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He even knows how to release my cock to cup my balls and squeeze them, roll them around in his palm before returning to stroking me, making me curse out loud as the heat building at the base of my spine rushes to my dick.
I come so hard I see stars, and when two seconds later his cock pulses in my hand, I don’t even have the energy to pull back before his cum splashes me again.
He’s breathing hard, and he grins at me as he draws away. He wipes his hand on his leg and nods toward the shower. “Clean up time.”
We’ve never done any of this before. Jacked each other off, showered together. I hesitate for a long second before I follow him under the spray. He doesn’t soap my back, and I don’t wash his hair, but we both wash quickly and efficiently, snorting when we elbow each other by mistake.
Maybe this is gonna turn out okay. I’m still comfortable around him, and what happened tonight doesn’t seem to have changed anything, thank fuck. He wipes shampoo out of his eyes and curses, fumbling blindly for a towel.
I pour the rest of the shampoo on his head and laugh my ass off as he tries to punch me.
He retaliates by pouring shower gel all over my face.
“Dickhead.” I shove him against the wall.
He shoves me back. “Fucktard.”
Maybe this is normal. Like him always slinging his arm around my shoulders and me ruffling his hair any chance I get.
That’s what I tell myself as I dry myself quickly, bid Jet goodnight and drop face-first on the bed, falling asleep right after.
Chapter Eighteen
JETHRO
If you asked me five years ago if life was worth living, I’d have laughed. I was in therapy. I thought I was going off my rocker. My family was gone, my sanity a frail thing. So if you asked me… yeah, I’d have given you the finger.
But since then Joel taught me it’s not polite. That snarling is not as good as talking. That there is fun in life. That there’s more to it than fear and worry.
That it’s okay to stumble, because he’ll be there to catch me. I owe him.
I wish he’d let me teach him a thing or two, as well. I wish he’d lower his walls and let me in, let me touch him in a different way.
Not that I think it will ever happen…
You’d think after coming three times in one evening I’d drop on the mattress and pass out in two seconds flat, that I’d sleep through fire alarms and air raids.
I thought so, too, but my brain won’t switch off. Okay, so bad sleep is not a shocker, not when it comes to me. I barely sleep on the best of days—but today was
one of those best days, so what gives?
It’s that I’m concerned about Candy taking off like that, I decide. Why did she panic? She knew the threesome was in the cards, and she’d just confessed to wanting it. She got off on it. Damn, she looked so hot as she came, first on my hand and then on Joel’s dick.
So why did she run away? Was it too much? Did we hurt her in any way? Did she change her mind?
Twisting on the bed, I lie on my back to stare at the ceiling. My cracked cell phone is on the bedside stand. I could text her. Call her. Ask her what happened.
But that’s pushing, right? Like, if she wants to talk about it, maybe she will come to me. Maybe I should wait, give her time.
I’m also concerned about Joel, although he’s right next door, snoring softly into his pillow. Did I push him too hard again? Did he buy my this-is-just-sex-and-nothing-more-to-me act?
Does he even care?
Fuck, no, I’m not going into this. As if my brain needs any more fuel, any more shit to grapple with. Insomnia is a fact of my life, and this is making it worse.
I grab my drawing pad from the bedside table, thinking to work on the comic I’m creating with Joel’s story ideas. That usually relaxes me. I flick through the pages, smudging my fingers with black. They’re shaking.
I drop the pad on the stand and sigh. A breeze is coming through my open window. With a frustrated sigh, I get up and pad over to look outside.
