Page 60 of His Every Move

Now that I had done all those things, it was simply game over.

Eli was all I wanted from the moment I woke up to the second my head hit the pillow. I’d text him randomly throughout the day under the guise of checking in. I’d work out with him, have lunch and dinner with him, watch stupid shit on YouTube with him.

And most nights since the Broadway incident, I’d sleep with him. I wasn’t sure what I enjoyed more: the fuck sessions or the cuddle sessions. Feeling him twitch and stir in his sleep or feeling him pulse and spasm as he came inside me.

Both sensations were heavenly. I didn’t ever want to give it up.

Except we weren’t even anything official. And beyond that, there was still the thorny guilt that implanted itself in my chest and reverberated through me with every heartbeat.

I’d watched him. Chatted with him. Sent him directly to my doorstep before he had any idea of who I even was.

Was that fucked-up? Maybe… but I never posed a threat to him. My actions never had any malicious intent behind them. I was just… lost. I’d been lost. I’ve been frantically beating my legs under the surface of a seemingly calm ocean since I was a kid, trying to stay afloat. I was getting tired. So fucking tired.

But Eli—he was my life raft. He helped me feel like I wasn’t struggling to simply take in a breath. Everything around him was easy, whether we were in a dark and sex-charged party or taking a stroll through a busy Central Park. It was like I’d known him my entire life.

But… fuck. I have to tell him about NightOwl.

My phone buzzed with a text from Jace, pulling me out of my thoughts.

Hey man, me and Theo are thinking of having lunch at Ray’s Garden. Want to meet us?

The invite was certainly tempting. I could use a distraction. Some day drinking at a nice restaurant with good friends sounded great.

And then, another notification appeared on my phone.

Eli was online. He’d just started to stream.

Ah damn, I’ve got some plans today. Sorry. Let me know where you guys are at in a couple of hours.

I knew the better, more productive thing to do would be to just join Jace and Theo, but my cock held the reins in this situation, and it was currently getting harder and harder to ignore.

I took Lucky back upstairs, grateful to be home where I could peel off the shorts that had started to feel annoyingly tight around my crotch. I dropped them at the entrance, leaving me naked from the waist down. It felt liberating, my cock swinging freely as I walked toward the kitchen. A quick peek at my reflection in the microwave made me smirk—I was already getting hard. I shook my head. Eli really had me fucked-up in all the best ways.

I cupped my balls, wishing Eli’s face was nuzzled up underneath them. He had spent the morning doing exactly that, licking and sucking me awake. I wanted to spend the entire day with him, but he told me he had to take the afternoon to “cock in,” as he jokingly put it.

I initially went for a water bottle, but when I opened my fridge and saw the half bottle of vodka sitting there, looking lonely as hell, I decided that the water could wait. I uncapped the bottle and took a swig. The vodka burned on its way down. I used to be more affected by the sensation, but now, I barely even blinked.

The warmth spread instantly, relaxing the tightness in my chest. I put the handle of vodka back and grabbed a cold beer from the fridge. I cracked it open and took a long sip before wandering over to the couch. Just a topper. Something to help me enjoy this jerk-off session even more.

My laptop sat on the coffee table, screen still on. I nudged the mouse, waking it up. My notes on Damon were open from earlier this morning. Ever since Eli thought he saw Damon at the theater, I’d shifted nearly all my attention to him. The neighbor and landlord had become less likely suspects, their behaviors less alarming compared to Damon’s escalating red flags.

Still, I hadn’t found anything concrete yet—nothing linking him explicitly to Nomad.

I clicked away from the notes and went to my web browser, where I typed in “CamStar.” Surprisingly, Damon’s profile flashed with a live tag toward the very top of the page. He had a “Sponsored” tag on his picture, which meant he was spending money to boost his placement.

Hmm. Maybe observing him in action would give me something useful, some kind of lead. I clicked over to his stream. Damon was lounging in a tight pair of briefs, running a hand down his torso and flexing for the camera. His room appeared messy, closet doors thrown open, wrinkled clothes sitting in an overflowing hamper, socks and underwear littered about the carpet. His chat was pretty dead, too.

Nothing else really jumped out as unusual, but the cold glare in Damon’s eyes gave me an uneasy feeling.

Someone sent a hundred-token tip, making my speakers sound with the jingles of falling coins. “Thanks, KillahJim, I can finally take these off.” He tugged off his underwear, his semi-hard dick flopping out. He started to stroke, but a message dinged on his phone. He reached over, read it, and instantly looked pissed.

“Fuck this,” he said before reaching forward and typing something, the furious clacks of the keyboard coming in louder than the music he’d been playing. I wondered what had triggered him and was about to type out a message before his screen went black.

Offline.

Shit.That wasn’t too informative. I hoped the background report I was waiting on would give me some more information. I navigated back to the homepage, clicking away from Damon’s page.

And there he was—Elijah, live, sitting at the top of the ranks.

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