Page 14 of Winging It with You

Theo

Waterbury, Vermont

“I’m going to hop in the shower, if you don’t mind.”

I peel off my clothes, which are now awkwardly stiff and emitting a smell resembling a sour bar rag from the dried spilled milk, and turn the water on as hot as it can go, stepping into the shower’s spray before the water has a chance to warm up.

I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t been looking forward to this very moment all afternoon.

A moment to just shut my brain off.

Away from the cameras and Jo’s bossiness.

Even a moment away from Asher.

His apology meant a lot. Not that I needed it, but it was nice to know that deep down, he’s not the kind of guy to just unload on someone else—whether they deserve it or not—without feeling some semblance of remorse.

As soon as he pops up in my mind, my head instinctively swivels in the direction of the bathroom’s door.

In my haste to get under the water as quickly as possible, I realize I didn’t shut the bathroom door.

Like at all. Modesty has never been an issue for me.

Am I in the best shape of my life? Absolutely not.

I’ll never be one of those shredded gays deemed most valuable on Grindr or social media.

It’s taken a while, but I love my body just the way it is.

And unless one were sitting at the edge of the bed, staring directly into the oversize mirror hung above the low dresser across from it, which has a perfect view of the all-glass shower I’m currently fully nude in, my error with the door shouldn’t be an issue.

The now-scalding water feels incredible, and within seconds, I feel the tension in my body begin to loosen.

I massage the sweet-smelling soap across my skin.

Tilting my head from side to side, I make small circular motions at the base of my neck, trailing a hand over each tired shoulder.

As my hands glide over my stomach, Asher’s reflection catches my attention from across the room.

He appears to have plopped down on the floor and is leaning himself against the foot of the bed in some sort of attempt not to get the bed dirty—something I’m deeply appreciative of.

The tall glass shower door is already covered in a layer of thick condensation, so my view is pretty obstructed. Like looking through a camera lens unfocused, the general shape and outline of what I’m looking at is distinguishable. But the details? Not so much.

However, movement catches my eye. Is he…

No mames. Is he jerking off?

Steam billows from the heat of the water pouring down on me as I watch a blurred version of him in the mirror.

My breath catches in my throat, fearing that if I exhale, somehow he’ll know that I’m looking and my own personal show will be over before it really even started.

I feel like a voyeur in our hotel room, silently watching from a safe distance as the unsuspecting object of my wildest desires carries on with his business.

I shouldn’t be doing this but my cock throbs anyway.

There’s no question about it. Asher is definitely jerking off. He’s leaned his head back against the bed, his face turned upward as I watch his arm move up and down from behind the steamed glass. Slow and steady at times, more sporadic at others.

I definitely shouldn’t be touching myself to this.

But I can’t help it.

I quickly lose my battle of self-control and slide my hand down my wet body, grabbing my own cock and timing my movements to his.

My hand feels so damn good, and now that I think of it, I can’t recall the last time I got off. But cumming would literally solve all my problems right now, and sneaking a glance at Asher, it would appear he feels the same.

A choked-out moan nearly escapes my lips as I watch Asher bring his hand to his mouth, return it to his cock—an impressive one from my view at this distance—and resume his strokes, his head now slumped forward in pleasure.

Emboldened by the entire situation, I reach up, using my forearm to wipe the shower’s glass and create a peephole, hoping it doesn’t cause him to freeze.

Or stop.

Time feels like it has ceased to exist and if you told me I was somehow still breathing as I waited for some indication from Asher of whether this is okay, I wouldn’t believe you.

But after a painfully torturous moment, his expression—now in sharp clarity—darkens.

From across the room, his green eyes latch onto mine, a not-so-subtle signal for me to continue.

He’s like a siren calling to me from behind glass, his song begging me to fulfill whatever deliciously devious thoughts my sex-fueled brain can muster.

Talk about a plot twist.

Slowly, we each resume our movements, pleasuring ourselves like we have a million times before behind closed doors.

Watching Asher watch me just might be one of the sexiest moments I’ve ever accidentally stumbled upon.

I wipe the glass more than once, removing any and all condensation blocking his view.

I even angle my body in his direction so he knows without a shadow of a doubt that this—this moment and the one he’s getting me dangerously close to—is just for him.

