Total pages in book: 152
Estimated words: 147051 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 735(@200wpm)___ 588(@250wpm)___ 490(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 147051 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 735(@200wpm)___ 588(@250wpm)___ 490(@300wpm)
It’s hitting home exactly what I’ve signed up for by asking to stay here. My brother I can deal with. His best friend is a whole different story—and the condo actually belongs to Tristan. When Flip was traded to the Terror, Toronto’s pro team, he was so excited about getting to play with his childhood best friend that he moved in with him, too.
“Lights off!” Tristan slurs.
The condo goes dark. There’s some shuffling and then an oof and a grunt. “Motherhumping shitbag. Baffrum leg on!” More stumbling around in the dark. More swearing. Something hits the floor with a loud bang. “Bathroom light on.” He enunciates each word slowly, with less slurring.
I stay in my coffin-style pose on the futon upstairs. He can’t see me from here. I’d prefer to defer my first interaction with Tristan in nearly a decade since he’s clearly shitfaced, and I’ve had a shit day.
I lie as still as possible and work on breathing quietly.
The fridge opens. “Fuck. I need t’order gro’ries.” The door falls closed. More rustling. More swearing. “Stupid shots. Ah, shit.”
I give in to curiosity and roll onto my stomach, peeking over the arm of the couch. Tristan’s standing at the island, half a jug of orange juice spilled across the counter, the puddle making its way to the edge. He yanks his shirt over his head and drops it on the spreading liquid, but instead of containing the mess, it drips onto his feet. He stumbles backward into the fridge.
I’m unable to appreciate his shirtless-ness before he grumbles more profanities and disappears. Not that I want to appreciate all those rippling muscles earned by countless hours on the ice. Because I don’t. Mostly.
The sound of water running filters up to the loft, along with Tristan’s colorful commentary about stupid orange juice, followed by something about glitter and too much perfume.
The water turns off, then turns on again a moment later. I roll off the couch to the floor, grimacing as my palms land in dirt, or crumbs, or who the hell knows what. This loft needs a serious bleaching. I stay low and crawl on my hands and knees to the railing. From here, I have an excellent view of most of the condo, including the bathroom. The door is wide open. The faucet isn’t running. Tristan is peeing. He lists to the right and grabs the edge of the vanity to keep from falling over and completely misses the toilet.
I hope there’s more than one bathroom in this place. Maybe my brother has his own. Crossing my fingers on that since he’s not known for his exceptional cleaning skills. Tristan swears and pulls an excessively long ream of toilet paper free to mop up the mess he made.
My phone buzzes from the couch. I scamper back into hiding and check it. Shit. Rob is texting. A second later, the phone buzzes with a call. I send it to voicemail and quickly set my phone to airplane mode.
When the sound of water hitting water ends, I expect Tristan to stumble-weave to his bedroom. But that doesn’t happen. Instead, a low groan filters up to the loft. The vaulted ceilings amplify the sound. I frown and close my eyes as I try to place the noises coming from the first floor.
“Ah fuck, yeah. So hard.”
My lids flip open. He can’t be… Can he?
I leave the protective cover of a gaming chair and peek through the bars of the railing again.
Oh, he totally is.
My breath catches and my heart stutters and then gallops.
Tristan is masturbating.
Vigorously.
Enthusiastically.
His head is bowed, eyes screwed tightly shut, brow furrowed, lip curled. I can’t see what’s happening below the waist, but his biceps flex and his arm moves at a furious pace. His broad back expands and contracts with each panted breath. He shifts, and suddenly I can see the goods.
And holy shit, is he packing a seriously huge cock.
Even in his massive fist, it’s impressive.
I should look away.
I should not be listening.
But I can’t pry my eyes away from the sight of Tristan jerking off with unparalleled zeal. Every muscle is tight and corded. A sheen of sweat covers his shoulders as his hand moves faster. God, he’s rough with himself. He groans, and his head rolls back on the next aggressive tug. He grunts out a low, “Fuck yeah,” and shifts so he’s standing in front of one of the sinks. There are two. His hips jerk, his strokes lose their rhythm, and he blows his load all over the vanity.
I clench below the waist. My skin is dewy, and my heart is slamming around in my chest. It’s not solely because of the refried beans anymore.
I just watched my brother’s best friend masturbate. And based on the way my body is humming with pent-up sexual energy, I liked it. A lot. Maybe that’s the vibe I was throwing out with my roommates. It might explain a few things—like why they wanted me to dress up as a pirate and join them in their sex-capades.