Page 27 of Saving the Rain
Christ. I don’t want to be giving into this, but at the same time, what other choice is there. I’ll probably poke my own eye out by the morning if I don’t take care of this situation right now.
I silently grit my teeth in disgust, refusing to give an inch of space to the acknowledgment that part of today’s mental strain—in fact, the vast majority of how tightly wound I’ve been since arriving in Crimson Ridge—has been due to a certain blond-haired, golden-boy idiot.
As I run the soap over my chest and stomach, it’s fucking inevitable that my palm is gonna keep sliding further south.
Slamming one hand against the wall, my chin drops, and right before my eyes, the length of me swells as if on cue. My cock is full and hard, jutting out before I’ve even taken myself in hand. And from the very moment I wrap my fist around the shaft, I feel a shudder of relief roll straight to my toes.
I squeeze roughly, tugging from root to tip, while my jaw clenches so forcibly I’m in danger of hearing a crack.
This is a fucking joke. I don’t need to be popping random boners and having sudden urges to jerk off, all because of a guy I can’t stand being around. It makes no sense to me why this intense frustration is giving my dick a reason to be swollen and hard as stone. Staring back at me, the world’s most inconvenient erection thickens beneath my fingers.
As I stroke myself, rapid and firm, I’m not in the mood to drag this out. Whatever bullshit hornyness is afflicting me, I’m of a one track mind, needing to deal with it as fast as possible.
My eyelids grow heavy as the intense pleasure builds low in my stomach. That same heated, coiled feeling from earlier on, the sensation that hung around in that spot all day, roars to life. Wholly unwanted. Completely unbidden. With each shuttle of my fist, pressure winds tighter at the base of my spine. My stomach muscles bunch, and my balls tingle.
“Fuck. You.” I grunt out loud. The words hissing, spitting into the stream of water.
And it’s the worst goddamn thing in the world, because I can’t stop the torrent coming at me fast and hard. I can’t slow my strokes. With each tug and squeeze, the image grows more vivid. Blue eyes flash, staring up at me. Flushed lips hang parted, obediently waiting. A strong hand threads through short strands of hair as my cock sinks into that hot mouth, and I fuckinggroan. It’s my hand holding tight to the figure on their knees for me. It’s my tattoos and my fingers that curl to yank that blond hair until I hear the soft little masculine whimper of pleasure in response to my command.
They take every inch and moan with delight when I hold them there for me to use. Hips driving in and out, I fuck that willing mouth and it’s total bliss.
“Unnghhh. Ffffuuck.”
Cursing violently over and over, my dick erupts, shooting ribbons onto the shower wall, coating my fist in cum. The blinding force of my cock pulsing and kicking catches me by surprise. A throbbing, agonizing release that goes on longer than it has any goddamn right to.
I’m reduced to a panting mess, heart thundering against my ribcage.
And I fucking hate it.
I’m pissed as all hell at my stupid brain for getting off tothoseimages, of mixing up memories of other guys with my present day reality. There are any number of past hookups I could have fixated on. Jesus, even a fistful of poker-straight red hair clenched in my grip andplush lips would’ve done just fine. It wouldn’t require much imagination to know what that would have looked like if I’d taken her up on the offer to blow me in the back of my truck.
I don’t have any interest in figuring out how or why those details invaded my thoughts. I’ve been with blond haired and blue eyed dudes before. Sure, at some point, I’ve had a guy younger than me begging me to take his mouth. Someone somewhere would’ve had a catalog of similar features.
A random, jumbled memory. That’s all it was.
Nothing more.
Chapter 11
Another ten minutes and we’ll be arriving at today’s competition venue. This is part of our home rodeo circuit, and provides one of the best opportunities for the likes of Chaos and myself to enter and not have to spend a crap load of time or money on travel.
No one tells you when you first get into rodeo that some of your biggest lessons will come in the form of boring shit like budgeting. Learning how to manage your expenses, particularly in the early days—what gear to borrow rather than buy outright, what essentials you need to invest in owning yourself—and how to balance entering events with the goal of winning prize money while still working.
It’s all well and good for those who break into the top of the top. When you’re finally breathing the rarified air of arenas where life-changing cash waits on the table every time you exit the bucking chute. But the reality for cowboys like us is that we’re laying everything on the line during an eight-second ride, all while doing our best to stack events back to back where possible. A simple, but effective way to avoid the inevitable red line of expenses creeping higher. That’s why Chaos and I will share a vehicle, split fuel, and buddy up as much as possible. It makes doing this financially viable, whereas if you’re doing it alone, you’ve gotta have deep pockets to line that path.
Guys like me certainly don’t have that at our disposal.
That’s probably one reason why it stung even deeper when I first got started and knew that Raine was in the position where we could have done this together. We were competing at the same events, entering at the same time, traveling to and from the same location.
Yet, the asshole didn’t want to have anything to do with me.
My knee bounces as Chaos drums his fingers on the wheel. We know each other’s routines inside out and upside down these days. Once we get close to the arena like this, our focus starts to dial in. Minute by minute, the belt cinches tighter on our thoughts and words, and even though we might have spent several hours talking shit while driving—this is where it gets serious.
We might be friends, but we also know the competition is fierce. Ultimately, one of us is going to walk away today a winner, while the other won’t get so lucky.
It pushes the two of us. Professional athletes say it time and time again, that they’re only as successful as their opposition drives them to be during their careers. The greats are made that way by the fires they go through in order to climb to the top. I’m thankful to have him by my side, forcing me to bebetterat every turn.
My phone vibrates in my hand, and I flip it over, expecting to see a message from Brad or the competition organizers. Instead, this particular text is the last fucking thing I need right now.