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“I’m going to come soon,” he breathes.
I grit my teeth, trying to hold back the sound in my throat. “Don’t tell me that.”
“Why not?”
“Because—” I gasp as his thighs squeeze tighter. Tighter than my hand. Tighter than anything I’ve felt before. “Because I’m close too, and I don’t—I don’t want to—”
“Come together?” He tilts his head to the side so I can see his face clearly. “Do you want to come in my mouth instead?”
I can’t fucking process his words.
I can’t process anything.
My hips jerk forward on their own, chasing the pressure, and I make a sound so desperate I don’t recognize it. His muscles flex around me, and I can feel him trembling. He’s getting off on this. On me. On watching me fall apart.
“We can do whatever you want,” he continues, shoving the underwear down. “Come on my thighs. In my mouth. On my fa—” He breaks on a whimper, and his eyes roll to the back of his head.
He makes these high, broken noises that make me thrust faster. Harder. Half the fucking fraternity can probably hear him. His thighs clamp around me so tight I have to brace both hands against the wall to keep from crushing him.
His cock jerks in his grip, thick and flushed, and the first hot spurt lands on his hoodie. His arching back, the way his breath hitches, sends me over the edge. My vision whites out for a second, my hips stuttering forward as I come between his thighs.
The silence after is the wildest thing yet.
My jeans are cutting into my thighs. My hands are still braced against the wall, trembling so badly the plaster vibrates beneath my palms. He doesn’t ask me to move. Doesn’t pull his underwear up.
So…
If putting my thumb in my roommate’s mouth messed up our dynamic—
What the fuck did this do?
Chapter 6
Ira
It’s been three weeks since the last Polaroid.
I’m checking religiously now.
Before class.
After my first two classes.
After lunch.
Before my last few classes.
Before club.
After club.
Every time there’s nothing, I die a little more inside. Each photo on the board gets my fucking hopes up. But it’s never from him. The writing’s too nice—or it’s complete shit. The picture is crooked—or it’s from a dollhouse.
Halloween party posters have disappeared. Now everyone’s slapping “Local food drive!” and “Volunteer for charity during Thanksgiving” in obnoxious orange and brown and yellow over my precious bulletin board.
Why am I being tortured?
I don’t realize how hard I’m gripping my arms until horror-club-candy-guy pokes my shoulder.
