Page 57 of Wrath

A little tremor vibrates through him. His eyes are closed, his lips parted, his big chest pumping as he pants.

"Wake up, Miller." I lean up and nip his earlobe, grab onto his shoulders the way he does mine. When he doesn't sit up, I wrap my arms under his broad back and pull him up against me like a rag doll. His eyes are dazed and confused as they touch mine.

"Don't feel weird about it." I give him a fucked-up grin. "It looks like I'm pretty good at blow jobs."

I run a finger through his dark pubes, then stroke my hand up his hip.

"This was gay as fuck. I hope you’re happy. Go wash all this jizz off you."

He looks at me like I've grown a second head before he gets up off my bed and disappears into the bathroom. I lie back and squeeze my hand around my aching boner. I'm there in under a minute. Smirking to myself as I clean up with my shirt and then drape my arm over my eyes.

This is fucked up—I’ll admit it.

Is it wrong how much I love it?

Seventeen

Josh

We have a pattern. He skips homeroom. (I heard him tell Cara at lunch that he’s gotten permission to go over football footage with Coach Nix). Lunch, I sit at the usual table with Brennan, Marcel, and the rest, but I don’t get within three or four seats of Ezra. I make sure that I can hear him, but not too well. That I can see him, but only in my periphery.

Cara fawns all over him, and even though I’m pretty sure she’s trying to make James jealous, I don’t like the sight of it—so I try not to look their way. Mostly what comes through to me at lunch is his laugh. I don’t hear it often, but sometimes he lets one out, and it’s a really good sound. He looks happy at the lunchroom table. Like a hot, straight football player with a girlfriend.

I see him again in physics. That’s the best and worst part of my day. He’s close enough that I can’t help but look at him. When I glance down, I see his bare knee inches from mine. His quads have gotten thick and strong and tanned from being outside at practice. The more he lifts, the thicker his forearms aregetting—and more veiny. They’re always on the table, moving, flexing. His hands. I can feel the pattern of his breathing. Every time he shifts on his bar-stool seat, I get a little jolt. Sometime in the last week, we’ve reached an unspoken consensus: Try not to look at one another. My whole body sweats and prickles, but we rarely make eye contact.

Then it’s only glimpses of him outside on the practice fields. I get home before he does, since soccer ends before football. I shower first and head into my room to do homework and some bench press. He comes home and showers. Finally, my mom calls us to dinner, and it’s just the same as always, somehow.

I treat him like he’s annoying. He acts like he finds me quaint and amusing. There’s a lot of smirking. He eats everything my mother gives him, while I try to pick at my food. I don’t want him touching my stomach and not feeling six-pack abs like his.

After dinner, study more and I watch something in my bedroom. Usually ESPN. When my eyelids start feeling heavy, I make myself brush my teeth. Then I strip down to my boxer briefs and climb into my bed and wonder.

Will this be a night that Ezra wakes up screaming? I make myself hope it’s not. But almost every night, I wake to the sounds of him caught in a nightmare. I run to his room like Super Miller. Usually, he’s on his side, curled up and trembling, murmuring. I hold his shoulders, gently shaking him awake.

His bedside lamp is always on, so I can see his eyes wet when he opens them. I can see the fear on his face. Fear, or sometimes anger. I don’t know what’s in his head, what’s in the dreams, but I know he seems wrecked before he blanks his anguish off his face and dives for my dick.

These past few nights, he’s seemed more startled when he wakes up, breathing harder like he’s scared…and he’s been rougher. Likes to shove me, wrestle me onto my back, straddle my hips and squeeze me too hard. He’s started sleeping in a pair of loose, faded jeans, so I can’t fully see his erection. Maybe he believes I think there’s not one. But there is. I have eyes, and he’s got a bulge the whole time he messes with me.

He’s really good at it—so good that I’m damn near helpless when he starts up on me. He gets me off in minutes. And that’s the nights he doesn’t tease my asshole. Usually, he does. He licks back there or prods or tickles that spot between my balls and my hole. It makes me come harder and faster. When I come, he’s got a hand around my balls, a hand around my shaft, and usually his mouth is sucking on my head.

The sucking’s perfect.

He says mean shit between blowing me. Stuff that sort of bothers me, like, “That’s right, homo. Give me what you’ve got,” or “this dick creams just like a pussy.”

Sometimes he’s damn brutal with my balls. I’ve come once or twice in some level of pain—but the night it hurt the worst, he saw me cupping my nuts when it was over, and I’ve noticed that he hasn’t squeezed that hard again.

“Oh look, it’s the little gay boy,” he says one night as soon as I wake him up. This time, he was crying when I found him, and his eyes are still red and puffy as he pushes my briefs down my hips.

“What a perfect doll. A perfect dick and perfect balls.” He licks down my happy trail. “I like how you get those chills. Such a virgin.”

His mouth wrapped around my dick is heaven. His hand works me just the way I like, a little firm but not too tight, and lots of long, smooth, rhythmic strokes, with fingers teasing my balls and his tongue lapping my cockhead. I come fast and hard, sensation building in me then exploding in an inferno of pure bliss. Always blacks me out for half a second.

When I open my eyes, I find Ezra over me, his eyes hot but his face grave—the way it almost always is.

I lift my knee, wanting to rub between his legs and feel where I know he’s hard, too. But he sits back on his haunches. Ireach for him, thinking to return the favor. I know for a fact he’s gotta want it. Even if he’d never say so. When my palm brushes his bulge—tight and hard behind his jeans—everything happens fast.

I have the thought:Thank God he's hard too. Followed by:I touched him!

Then my wrist is aching, and I’m yelping at the pain. I gasp, and he lets go before moving off me.

---