Page 1 of Rocking the Receiver (Austin Troopers)

CHAPTER 1

(I CAN’T GET NO) SATISFACTION

Elliot

Morning wood is the best. Well, it’s a promising start to the day and exactly what my body requires before I fuel it with a hearty breakfast.

“Damn right,” I murmur to myself.

I lazily yawn while extending my arms above my head, stretching my sleepy yet yearning body, and breathe in the light breeze entering through the French window that leads to a small balcony. The Rh?ne Valley is known for its hot and dry summer weather, but it’s been on the cooler side lately. As cool as my current mood, however that will surely derail when I face my surprise later today. At long last!

For now, I have all the time in the world and have no desire to jump out of bed to fetch said surprise myself. Actually, that’s a lie. As eager as I am for it, jacking off is the best way to start the day, and I pride myself on keeping my good mood in check.

“Damn right,” I repeat, my lips stretching into a content grin.

I point my toes like I used to when I did ballet as a kid, desperate to make them curl with the wicked ideas I have in mind.

My heart races in anticipation.

Who cares that I remain a permanent resident of the family estate until I depart for Austin next year. Who cares that my bedroom shares a wall with Tim’s? Who cares?

Thank goodness, my parents’ quarters are on the opposite side. Maybe I shouldn’t be so thankful, though. The jealous part of me wanted my big brother to get caught whenever he snuck girls inside his room, but the prodigal son always found workarounds to make his life easier. So easy… Some of us have to work twice as hard.

Sucking in a breath, I don’t hear a thing, although friends and family are arriving for his upcoming engagement party. I shake my head to chase Tim out of my head and focus on the task at hand. “Thank you, God, for this welcome reprieve,” I shout at the top of my lungs to verify my assumption. Nobody screams at me to shut the fuck up. Success!

Yelling at the top of my lungs is a stretch, though. My mouth feels like sandpaper from last night’s excesses. Partying. Singing. Drinking. My typical vacation regimen until the usual suspects are off to far-flung destinations, which will happen next week. Then, I’ll have ample time to myself to catch up with my intense football practice: American Football, that is. Not your typical French activity, but it might earn me a scholarship to a prestigious university, so I can’t complain. Football is a passion I share with my American mom, who was a die-hard 49ers fan, back in the day. Unfortunately, I’m well-aware that my focus has been off lately. I have no one to blame but myself. I usually employ strict discipline when it comes to football, but these last couple of weeks have been the exception to the rule.

“Soon, I’ll behave,” I tell myself. “Damn right!” I chuckle. I’m such a mess, but I know exactly why I’m not quite myself…

I sigh, then embrace the blessed silence of the household. Being the youngest of seven—and far from the quietest—enables me to enjoy this rare occurrence. I suspect they all left for the bike ride and didn’t dare wake me since I was out until the wee hours of the morning. I had to unleash the tension that’s been building since Tim broke the news two weeks ago.

Unabashed, I slide my hand under the covers. I’m not chasing a quick and messy release. No, no, no… My patience has paid off, and I’m celebrating the occasion; I’ll take the slower route and make my morning routine last longer. Teasing my chest. Closing my eyes. Twisting my nipples.

Call me boring if you want, but when it comes to certain things, I love my routine. I have my parents to thank for that. When we were kids, my mother insisted on daily bike rides. We’re no longer kids—aside from me—nevertheless, she has corralled my siblings and extended family into a morning ride. As for Dad, he claims that running the family’s winery estate demands routine. Looks like I had no choice, right?

That said, I only allow this natural tendency to apply when it comes to football and rubbing one out. And come, I do and will, especially today, considering how much my imagination loves to play variations of the same fantasy. My experience is limited, and after a few attempts, porn doesn’t cut it. It’s been three years, and I stay fixated on a person that I haven’t seen since I was a little kid. Sue me!

Is it genuine attraction? Teenage hormones? Inept obsession? I’ll soon find out.

I don’t even have social media to blame, but rather said older brother… well, half-brother if we’re being specific.

My pulse accelerates. Eventually, I reach down, grip my throbbing erection, and slowly tug on it. “Mmm…” Frustrated by my own restraint, I groan, keep stroking, keep pinching my balls, and keep embracing every single sensation.

So fucking good…

My brain short-circuits when filthy images take the forefront, and I worry my lower lip.

