Page 37 of Ten Hammers

I mean, it still functions, thank God. I’m hard again just thinking about this morning. But as I blew my load, I found myself wondering for the first time if it’s anatomically possible to pull it off.

I grab my phone. It’s well after midnight. Winnie hasn’t responded to any of my messages, though she has seen them. I pull up the group chat I have with my brothers. At one point, she was in it too, but then she was like I can’t with you guys talking about roof shingles and farts. And that was that.

Any of you heard from Win? I ask.

Jack replies immediately: She said she needs space. Leave her alone.

Prick.

Gunnar responds after a couple minutes: Don’t tell us what to do, douchebag.

That was for Jack.

Nothing from her, G.

No one else reads our exchange or chimes in. So either they’re all asleep or choking the chicken. Otherwise, they, too, would be semi-obsessively checking for any word from Win.

I smirk. Jack is probably pacing his room, checking the time on his phone obsessively, and my twin is definitely off with Deez, writing her a love song.

I can stare up at the ceiling, testing my self-control. Try to keep myself from winding up in one of those if-you-have-an-erection-that-lasts-four-hours scenarios that’ll result in an ER visit because Winnie Wainwright is walking Viagra. Or I can go for a run and try to burn off some of this pent-up energy.

Deciding on the latter, I throw on some clothes and head downstairs. I grab my water bottle from the fridge on my way to the front door.

Slipping out into the night, I begin stretching on the porch. After letting loose so many times, you’d think my body would be nice and relaxed, but nope. My neck and left arm are particularly tense.

A throat clears nearby.

The instant flood of warmth through my body at the realization of her presence hits my heart harder than my dick. But it definitely hits my dick.

I glance around and squint. There’s no moon. It’s dark as fuck out. But I can make out her silhouette, in one of the rocking chairs further down the porch.

At least I think the dark lump is Win, with her knees pulled up and her arms locked around them.

“I didn’t know you were back,” I say.

The lump moves. Definitely her. I want to go to her, but I know my lower half isn’t ready, so I move into another stretch position, one that will hide the bulge in case the sliver of moon is shining too generously upon me.

“How long have you been sitting out here?”

“A while.”

I don’t hear tears in her voice, so I don’t think she’s been crying. “You alright?”

“Mm-hmm. What are you doing up so late?”

“I’m heading out for a run to try and stop myself from masturbating to death.” I shift positions, and this time my bulge isn’t quite as hidden as before.

She bursts out laughing, the sound ringing out through the silent night, and making me grin. I love making her laugh.

“You asked,” I tell her.

“That I did.”

“Want some company?”

“I mean, not if it’s going to end with you masturbating to death in one of Anna’s beloved rocking chairs.”

A soft breeze carries that damn intoxicating strawberry scent of hers over to me and I have to force myself to push away the new wave of thoughts in my mind that are a hell of a lot more interesting than masturbating alone in one of those rocking chairs.

---