Page 46

The fourth button is halfway down the fly, and falls right at the band of Sterling’s little black silk thong.

When you’d watched him getting dressed, you’d wondered if they were girls’ panties.

Now, the thought excites you more than it ought to, those flimsy, slutty little drawers barely covering his dick.

You know that they have to be skimpy to keep from making lines under the pants— everything’s about the stupid pants—but you now like to imagine they are for ease of access.

You slip the button out, and run your hand over the bulge between his legs.

Unsurprisingly, he’s not completely flaccid, his cock chubbing up slightly at this weird, hot interaction you’re having.

“Don’t,” he says. “I won’t be able to pee.”

“Wouldn’t want that,” you agree, and pull your hand away.

You aren’t sure if that was a yes -no or a no -no, and it isn’t in your nature to skirt the line.

Sterling looks both uncomfortable and put-out.

His teeth are going to leave an indent in his plush lower lip.

Your own dick is starting to take an interest in the goings-on.

“How badly do you need to piss?” you ask, the vulgarity surprising even you.

Technically, Sterling’s pants are unbuttoned far enough that he could get himself out and use the toilet.

Those last three buttons stand between the two of you and god only knows what, however, and it’s a line that he won’t cross.

He shifts his weight, and the tailored pants shift, too.

You gaze up at the vee of his chest that’s exposed by his open shirt.

At the chain around his neck, begging to be pulled like a choke collar.

“Pretty badly,” he murmurs.

You don’t move from the floor, despite the fact that the grout lines between the tiles are starting to dig into your knee.

“In college,” you say, “when we’d been drinking a lot of booze, they called it breaking the seal. You tried not to break the seal that first time, to put off pissing for as long as you could, because, once you went, you were gonna be back in the bathroom every five minutes.”

Sterling swallows visibly. “Is that true?”

You push his shirt up from where it’s tucked into his pants, and rub your thumb over the little patch of his lower belly.

Where his bladder is. Not pushing, just rubbing.

There’s invisible fuzz beneath your thumb where his hair is starting to grow back.

One of these days, you’re going to work up the nerve to tell him to stop waxing it, that body hair is masculine and hot.

But not right now. Right now is for troubling that tiny square of skin, teasing the band of his girly little panties.

“Couldn’t tell you,” you shrug. “They don’t cover that in exercise science.”

“Are you going to finish unbuttoning my pants?” he asks, a whiny edge to his voice.

You don’t look up. “Eventually.”

“I really need to go,” he says.

“You can hold it.”

He huffs a little breath through his nose.

To be sweet, you unbutton Number Five. Then you lean in and replace your nose where your thumb was, just running it over his skin.

You can’t help the fact that it puts your mouth right at a level with his cock, which jerks under the heat of your breath.

You can smell him; the expensive cologne and the secret, musky scent of his skin.

“Stop,” he groans. “You’re making me hard.”

You pull back a bit and frame his hips with your hands. “Do you actually want me to stop? Or are you just bitching?”

“If I’m bitching,” he complains, “it’s because I need to use the toilet. C’mon, Kai.”

“Not a no -no,” you murmur, nosing his skin again. “Thought so.”

You don’t move your hands from his hips, holding him in place. You think you see one of his shiny, white shoes do a little shuffle-step.

“Kai…” he repeats.

“You’re being rude,” you mutter offhandedly.

That gets his attention. “What?”

“Rude,” you repeat. “I’m doing you a favor, and you’re rushing me? Where are the manners? Come to think of it, I don’t even recall hearing a ‘please.’”

“Of course I said ‘please,’” he protests .

“Nope.” When you shake your head, you part your lips, letting the mugginess of your mouth wash over Sterling’s clothed cock. It’s at about half-mast now, the rosy tip threatening to escape the thong. “You didn’t.”

There’s a beat in which Sterling is dumbfounded. You can almost hear the moment when his slightly torpid brain makes the connection. He puts his hands on your shoulders, and you are ready for him to push you away, but instead, he digs his fingers into the meat of your traps.

“Please,” he says.

You look up again. Sterling’s face is a little pink.

Is he embarrassed? Flushed? Turned on? Whatever it is, it’s a good look on him.

