Page 5 of The Good Student (Straight No More #2)
I DO MY best to avoid eye contact with anybody, praying the frat house is dark enough for my obvious erection to be a little less obvious as I rush toward a sliding glass door leading to the back porch. The cool glass against my palm as I slide it open feels like salvation.
I step outside just as two people walk in, slide the door closed and walk over to the railing and lean down. The night air hits my overheated skin like a blessing.
One, two, three long breaths that do nothing to calm me before I finally look up and around. I let out a shaky exhale of relief when I notice I'm alone. The distant sound of crickets and rustling leaves feels surreal after the pounding bass inside.
Thank fucking God.
I don't even know how to begin justifying my throbbing boner, sleep deprivation suddenly a laughable excuse. My dick seems to have developed a mind of its own, along with preferences I never knew about.
Fuck…What's happening to me?
I stand like that for a few minutes, trying to get my breathing under control, trying to wait out my boner. Asher's phantom words ricochet off my skull making the task impossible, each echo sending another jolt of heat through my body.
I jerk when I hear the door slide open behind me, music spilling from inside before quieting down again. The sound feels like a death sentence.
And although there's about fifty people inside and it could be anybody, I know exactly who just stepped out on the terrace to torment me further. It's apparent by the unhurriedness of heavy steps as they grow louder and louder until coming to a halt in a very, very close distance.
The wooden floorboards of the porch creak as Asher comes to a stop behind me. The sound seems to echo in the quiet night air, amplified by my heightened senses. Every hair on my body stands on end, like there's electricity crackling between us.
I turn around to face him, my fingers gripping the railing behind me. The motion brings us face to face, and the tension that's been building all night reaches a crescendo. The yard light catches the angles of Asher's face, casting shadows that make him look almost otherworldly.
He steps closer, so close I can count his eyelashes, can see the slight stubble on his jaw, can make out the different shades of brown in his irises. But our bodies still don't touch—the space between us charged like the air before a storm.
A gust of wind rustles through the trees, cooling my heated skin, making me shiver.
Or maybe it's not the wind at all. My body screams at me to close that infinitesimal gap between us, to finally discover if Asher's body is as warm as it looks, if his skin is as soft as I imagine.
My muscles twitch with the effort of holding back, and I catch myself swaying forward before jerking to a stop.
Something shifts in Asher's expression then—the heat in his eyes giving way to a spark of... amusement? He takes a step back, tilting his head as he studies my face. "Wait..."
My heart pounds against my ribs so hard I'm sure Asher must hear it. The sudden distance between us feels wrong somehow, like a vacuum that needs to be filled.
Asher's eyes narrow slightly as understanding dawns on his face. "You're straight, aren't you?"
"No!" The word bursts out of me before my brain can catch up with my mouth, sharp and defensive like Asher just insulted me.
Then my own response registers and my eyes drop to the wooden boards beneath my feet.
"I mean, yes." My voice comes out smaller now, uncertain.
Why did I say no first? Why did that feel like the natural response?
Asher's expression softens, and he raises his palms in a placating gesture, taking another step back. The movement creates more space between us—too much space—and I can see him preparing to speak, probably to end whatever this is.
Before he can say anything, before he can walk away and leave me alone with my confusion, my body moves of its own accord. I step forward, closing the distance between us again, though I still can't quite bring myself to initiate contact. My heart is trying to climb up my throat.
"If you're straight," Asher's voice is barely above a whisper now, "how come you're thinking about my dick?"
Heat floods my cheeks, and I'm grateful for the darkness. "I'm not," I manage, but the words sound weak even to my own ears.
"Too bad." Asher's lips curve into a small smile that makes my stomach flip. "I've been thinking about yours all night."
The last threads of my self-control unravel like a poorly knitted sweater.
My body moves before my mind can catch up, stepping forward until there's no space left between us.
The contact punches the air from my lungs—Asher's body is solid and warm against mine, all lean muscle and sharp angles that somehow fit against my frame like they were designed to slot together.
Asher's hard cock presses against mine through layers of clothing.
It's fucking surreal.
The sensation overwhelms me, scrambles my thoughts until I can't remember why I've been fighting this.
My hips stutter forward experimentally, and the friction pulls a sound from deep in my throat—something between a gasp and a moan that I've never heard myself make before.
My mind splinters into a thousand contradicting thoughts, each one vying for attention.
‘ This is wrong ’ crashes against ‘ God, yes, more ’ while ‘ what the fuck are you doing ’ dissolves into ‘ please don't let this stop ’.
The cacophony in my head grows louder with each roll of my hips, with each breath we share.
Asher's hands find their way to my hips, his fingers pressing into the flesh just above my hipbones.
The touch burns through the fabric of my jeans, anchoring me to this moment.
He guides our movements, setting a rhythm that has my toes curling in my shoes, and suddenly I can't remember why I ever thought this was something to resist.
My world narrows down to sensory input: the press of Asher's chest against mine with each inhale, the growing heat where our bodies connect, the subtle catch in Asher's breath when my movements align just right with his.
Each point of contact feels like a brand on my skin, marking me, changing me in ways I can't quite comprehend yet.
When Asher shifts his stance slightly, slotting our hips together at a new angle, my thoughts scatter like startled birds.
The increased friction on my leaking cock sends sparks of pleasure up my spine, and my fingers flex uselessly at my sides, uncertain where to land.
I settle for gripping Asher's biceps, feeling the muscles flex under my palms as he pulls me closer still.
Then he turns around in one fluid motion, bracing his forearms on the railing. The movement is deliberate, calculated, and my mouth goes dry as Asher arches his back, pressing his ass against my straining cock. The pressure is maddening—not enough and too much at the same time.
