Page 55 of Swim To Me

Idive back into the book Delilah gave me on the tube ride home, pushing the jumble of thoughts to the back of my head, while the old carriages sway and I fight to stay standing, one hand gripping the pole in the jammed packed cars.

Out of the stuffy underground, my legs eat up the pavement, the morning sun beating down on me, until I duck into the air-conditioned entrance to my apartment. I nod politely to my doorman, who in turn greets me with a “Good morning, Mr Millen,” and then again to the woman behind the reception desk, before stepping into the glass elevator to take me up.

As the doors smoothly glide shut, I pluck my black key card from the depths of my wallet, and swipe the small, glossy rectangle through the slot until the upper floor button glows gold.

Home.

I read another few lines while I wait, folding down the corner of the page to bookmark my place when the elevator doors open, and I step onto my floor, unlock my door, and walk into my living room. It’s open plan, like Delilah’s, with marble and shades of chocolate brown and grey running throughout it. Abachelor pad I guess, seeing as I’m the only one living here, but I do like it to feel homey too.

I dump out my phone, keys, and wallet on the countertop, taking the book with me as I tread into my bedroom. I place Delilah’s beloved romance novel onto my bedside table, and grab a towel from my linen closet, heading straight to the shower.

It’s the thing which sold me most when I bought this apartment.

Spacious, twin sinks, a large jacuzzi bathtub, and a huge walk-in shower with multiple jets and heads. Pretty azure blue and mint green tiles run through the entire thing – floor to ceiling, wall to wall – giving the impression of being under the sea, somewhere else entirely.

I leave my clothes in a pile, switching the water to hot and allowing it to drip over me, head to toe, washing away the memories of this weekend even if I don’t want it too.

On autopilot, I grab my bodywash, scrubbing at my hair, the length of my body and then finally, stroke my quickly hardening cock as I bring the mental image of Delilah to the front of my mind.

She’s beneath me, tits bouncing, her lips parted while she stares up at me, wide eyed and placid. I fuck up into her, the grip of her pussy insane, my pubic bone grinding against her clit until she twitches and screams.

I inhale my bodywash scented steam, wishing it was Delilah’s perfume, wishing it was her much smaller, much softer hand gripping me. I’d show her exactly how I like to be touched, extra pressure on the thick vein running along the underside of my length, a squeeze of my base, my balls.

Spine tingling, I picture Delilah on her knees, that wicked little tongue sticking out, her tits pushed together, wet and soft, slippery and fuckable—

My mind whitens out when I come suddenly, spraying ropes of cum all over my tiles, until I sag back against the cold, glass door, my balls fucking milked dry.

Sated, at least for now, I turn off the shower, grab my towel and tie it around my waist. I throw on a clean pair of briefs, basketball shorts, a loose shirt and a backwards facing snapback cap, knotting the laces of my trainers, and then jogging back into the elevator to take me back downstairs.

I head down to the basement level, taking a sharp left towards the private gym. I key in my card, add two guests to my sign in form and then beeline straight away for the treadmill while I wait for at least one of my brothers to show up.

True to his word, Blake joins me with a brotherly slap on the back. Dressed similarly to me, he jumps on his own treadmill, turning the speed up to a mild jog.

“Why didn’t you show up to dinner on Sunday?”

I fucking knew those would be the first words from his lips. When Blake has plans, he expects everybody to stick to them, no matter what.

Staring straight ahead, I dare not glance over at my older brother because I know he’ll be able to sniff out my white lie. “Had stuff going on… I text Mum. She said it was fine.”

Blake hums, feet pounding on the treadmill. “A good weekend, though?”

If only he knew.

“Yeah.” I try to hold back my growing grin but fail. Miserably. So, I try a different tactic. “I was supposed to meet up with Hudson on Saturday night, at that speakeasy bar, you know the one? The one he’s always raving about? But he never showed, said he was busy…”

“Unsurprising,” Blake mutters under his breath but loud enough for me to hear it. Our youngest brother’s presence, or typical lack thereof, isn’t new. Hudson’s always been like it, alittle aloof, not fully here. Standoffish, or a bit of a loner, some might say.

“I invited him here, but I don’t know if he’ll show up. Just wish he would text, or something, let us know he’s alright—”

“I’m here.”

I turn to find Hudson behind me, a sheen of sweat already coating his forehead, a half-drunk bottle of water in his hand.

“Ran here,” he says in ways of explanation. “Are you two pussies warmed up enough to hit the weights?”

I cuff him around the head at the same time as hitting the stop button on the treadmill. Off to the side I can hear Blake with his, “I’ll show you what a fucking pussy looks like.”

Hudson smirks good naturedly, getting the exact reaction he was looking for. Some people might not understand, but that’s the way Hudson shows his love; snarky comments, a permanent smirk and sometimes a hug if he’s feeling particularly generous that day.

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