Total pages in book: 120
Estimated words: 114211 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 571(@200wpm)___ 457(@250wpm)___ 381(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 114211 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 571(@200wpm)___ 457(@250wpm)___ 381(@300wpm)
That irritated, hungry, nothing-is-enough glint in his eyes.
I’m not even jerking my cock all that fast inside my briefs, but it’s coming, and it’s coming fast, the edge, rushing toward me with the intensity I’m imagining in Bridger’s eyes.
Want me to try stuff out on you? I hear his voice again, but the words have reversed.
“Yeah,” I grunt into the darkness of the room, into the silence that’s filled only by the swishing noise of my fist inside my tight underwear, and the cock slowly being choked to death. “I want you to … t-try stuff out on me. Gimme your worst.”
Want me to fuck you senseless, Anthony?
Whenever he says my name. Even when it’s said angrily. Even when I could put money down that he hates my guts from here to the ends of every country road leading outta this dusty town.
His sweaty body tensing with every pump of his dick into that poor guy he’s got bent over his bed, clutching him tight, fucking him without relent.
It’s not just his strength. It’s his rule-abiding discipline. His unwavering commitment. His current charge: fucking. His current mission: fucking. His entire world and everything he is doggone worth is doggone fucking.
And he will perform his duty perfectly.
The guy he’s fucking senseless suppresses a whimper, claws at the sheets, then turns his sweat-drenched head.
It’s me.
I shoot my load so hard that I stop jerking entirely, and while my eyes and mouth fly open, I squeeze my dick and feel it ejecting every last ounce of my frustration inside my briefs, sticky and warm and gushing with no end in sight.
Every single shot is his kiss again.
Every squeeze of my dick, an embrace of his possessive arms.
Every wave that courses through me like an electric current, his eyes as they blaze with anger at me.
What’re you running from? His stern voice, one more time.
I collapse back on the couch, spent, hand stuffed in my briefs, staring up at the whirring ceiling fan while catching my breath.
What the hell are you doing to me, Bridger?
17
BRIDGER
I don’t know if I’m getting any sleep tonight.
I turn one way on the couch and every beat of my heart feels like Anthony’s breath on my cheeks again as we kissed.
I turn the other way and I feel his weight on my lap again.
I turn onto my stomach and my steel-hard dick keeps flexing and pushing into the mattress like I’m trying to fuck a hole into it.
I shouldn’t be the answer to that guy’s sexual identity crisis. I’m not just a toy for him to yank and pull on until he’s satisfied and figured out the blaring obvious: that he likes men.
The question is, does he even like me?
Or is it just that I’m the man who happens to be there?
Aren’t I worth more than that? Don’t I deserve someone who won’t just toss me aside because he’s freaked out?
But every time I think about his sweet blue eyes, picturing the panic that pulses in them every time he looks at me, even when he tries to hide it, I’m reeled right back into his trap.
I care about him.
I relate to his sense of loss in a way I can’t put into words. Like I’ve emotionally been to the rocky bottom he’s calling home right now. And even if it’s wrong to let myself be used, I can’t stand the thought of just leaving him to his own devices, letting the guy freak out and suffer all on his own.
Maybe it’s my sense of duty that has me hesitating every time I tell myself no more with that guy. I want to protect him. To make him feel good. To help him find a sense of stability in his life that he’s been lacking for who knows how long. Forever, according to Trey and Cody. Every time he’s on his feet, something sweeps by him in life and knocks him right back down.
He needs something strong to cling to, if just for a while.
Maybe something like me.
Someone dependable. Someone to confide in. Someone who’ll weather the storm of his self-discovery journey, even if it gets messy. I care about Anthony enough to endure him.
I just hope I actually can endure it.
Y’know, before I fuck a hole in this couch.
But the more I keep tossing and turning, opening my phone, closing it again, and stuffing my face into the pillow, I also can’t escape the fact that Anthony is sometimes too fucking much. It’s like wrangling in a hurricane, spending time with him. His mood swings. His irritability. He’s a monster one second, then kissing me tenderly on a park bench the next. I can’t keep up.
Who am I kidding, acting like I could be what he needs?
You’re driving me crazy, Anthony, even when you’re not here.
Ten minutes later, I’m upstairs. There’s still light coming from the crack under the guestroom door, so I give it a knock. A grunt from Pete tells me to come in. “Wondered if I could steal your charger,” I say, poking my head in and giving my phone a wiggle.