wondering what he’s thinking. What he’s doing. Who is he out with? Friends from Seattle? I have a hundred questions, but I shove them back as I wait, hoping our conversation isn’t over already. I startle when my phone vibrates in my hand.

Wes:I hate you.

Me:Why?

Wes:You know why.

Wes:I want to see more.

A thrill runs through me, my dick already half-way hard at the knowledge I’m affecting him. I’m not sending him another one, though. Not with how fucked up our back and forth is. If I sent him a photo and the conversation stopped, leaving us with awkward silence for weeks again, I couldn’t handle it. But then, it’s always me that stops things, right? I’m the one who doesn’t reply—who doesn’t follow through.

I frown at his reply. Wes is the one who walked away from our kiss in Zak’s room—who left me standing in the locker room with my dick out. Said dick twitches eagerly at the thought of Wes’ insanely talented mouth. But then his harsh words crash through like shards of glass, and I pull myself together, typing out a reply.

Me:I thought u didn’t have time to hold my hand?

Wes:It’s not your hand I want to hold.

A laugh bursts out of me despite my annoyance. He must be fucking wasted.

Me:You made it pretty clear u don’t have time for me

I don’t know why I’m trying to push him away again, and as the three dots ripple across the bottom of the screen, my stomach churns. If he says now it’s probably the right choice, I’ll be so pissed at myself.

Wes:Maybe I can rearrange my schedule.

My breath leaves me in a rush. What does that mean? I could ask. He’s clearly quite drunk, so would probably answer honestly. But what if it’s an answer I don’t like?

Wes:Are you running again?

I blink, realizing that it’s been five minutes since he sent the last message. Shit.

Me:Ur the one who keeps leaving

It’s childish, but it’s true. As I wait for his response, I scroll back and click on the picture he sent. He didn’t kiss me in the locker room, and I wanted him to, badly. His mouth is sinful. I groan as my brain floods with images of my cock sliding in and out of those perfect lips.

Wes:At least I didn’t leave you hard last time.

My dick is heavy against my stomach, and I reach under the covers, wrapping my hand around it as I type out a response with my other.

Sol:What about this time?

Wes:You’re killing me.

I smirk, releasing my grip to reach into my nightstand. The day before I left for winter break, I found a bottle of lube on my bed with a post-it note from Zak saying ‘Just in case’. I was mortified at the time, and if he hadn’t already left for Chicago, I’d have marched down to his room and chucked it at his face. But I didn’t. I packed it. And now, I’m almost grateful enough to text him.

Wes:Show me

My heart skips, my throat suddenly dry. Part of me wants to ask him what he’s talking about—to make him say it, but as I rest the phone on my chest and squeeze out some lube into my hand, I’m too distracted. Especially as I wrap my fist around my cock and give it a firm twisting stroke that has my head pressing back into the pillows.

When my phone rings, I jolt with such force, it falls off my chest onto the floor with a thud.

“Shit.” Is he calling me? Reaching over with my dry hand, I pick it up and swallow, swiping to answer. “Hey.”

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