My hands hover in the air like lost birds, unsure where to land. My fingers twitch with the need to touch, to grab, to claim, but my mind still wrestles with the reality of wanting these things. Finally, they settle on Asher's hips, and the solid warmth under my palms grounds me in the moment.
The distinct sound of metal teeth separating slices through the quiet night.
My breath hitches as I watch Asher's hand disappear into his pants.
From my position behind him, I can see the way his shoulder moves, the rhythmic motion hypnotic in its steady pace.
His t-shirt pulls taut across his back with each stroke, the fabric thin enough that I can make out the play of muscles underneath.
The sight sends a fresh wave of desire coursing through me, hot and urgent. My cock throbs painfully against my zipper as my hips stutter forward of their own accord, seeking more friction. The movement makes Asher gasp—a small, breathy sound that hits me like a blow.
I find myself transfixed by the subtle tells of Asher's arousal: the way his breathing grows heavier, how his free hand grips the railing until his knuckles turn white, the slight tremor in his thighs. Each detail feeds into my own arousal, building pressure low in my gut.
I'm only vaguely aware of my surroundings—of the fact that, any second, one of the countless people milling inside can walk through the door and see—
Oh, the hell with that.
The knowledge of what Asher's doing—touching himself while pressed against me—feels too intoxicating. It's nothing like I've ever experienced before, nothing like I ever thought I'd want, and yet here I am, harder than steel and wanting more.
My movements grow desperate, my body chasing an unprecedented high. My fingers dig into Asher's hips hard enough to bruise as pleasure builds tighter in my gut. I'm close—mortifyingly close—when Asher's voice slices through my building arousal like a blade.
"Don't you dare come," his command comes out rough, almost guttural. He punctuates the warning with a particularly wicked roll of his hips that has me seeing stars. "If you're gonna come tonight," he continues, voice dripping with dark promise, "it'll be because of me."
The words make my cock jump. I want to protest—want to point out how unfair it is for Asher to deny me when I'm already so close—but my objections die in my throat as he spins around to face me.
Asher's fingers find my zipper with practiced ease.
The metallic sound seems obscenely loud in the quiet night, but I can barely hear it over the rush of blood in my ears.
My muscles lock up as Asher's warm hand wraps around my cock, drawing it out into the open air.
The contrast between the cool breeze and Asher's heated touch sends shivers racing down my spine.
Asher's other hand never stops moving on his own cock, his rhythm growing more erratic with each passing second. His eyes fix on my length like he's memorizing every detail, drinking in the sight of me.
A string of quiet curses falls from Asher's lips as his movements become uneven, desperate.
His face contorts in pleasure—eyes squeezed shut, bottom lip caught between his teeth—and I find myself mesmerized by the sight.
I've seen people come before, but never like this, never this close, never another man.
Asher comes with a broken groan that sounds like it's been punched out of him.
His come paints my cock in hot stripes, and the sight of it—of Asher marking me like this—nearly sends me tumbling over the edge myself.
My thighs quiver with the effort of holding back, and I have to dig my nails into my palms to maintain control.
The whole thing feels forbidden, filthy, and absolutely perfect.
When Asher's hand wraps tighter around my cock, the sensation is unlike anything I've ever experienced.
The slick warmth of his come coating my length should feel wrong, dirty, but instead it sends electricity coursing through my veins.
Each stroke of his hand threatens to undo me completely—the perfect pressure, the expert twist of his wrist on the upstroke, the way his thumb occasionally catches on the sensitive spot just below the head.
My teeth sink into my bottom lip, trying to contain the sounds threatening to spill out. My hips move of their own accord, pushing into Asher's grip, chasing more of that exquisite friction.
Asher's free hand finds its way to my hip, fingers pressing into the flesh there, steadying me. The touch feels possessive, claiming, and my mind reels at how much I like that.
"Look at you," he murmurs, his voice rough with something that might be appreciation. "Fucking gorgeous like this."
The praise makes my cock pulse in Asher's grip. I want to protest, want to maintain some semblance of control, but my body betrays me. My hips stutter forward, fucking into Asher's fist with increasing desperation.
The pleasure builds exponentially, a tide threatening to sweep me away. My muscles draw tight, heat pooling low in my gut, and I know I'm about to fall apart. Part of me wants to fight it, to prove I have more stamina than this, but Asher's next words shatter that resolve.
"Come for me."
The command, spoken in that velvet-rough voice, pushes me over the edge.
My orgasm hits me like a tsunami, washing away every thought, every reservation, every doubt.
My body convulses as waves of pleasure crash through me, each one more intense than the last. Stars explode behind my closed eyelids as my cock pulses in Asher's grip, painting both our hands with my release.
When the aftershocks finally subside, I find myself sagged against the railing, my legs trembling beneath me. My chest heaves as I try to pull air into my lungs, but breathing seems like a foreign concept right now.
Through the pleasant haze clouding my mind, I watch as Asher casually wipes his hand on a tissue produced from God knows where. With practiced efficiency, he tucks us both back into our pants, his movements quick and precise.
When he's done, he looks up at me through those ridiculous lashes of his. His lips curve into a smile that somehow manages to be both predatory and playful, and he throws me a wink that makes my spent cock give an interested twitch.
Then, without a word, he turns and saunters back toward the party. The door slides shut behind him with a soft click, leaving me alone with the crickets and my scattered thoughts.
Earlier tonight, when my brain had started entertaining the possibility of maybe, possibly, hypothetically kissing a guy, I never imagined I'd end up here—with another man's come on my dick, my own cum cooling on my stomach.