His hair, side-parted and falling over his brow, is still perfect.

His lower lip is red and puffy from where he was chewing on it earlier.

Deliberately, you hold his gaze. Summoning acting skills that you don’t really possess, you fix your sternest expression on your own features.

“Like you mean it,” you growl.

He gulps wetly. “Please, Kai. Please unbutton my pants. You are such a good boyfriend to help me out. I’ll do anything you want. Please. Please be nice to me.”

You laugh. Unable to help yourself, you run just the tip of your tongue over Sterling’s panties, tasting dry silk and victory. But you aren’t inherently sadistic, just playing a game. So you undo his last two buttons and even part the flies of the pants for him.

“You need me to hold your dick for you, too?” you ask, joking as you get up from the floor. You are fully intending to leave the bathroom and wait in the green room. But Sterling’s face goes muzzy-happy, like he’s caught in the crosshairs of horny and delighted surprise.

“Yeah,” he breathes.

It’s your turn to be dumbfounded. “Come again?”

“Will you?” he asks.

You sigh the long-suffering sigh of put-upon boyfriends of superstars everywhere who just asked you to aim their cocks for them while they piss.

One of these days, this man is going to do you in.

The request is veering a little close to a kink that isn’t your particular thing, but it’s not like he’s asking to give you a golden shower.

Without answering, you take a step toward the toilet and push the seat up. Sterling comes over, holding onto his pants so they don’t slip off his hips. He widens the stance of his feet, and stands in front of the bowl.

This is something you’ve never done before, but you figure that it can’t be that different from doing it to yourself.

Worst case scenario, you have to mop up the floor afterward.

From behind, Sterling’s hair smells like product and shampoo.

You resist the urge to bury your face in it.

Instead, you tilt your head down and tuck your chin atop his shoulder.

You put one hand on Sterling’s waist, like you need to steady him.

With the other, you reach into his briefs and pull out his dick.

It’s mostly hard, despite his protests. This ain’t your circus and ain’t your monkeys, but you swipe two fingers over the slit of his cock anyway.

With your big hand around the shaft, you angle his dick towards the bowl. The moment hangs heavy in the air.

He sighs when he starts to pee, like he’s surprised.

You aren’t—you know from experience that, if a man needs to go badly enough, it’s mind over matter when it comes to erections—and your hand is steady.

Sterling squares his hips, doing some of the aiming for you.

The stream of urine is strong and loud, echoing through the quiet room.

Amplifying the feeling that you are doing something illicit.

His whole body shivers once, quickly, in relief.

It goes on for a while, the pissing. He clearly wasn’t kidding about needing to go.

Sterling is breathing loud enough to hear as well as feel with the press of his body against yours.

You look at the wall, and you look at the wall, and you look at the wall, and then you look down.

At your hand on his half-stiff dick; the pee splashing the bowl.

The stream loses its arc, slows, and finally cuts off.

When he’s finished, you shake him dry. But you don’t move your hand.

Or, rather, you don’t move it away —it’s moving, all right, clenching and pulling Sterling’s cock.

Like you want to milk the last drops out.

Or, honestly, like you’re jerking him off.

“Oh, God,” Sterling whispers. You’re hard against his lower back, but you aren’t doing anything about it. You are moving your wrist, getting a good grip on his foreskin and establishing a consistent rhythm.

“I know,” you mumble. You really don’t know, don’t know what any of this is.

But it’s him , so it’s sexy, and it’s all okay.

It’s so okay that Sterling is rolling his head back against you, so okay that his cock is hot and hard and dribbling pre-cum already, so okay that you are sliding your other hand down the back of his pants and groping his perky ass as you fist his dick.

Sterling’s making pornographic noises, aching, delicious little moans that sound helpless.

Thank god there’s a closed door and a green room with another closed door between you guys and the corridor.

It’s unlikely that anyone would wander by, but they could.

The backstage door was unlocked. A well-meaning member of the DJ’s crew, or a cater waiter, or an errant guest could come down the hall and hear the birthday boy’s choked cries.

Sterling Grayson, the biggest star in the world, getting his dick stroked in a bathroom. He’s being loud.