Page 54

For reference, it’s maybe sixty degrees outside, and the house isn’t much warmer.

To your thin Floridian blood, it’s more than chilly.

But you can make do. You slide yourself under the sheets and duvet, propping your back against the headboard, and encourage Sterling to lay his head on your lap.

His body is bare atop the covers, and you can keep an eye on him like this.

You don’t waste time asking him what he wants to watch on TV.

You just put on The History Channel, where a documentary on World War II is playing.

Predictably, it’s very dull and features a lot of black-and-white photo stills.

Just what you were hoping for. Sterling doesn’t complain.

Finally, you can let your eyes unfocus and zone out a little.

If you had known that Ster was going to overindulge, you wouldn’t have also had a brownie.

It’s not that you can’t handle yourself under the influence, but even people with steel tolerance have their limits.

There’s no point trying to be cranky at Sterling for not listening to you about restraining himself, so you don’t bother.

You vibe a little, watching the footage of old bombers and uniformed soldiers, and undo Sterling’s hair from its elastic.

Un-plait his braid with one hand, enjoying the way your fingers card through the waves left behind.

Whatever detergent the housekeeper uses smells amazing; the sheets are giving off whiffs of lavender and soap.

Head on your thigh, Sterling occupies himself with methodically stroking your blanket-covered shins.

Petting you like a cat. Honestly, as long as he’s focusing on something other than the noise in his head, you’re good.

Maybe you doze a little. You’ve reached the point in your high when you’re sleepy. Party’s over; time to crash.

You don’t wake up so much as regain awareness. You’re still sitting up in bed. Beside you, your phone flashes 4:17 AM. The TV channel has switched over to Ancient Aliens, an episode about the Nazca Lines. It takes a moment of re-orienting yourself to realize what disturbed you.

Sterling is fidgeting. Quill’s teachers in elementary school used to tell your mom that he had ants in his pants and, nonsensically, that’s what you think of.

At first, you imagine that maybe he’s having a bad dream brought on by being high as fuck.

You put a hand on his shoulder, and he’s fever-hot.

But not sick. Trying to get comfortable.

You look down his body and see the cause.

“Shit, Ster,” you say. Your voice comes out deep from sleepiness, rumbling with surprise. “I didn’t know that conspiracy theories did it for you like that. ”

He groans low in his throat and rolls onto his stomach, hiding his raging erection. Or, rather, grinding it against the bed. Jesus. While you were at the nice and sleepy stage of being high, Sterling pulled into the horny and restless station without telling you.

“Shit,” you comment. His curls are still all over your lap on top of the blankets. You tangle your fingers in the ends, since your tactile fixation with his hair knows no bounds, and you’re not even pulling. But he’s butting against your hand. Begging for attention.

“I didn’t know you could get this turned on, being stoned,” he mumbles.

You wind a lock around your finger. “Something about THC and dopamine. They didn’t cover that one in exercise science, either.” You can’t help the yawn that nearly splits your face in half. “Why don’t you get under the covers and sleep it off?”

He looks up at you. In the light from the TV, his blue eyes are dark in a way that has nothing to do with the hour. “Why don’t you do something about it?”

The directness of the request sends a blunt shock up your back and almost makes you tighten your hand in his hair. You have to pause a moment, but you restrain yourself .

“Nah, baby,” you say. “Not when you’re like this. If you still wanna put your money where your mouth is in about eight hours, after we’ve slept some, I’d be happy to take you up on that.”

“When I’m like what?” Bless the man, he looks honestly confused. “Don’t you want me? I want you.”

“Wanting you is one hundred percent not the issue,” you tell him gently. “You’re fucked up. Wouldn’t be okay to start anything now. You aren’t thinking right.”

His mouth falls open a little. He licks his lips with his pink tongue. “You aren’t starting anything. I’m the one starting it. And you’re right, I’m not thinking… right. My brain’s all cottony. But… you gotta do something, Kai. I’m so damn horny.”

Subtly, carefully, you shift your hips backwards. You aren’t fully sure, but you think that your stupid dick is reacting to his words. Better not to chance him realizing it. “I can see that you are. I’m sorry.”

“Can I go down on you?” He looks up at you with a truly pitiful expression. “You don’t have to do anything. I’ll just blow you and touch myself.”