I’m on my knees, my caramel gaze caging his green eyes as he fucks my mouth. My filthy mouth waters, and my brain fast-forwards to him on all fours on my bed, his gorgeous face swiveled my way as I slam into him from behind. My rock-hard dick swells. We’re crying out each other’s names as his orgasm hits him like a tidal wave. He didn’t even touch himself, and I follow suit. My skin tickles.

Sweaty, I gasp for air, sitting on my hand until I nearly burst. This guy is going to be the death of me. I want him so fucking bad. Strike that, I need him… period. I’ll do anything to make him my first. The thought alone has my spine arching, and my heart hammers in my chest and I shoot my load across my abs. Sated, I pop my eyes open. “Holy shit, that was phenomenal.”

Then, I roll to the side of the bed, snatch some tissues from the box on my nightstand, and clean up.

Staring at the ceiling, I pant, incapable of evening my breathing. Hands splayed on my almost hairless chest, I manage to pace my hectic heartbeat by starting to count the beauty marks around my belly button that’s also surrounded by freckles.

“… Fifty-four, fifty-five, fifty-six…” My mouth is so parched that my throat itches. Covering my mouth with the crook of my arm, I cough, then bite my tongue to get some moisture, debating whether to stroll to my en suite bathroom for a sip of water.

Instead, I select to bask in my post-coital glow for a moment longer. Soon enough, the stickiness grosses me out, even though the smell of sex is enticing. “Come on, fucker, move it!”

Yes, I do speak to myself like a lunatic fairly often. I do enjoy the occasional silence, but it quickly freaks me out because I’m not used to it. Being alone unsettles me, so that helps to fill in the blanks. And it gets me closer to being Brad Pitt, well, at least when he plays the iconic Tyler Durden.

Reluctantly, I trudge to the bathroom, wait for the water to heat, and step into the shower. Once I close the glass door behind me, the warmth of the steam envelops me like a comforting blanket. “Man, this is exactly what I needed,” I murmur to myself, enjoying the citrus scent of my body wash. The hot water cascades over my stiff shoulders and down my back. Turning around, I finish washing away the sweat and dry cum. The steady rhythm of the water hitting the tiles is almost hypnotic, and I can feel my muscles beginning to relax.

I reach for the shampoo and squeeze a generous amount into my hand. “This stuff smells amazing!” I exclaim, inhaling the new fragrance from a fancier brand than the one I usually use. I wonder if Mom put it here by mistake or because she had enough of my smelly teenage self. Either way, I can’t complain, only notice that I’m hypersensitive this morning.

I massage the rich, foamy lather into my overgrown hair. Why didn’t I book a haircut to look my best for today? I scold myself, inwardly this time.

As I rinse myself off, I throw my head back to let the water stream over my face, then jerk myself off again for good measure. Can’t be too careful; it wouldn’t be polite to greet our guest with a boner, right? My parents raised me better than that. I’ll at least wait until I corner him to make my intentions known. I heave a half-growl/half-smirk at that, closing my eyes and reveling in the sensation. I milk my fist in less time than it takes me to take my next breath.

Talk about taking the edge off…

I wrap a towel around the waist and brush my teeth, and my mind instantly revisits my favorite topic. I’m on a roll, overthinking.

Your brother isn’t to blame or to thank for this infatuation, moron.

He was the one to bring his long-distance friendship to my attention—not mine especially, but you get the picture. Of course, he never fathomed the impact his stories would have on his much younger teenage brother, and I’ll skip over the pictures of his hot as fuck British friend.

How could I forget my fourteen-year-old self getting all verklempt at the view?

One look was all it took to steal my heart, or rather, talk to my dick in ways no one has before or since. That’s how I confirmed what I’ve felt all of these years without being able to put a word on it: I am gay. On top of being gay (pun intended!), I have a pretty accurate gaydar. It could have been useful in unearthing a high-school buddy to experiment with, but you see, my body and mind agree on one thing: We like older guys, at least one, who surely shares my interest in men.

“Not Daddy style older,” I hear myself say.

My friends and family cannot comprehend how important today is. They don’t have a clue about my orientation, and I intend on keeping it that way for the time being.

My chest rises and falls at the prospect of making the object of my desire surrender. Because he will, eventually.

I can’t believe this is finally happening. For real…

Must be why the name of my dirty little secret obsession escapes from my swollen lips in a barely audible whisper.

“Rupert Smith.”