Page 10 of Man On

"Don't look at me like that," he growls out.

"Look at you how? Like you're a fucking liar?"

"What would you know about it? You're the one who hasn't kept a girlfriend for more than a few weeks. Sounds like you're jealous."

"Does Maci know she's your beard?"

“Noah, for the last time. I'm. Not. Gay."

"Sure you're not," I say, turning around to open the refrigerator. I bend over at the waist, sticking my ass in the air and pretending to look through the contents of the fridge before grabbing a soda from the top shelf. I feign innocence as I shut the fridge, pop the can open, and take a long swig.

"What is wrong with you?" Lane asks, his tone and expression laced with disdain clearly directed at me. "Put some damn clothes on. We're going to be late."

I shrug and lean back against the counter, leisurely taking sips of my drink. Honestly, I didn’t even come in here wanting one, but I know how much he hates them.

“Let me guess, you’re skipping?”

Why he thinks I’m interested in doing these stupid pre-graduation meetups is beyond me. I plan to show up, get my diploma, and run out of there faster than I can score on a breakaway.

“You went to the athlete’s breakfast.”

“Because you weren’t there. And Miah bribed me. Are you going to bribe me, Lane?”

He raises an angry, unimpressed eyebrow, knowing exactly what I'm insinuating.

"You need Jesus."

He doesn't believe I'm actually interested in him that way. It drives me absolutely insane that he refuses to acknowledge who he is, so I like to push the envelope to get him to admit he wants my cock. Instead, he parades around here with a fake smile on his face, feigning perfection, and dragging poor Maci along with him so he can pretend he's into her and not dudes.

It’s not that I have any issues with Lane being gay. Hell, I don’t really believe anyone is one hundred percent straight. I don’t give a single flying fuck what he wants to do with his dick, but the way he parades around like something he’s not makes my brain short circuit. Ever since that night I forced him to jerk himself, we’ve been locked in a game of tug-of-war. He plays along until he’s so stressed that the anxiety is leaking out of his pores, and then I force him to relieve the pressure.

That night changed how Lane and I interact with each other. He lives in fear of me telling the secret that he refuses to admit to even himself. And I live to knock him down a peg. I show up when and where he least expects it, and he whips out his dick and jerks himself at my instruction. He gets weird after, but I'm pretty sure he relies on me to push him into doing it just so he can get the release without feeling guilty. I think there’s a part of him that likes submitting to me. I imagine it's a relief to have even a few minutes where you can stop pretending and just feel whatever you want to feel.

Imagine not even being able to jerk yourself off. Geesh.

Sometimes I tell him how fast or slow to stroke himself. I stare into his eyes the entire time, daring him to look away from me. He never does, though. He never looks away. He looks afraid, and ashamed, and like he hates me more than any other person on earth. Sometimes I think he looks grateful. But he never, ever looks away, no matter what. Admittedly, it’s a bit of a power trip. But it’s nothing he doesn’t deserve, for being such a closeted, rigid prick.

"I might go for a blow job."

"Fuck off, Noah."

"Language, sir! And on a Sunday!" I clutch my imaginary pearls before reaching down and scratching an imaginary itch right above the waistband to my underwear. Lane's eyes dart to the movement, then down, and then away before he rushes out of the house. My laughter follows him, until I hear the rev of the engine and remember that I won't be able to go anywhere until he gets back since our parents make us share a vehicle.

Sigh. I suppose I can always call Miah.

I wait until I'm in the shower before I acknowledge my hard-on. I don't know what it is about Lane's nervous behavior that makes me hard. Never once have I let on or made the mistake of getting close enough for him to find out. I don't quite understand it myself. I'm probably some kind of sadist. Or maybe I'm broken, just like Lane says I am.

My phone chimes, and I look down at a message from my best friend.

Miah: Pickup game in the park, half an hour?

Noah: Sounds like exactly what I need. Can you pick me up on the way?

Miah: NP

Miah: Is Lane not coming?

Noah: No.

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