Jesus has to be tempting you. That has to be it.

You’ve been awake for twenty-two hours, you are chemically impaired, and letting your stoned, gorgeous boyfriend suck your cock would be the path of least resistance.

But you didn’t make it this far in life as a professional athlete by being a weakling. So you shake your head.

“It’s not that it doesn’t sound nice,” you say carefully. “But, no. If you need to take care of yourself, that’s cool.”

He blinks slowly. “Like, get myself off? Right here, in bed with you?” It sounds desperate and hot, and, fuck . Some day in the near future, you are going to jerk yourself raw in the shower over the memory of this conversation. Maybe tomorrow, at this rate.

“Sure,” you say, trying to sound casual. It’s not like he’s never take himself in hand in front of you. Always as a prelude to or the conclusion of another act, but what’s a little masturbation among friends?

That’s apparently all the provocation that Sterling needs to push him over the edge, because he rolls back over.

Keeping his head on your leg, he pulls his underwear down gracelessly.

His cock springs out, hot and hard, his foreskin rolled back and the pink tip glistening with wetness.

With his lower lip between his teeth, he wastes no time.

He cups his balls, stroking them with one hand, while the other moves over his shaft.

A high, relieved little moan rolls out of him like he can’t help it.

You are… affected. Beneath the th ick lip of the duvet and sheets, your own dick is starting to push against the front of your boxer briefs.

You tense the muscles in your thighs, willing the unwanted hard-on to subside.

This is neither the time nor place. You are a grown-ass man, you tell yourself.

You don’t even have to watch your hot-mess lover touch himself in front of you.

There are aliens on the TV. Nobody’s forcing you to look down.

It’s an exercise in ridiculous self-control, keeping your eyes glued to the pseudo-scientists talking about Peruvian geoglyphs, the grooves in the sand shaped like trees and lizards.

Despite your best efforts, you can’t process one thing going on.

The sound is on mute and the captions are turned on, but you’re too distracted to read.

The remote is by the bed; you could crank the volume.

But then you couldn’t hear Sterling. You may not be watching. But you are listening.

He’s making choked little moans, his breath fast and erratic.

Several times, you think he’s getting close, and you want to die in relief.

The sooner Sterling comes, the sooner you can go to sleep and forget about this situation.

But he doesn’t. Come, that is. It goes on for longer than it should.

Ten or fifteen minutes of panting, sighing, and the slutty sound of his dick-skin sliding over itself, his cock slapping his belly.

You want desperately to press your palm against your crotch, to relieve the aching between your legs. But you don’t. Just will him to finish.

“I can’t do it,” he whimpers.

“Can’t do what?” you ask, making the mistake of looking down.

Sterling, pent-up, is a sight to behold.

His hair’s everywhere, and there’s a red flush on his cheeks that’s spread all over his chest like someone finger-painted it there.

Skin licked with a sheen of sweat, his chest rises and falls.

And his cock. It’s vibrantly red and absolutely trickling pre-cum.

There’s a pool of it on his belly as he slowly fists his dick.

His lower lip is puffy from his teeth. He looks feral.

“I can’t come,” he says plaintively.

This, too, you remember from your earlier party days. Before you learned your limits. Getting high, getting horny, and being too stoned to climax.

“Are you sure you don’t want to try to rest?” You know it’s a futile question, but you need to ask, anyway.

A gaspy little complaint falls from between his lips. “Please, Kai. I know what you said. You aren’t taking advantage of me. I need you to touch me.”

“Ster…” you begin.

“Suck me. Fuck me. You can honestly do whatever you want. Please. I’m losing my fucking mind. I just need to be touched. ”

The hungry expression on his face matches his shameless words.

You’ve never seen Sterling so uninhibited.

Marijuana does that to some people. Which is the real Sterling Grayson?

The reserved one, who stays tightly inside his shell ninety-nine percent of the time, or this debauched creature begging you to use him?

The cogs in your head, made slower by the hour and the substances, are still turning on that question when Sterling sits up.

He’s steadier than you would have guessed.

Ass-naked, all hair and big eyes and long legs.

Before you can protest, he’s crawled onto your lap, facing you.

Oh, fuck.