I can feel myself reaching the point of no return.

We’re both furiously jerking off our own cocks, and if I were feeling any braver, I would wave him in to join me under the shower’s spray.

But I decide not to push my luck. Gripping myself tighter and tighter, I watch as Asher’s chest heaves, a silent cue he’s on the precipice of release.

He looks like a goddamn fever dream with his mesh athletic shorts—and, to my surprise, a black jockstrap twisted down around his thighs.

What I wouldn’t give to be between them.

Or have him between mine.

Higher and higher I climb as my dick begins to throb in my hand.

Fuck. I want this so bad. No, I fucking need this—the brain-scrambling, body-tingling numbness that only comes from an orgasm.

And it’s almost here. My breathing spikes as I watch him pump his cock over and over again, a mirror to my own frenzied movements.

Fuck. I’m about to blow and as my balls tighten and my breath catches in my throat, I have to grab the top of the shower door, bracing myself for what’s to come.

Asher’s body shudders as mine splinters apart.

He lifted the hem of his shirt just in time, taking it between clenched teeth.

Rope after rope of his thick load paints his exposed stomach in time with each well-practiced stroke, and my own coats the shower door right behind his in the most euphoric and needed of ways.

My mouth waters at the thought of tracing the lines of his mess with my tongue, lapping him up as he lays there panting.

Leaning my head against the shower wall, my wild breathing slowly returns to its usual cadence as I watch Asher get up from his spot against the bed, pull up his jock and shorts—expertly adjusting his still-hard cock up into his waistband—and step entirely out of view like I haven’t just watched one of those Sean Cody scenes I’ve had favorited for years come to life.

Worry over how this could complicate things starts to creep in, though, replacing the fading tingling sensation in my hands, my face, and every nerve ending in my body.

If some line was crossed, there’s no coming back from this.

/////////////

“Here,” I say, shoving Asher the grease-soaked paper bag containing a breakfast sandwich—a bacon, egg, and cheese on an everything bagel—from the only food option open at this hour.

“I grabbed you this.” Our flight boards in less than an hour, and the only detail I could get out of Arthur on the way to the airport is that we’re headed to South America.

Asher looks at me from his spot sprawled out on the terminal floor, exhaustion swirling behind his glasses. “I’m fine,” he murmurs.

After our mutual…festivities…last night, he completely closed himself off. Again. He’d tiptoed around me like some cringe-worthy changing of the guard after I cleaned up the mess I made in the shower, getting ready for bed and crawling in without a word and avoiding all eye contact.

“Come on, you should really eat something,” I insist, more forcefully this time. “I overheard Jo telling some of the crew we won’t have an opportunity to grab something when we land. Besides, how long has it been since you’ve had anything in your system?”

“You keeping tabs on me now, Fernandez?” Asher shoots back, a hint of a smile forming from the corner of his mouth.

“I believe that’s what boyfriends do, Bennett ,” I say, echoing his nickname of choice, which makes that smile of his fully appear.

I slide down the wall, claiming the spot on the floor next to him, our shoulders pressed against each other.

Part of me was worried he’d flinch at the sudden physical contact, but he doesn’t seem to mind.

Instead, he takes the bag from my outstretched hand, his glasses slipping down the bridge of his freckled nose as he opens it.

“You’ve been…quiet. Alarmingly so,” I add.

Asher picks at the bagel but doesn’t say anything.

“If this is about last night…If I made you uncomfortable or anything, I’m really sor…” But my words trail off when Asher speaks.

“You didn’t.”

His shortness leads me to believe he’s not entirely telling the truth. “Are you sure?” I prod. “You seem to be avoiding me.”

“If you haven’t noticed,” he says, bumping his thigh against mine.

“It’s kinda hard to avoid you.” I hate thinking I’m unavoidable.

Some big burden that’s just in everyone’s way, even unintentionally.

I’ve always been too much. Too loud or too impulsive.

I’m pretty sure I used to drive my abuela crazy by bouncing all over the house when I was younger, and once I was old enough to know better, I somehow figured out a way to channel the bubbly energy that came in waves into something a little more grounded.

Something that doesn’t make people leave.