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He stared up at his bedroom ceiling, listening to the creak of footsteps on the stairs and imagining what might happen if they continued on and?—
But Jack went into his room instead. Of course he did. Why wouldn’t he?
Harry chewed the inside of his mouth for a moment. He felt weird, like there were Pop Rocks in his bloodstream, fizzing and crackling away. He wasn’t even aware that he was tracing his fingers along his abdomen until they slipped under the elastic of his sleep pants and grazed through his pubes.
He jolted, then froze.
His dick was getting hard and that was…weird.
Okay, so that was a thing dicks generally did. Just…just not his. Not often, anyway. He’d always thought that there was something wrong with him, because other guys he went to high school with had been crippled by anxiety about hoisting the flag at the wrong time—or, as he understood it, whenever the breeze changed—but Harry hadn’t been like that. He’d had a few wet dreams that necessitated washing his own sheets in the morning, but they hadn’t been regular. He’d wanked on occasion too, but it had felt sort of…messy, and, on a purely cost-to-benefit ratio, not really worth the hassle.
It wasn’t until his first O Week at uni that he’d figured it out, and that was only because a girl with rainbow-coloured hair had shoved a plastic bag of stuff at him that had turned out to be condoms and lube and dental dams and a shitload of brochures on sexual health.
Oh, Harry had thought later as he’d read through the pamphlets. Asexual.
And it had fitted, right up until now, when he had his hand down his pants and was thinking about sucking Jack’s nipples.
Wait—he was thinking what?
Apparently both his brain and his dick were getting ahead of him.
Harry drew a deep breath and pulled his hand back out of his pyjama pants. His dick didn’t like that much at all. Harry licked his hand and shoved it back down there, curling his fingers around his dick and just holding it. Getting to know it again, like an acquaintance he hadn’t met in a while. Which was dumb, because he’d been holding this very same dick in his hand not thirty minutes ago when he’d taken a piss, but it sure as hell hadn’t felt like this then. It was hard, or at least well on its way. Harry gripped it, bit his lower lip, and went with it.
He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to get into a rhythm, unsure if he wanted to draw this out or get it over with as quickly as possible. He was aware he was breathing heavily already, that the springs in his mattress squeaked on every upstroke, and that this would be a hell of a lot less mortifying somewhere quieter, and a hell of a lot smoother with actual lube. But at the same time, he felt way too good to even think about stopping. Those Pop Rocks that had been in his bloodstream a little while ago had definitely migrated to his balls.
He tilted his head back as he worked his dick. The elastic of his sleep pants was digging into his wrist, and for a second his dick was too dry and he wondered if he needed more spit. But then it was suddenly leaking, and it felt nice, so he let his eyes fall closed as he imagined Jack. Imagined touching him, maybe even kissing him. Then he imagined Jack reaching out to touch him and?—
Oh God. It was all over in an explosion of wetness.
Harry slumped back down onto his mattress, tingling all over, his limbs heavy. He was sated, but at the same time, he felt slightly cheated. He hadn’t even got to the part of the fantasy where Jack touched him, and he’d gone off like a frog in a sock. Also, he thought as he wiped his hand on his sheet with a grimace, if this was going to be a thing he did now, he really needed to invest in some wet wipes or something.
But that, he thought as he drifted off to sleep—along with a crisis over his sexuality—sounded like a problem for Future Harry.
Chapter Eight
“Oh my God,” Tris said, wafting into the kitchen in a cloud of vodka fumes. “Is that a coffee press?”
“It was on sale,” Jack said, and nodded at the guy trailing behind Tris. He was big and muscular, and looked exactly how Jack imagined a Russian mobster might. He looked nothing like the waiflike little twink Jack remembered from a few nights before, but then Tris didn’t seem to have a type, apart from ‘has a dick and a heartbeat.’ “Hey.”
“G’day,” the guy said, killing all of Jack’s Russian mobster fantasies right then and there.
“In the bad old days,” Tris announced, “there was nothing in our fridge except a bag of lettuce sludge and a box of bicarb that we think was left here by the last tenants. The bicarb, not the lettuce. The lettuce was from one of Ambrose’s get fit kicks.” He grinned. “But now we have Jack, and Jack cooks for us.” His eyes twinkled. “Well, he cooks for Harry, but I benefit as well, and so do you today!”
Jack paused and regarded Tris for a moment. He was smarter than he looked, apparently. “I don’t cook for Harry,” he said, but it was a token protest.
“You do. You have a bromance,” Tristan declared. He looked at non-Russian mobster. “It’s actually really sweet. They’re like two little puppies, with the eyes and the wagging tails.”
Jack shoved a cup of coffee at Tris, mainly to shut him up. Tristan snagged it and took a sip, letting out a moan. “God, that’s good. Better than sex.” He screwed up his nose. “Actually, no. That’s a lie. Sex is amazing. And so were you, Brandon.”
“Brendan,” the guy corrected, but didn’t seem at all put out.
“I always get those names mixed up,” Tris said with a smile.
Jack wondered if any of his one-night stands were ever offended by Tris’ complete inability to remember their names. Probably not. They were probably still dazed and grateful that someone like Tris had picked them up in the first place. With his golden hair and his delicate but masculine features, he looked like an angel. And he fucked like a demon, which was something Jack could have lived happily without knowing, but, well, the neighbours on either side of them could probably say the same thing. He was the sort of guy that Jack would have been too intimidated to approach at a club, in all honesty, and he’d never been particularly shy. He didn’t seem unapproachable at all now that Jack knew him—he was way too warm and friendly for that—but Jack still wasn’t interested. His type was apparently cute boys who did crafts. He smiled as he thought of making paper bag monsters with Harry and burned himself pouring Brendan’s cup of coffee.
“Shit!” He put the cup down and stuck his hand under the cold tap, hissing through his teeth.
Tristan rolled his eyes and finished pouring, then handed the cup to Brendan. “There you go, gorgeous.”
