Page 7 of Jealous Guy

Every muscle in my body contracts as my orgasm rushes toward me. My arm shakes as I jack my cock feverishly, thrusting into my hand hard and fast.

My balls ache. My heart slams.

I’m close.

So close.

So fucking close that I’m there.

I’m there, but I don’t let go.

I can’t.

The soft sounds from next door speed up and grow urgent. I sink my finger into my ass and fuck myself on it as my vision whites out.

And still, I don’t come.

I hold on.

I wait until there’s a lull next door. A pause I know well. A moment of silence when worlds converge. When fate is decided. When there’s no going back.

I wait until a hoarse, husky voice breaks free of its constraints and calls out to me. It doesn’t say my name, but I hear it calling me all the same. My body reacts instantly. Pleasure explodes out of me, roaring out of my cock and spurting all over my chest.

I close my eyes and writhe silently, clamping my lips shut as tightly as possible to stifle the secret I’m keeping.

4

Orion

Jordan strolls into the living room with a pleased-with-himself swagger. His gait is loose and relaxed. Carefree and happy. His arms swing smoothly at his sides, the right one a little more than the left.

It’s always a dilemma trying to work out the right thing to say in this situation. I’ve studied interactions between straight guys for years to try to get to the bottom of it, but a lot of their behavior doesn’t make sense, no matter how I analyze it. There are so many important things they don’t talk about, and then there are these weird, incredibly personal things they have no problem sharing with each other. It’s a mystery. Still, history has taught me I have to say something to acknowledge that he got laid, or Jordan will start volunteering information about his hookup. And that’s worse. Much worse.

I glance over at him, offering him a congratulatory up-nod because straight guys feel strongly about cheering each other’s sexual exploits on. It’s a cultural thing for them, or something. “Good night, huh?”

“Mm,” says Jordan, tilting his head back and letting his eyes flutter closed. He doesn’t say a lot more, but he does things with his eyebrows to suggest he came close to experiencing the rapture.

He’s not wrong. He came three times last night. Don’t ask me how I know that.

“Are you going to see her again, or what?” Technically, this is a topic I try to steer clear of because I’m so close to being over him, but I haven’t had any coffee yet this morning, and it’s showing.

“Nah.”

He opens the fridge door and bends over to grab the milk. He’s wearing sleep pants with no shirt, and as he bends, his waistband rides down slightly, offering me a clear view of his tan line. The skin above it is a rich golden color. The skin beneath is milky and several shades lighter. My gaze follows the line of the seam of his pants down the crack of his ass and gets stuck there. I catch myself and look away quickly.

“She said she got everything she needed from our interaction.”

He looks entirely unoffended at the notion of being discarded after sex. Some men would mind, but I’m not surprised he doesn’t. Jordan mistrusts and despises the patriarchy. Above all else, he feels strongly that women deserve to enjoy the same sexual freedom men enjoy. It’s a hill he’d happily die on.

“Nice,” I say because I don’t know what else to say.

Jordan pours a ridiculous amount of milk into a bowl and then pours cereal into the milk. I shake my head, stifling a groan like I do every morning. Milk first? Pouring cereal into milk? Why? Why not put the cereal in first so he knows how much milk to add?

I don’t bother asking why he does it because I know his answer will be, “Tastes better this way.”

I’ve given up trying to explain that there’s no possible way pouring milk in first can affect the taste.

As always, he ends up with way too much milk in his bowl. His cereal floats aimlessly in it, bobbing around like debris from a shipwreck. He holds the bowl near his mouth and shovels it in.