Page 90 of High Notes & Hail Marys

“Wanting you is one hundred percent not the issue,” you tell him gently. “You’re fucked up. Wouldn’t be okay to start anything now. You aren’t thinking right.”

His mouth falls open a little. He licks his lips with his pink tongue. “You aren’t starting anything. I’m the one starting it. And you’re right, I’m not thinking… right. My brain’s all cottony. But… you gotta do something, Kai. I’m so damn horny.”

Subtly, carefully, you shift your hips backwards. You aren’t fully sure, but you think that your stupid dick is reacting to his words. Better not to chance him realizing it. “I can see that you are. I’m sorry.”

“Can I go down on you?” He looks up at you with a truly pitiful expression. “You don’t have to do anything. I’ll just blow you and touch myself.”

Jesus has to be tempting you. That has to be it. You’ve been awake for twenty-two hours, you are chemically impaired, and letting your stoned,gorgeous boyfriend suck your cock would be the path of least resistance. But you didn’t make it this far in life as a professional athlete by being a weakling. So you shake your head.

“It’s not that it doesn’t sound nice,” you say carefully. “But, no. If you need to take care of yourself, that’s cool.”

He blinks slowly. “Like, get myself off? Right here, in bed with you?” It sounds desperate and hot, and,fuck. Some day in the near future, you are going to jerk yourself raw in the shower over the memory of this conversation. Maybe tomorrow, at this rate.

“Sure,” you say, trying to sound casual. It’s not like he’s never take himself in hand in front of you. Always as a prelude to or the conclusion of another act, but what’s a little masturbation among friends?

That’s apparently all the provocation that Sterling needs to push him over the edge, because he rolls back over. Keeping his head on your leg, he pulls his underwear down gracelessly. His cock springs out, hot and hard, his foreskin rolled back and the pink tip glistening with wetness. With his lower lip between his teeth, he wastes no time. He cups his balls, stroking them with one hand, while the other moves over his shaft.

A high, relieved little moan rolls out of him like he can’t help it. You are… affected. Beneath the thick lip of the duvet and sheets, your own dick is starting to push against the front of your boxer briefs. You tense the muscles in your thighs, willing the unwanted hard-on to subside. This is neither the time nor place. You are a grown-ass man, you tell yourself. You don’t even have to watch your hot-mess lover touch himself in front of you. There are aliens on the TV. Nobody’s forcing you to look down.

It’s an exercise in ridiculous self-control, keeping your eyes glued to the pseudo-scientists talking about Peruvian geoglyphs, the grooves in the sand shaped like trees and lizards. Despite your best efforts, you can’t process one thing going on. The sound is on mute and the captions are turned on, but you’re too distracted to read. The remote is by the bed; you could crank the volume. But then you couldn’thearSterling. You may not be watching. But you are listening.

He’s making choked little moans, his breath fast and erratic. Several times, you think he’s getting close, and you want to die in relief. The sooner Sterling comes, the sooner you can go to sleep and forget about this situation. But he doesn’t. Come, that is. It goes on for longer than it should. Ten or fifteen minutes of panting, sighing, and the slutty sound of his dick-skin sliding over itself, his cock slapping his belly. You want desperately to press your palm against your crotch, to relieve the aching between your legs. But you don’t. Just willhim to finish.

“I can’t do it,” he whimpers.

“Can’t do what?” you ask, making the mistake of looking down.

Sterling, pent-up, is a sight to behold. His hair’s everywhere, and there’s a red flush on his cheeks that’s spread all over his chest like someone finger-painted it there. Skin licked with a sheen of sweat, his chest rises and falls. And his cock. It’s vibrantly red and absolutely trickling pre-cum. There’s a pool of it on his belly as he slowly fists his dick. His lower lip is puffy from his teeth. He looks feral.

“I can’t come,” he says plaintively.

This, too, you remember from your earlier party days. Before you learned your limits. Getting high, getting horny, and being too stoned to climax.

“Are you sure you don’t want to try to rest?” You know it’s a futile question, but you need to ask, anyway.

A gaspy little complaint falls from between his lips. “Please, Kai. I know what you said. You aren’t taking advantage of me. I need you to touch me.”

“Ster…” you begin.

“Suck me. Fuck me. You can honestly do whatever you want. Please. I’m losing my fucking mind. I just need to be touched.”

The hungry expression on his face matches his shameless words. You’ve never seen Sterling so uninhibited. Marijuana does that to some people. Which is the real Sterling Grayson? The reserved one, who stays tightly inside his shell ninety-nine percent of the time, or this debauched creature begging you to use him? The cogs in your head, made slower by the hour and the substances, are still turning on that question when Sterling sits up. He’s steadier than you would have guessed. Ass-naked, all hair and big eyes and long legs. Before you can protest, he’s crawled onto your lap, facing you.

Oh, fuck.

His body is burning against your skin, his sloppy cockhead and the little, sticky patch of pre-cum rubbing against your belly. He’s always so soft. You don’t know if it’s the way his skin is naturally, or if it’s all those high-dollar potions he uses on it, but it’s sinfully sweet. He brackets your ribs with his knees and presses into you like he wants to share your skin.

“Don’t…” you say, exactly half an instant before he grabs your jaw in his hand and presses his bitten lips against yours. Your protests die in his mouth as he kisses you. His hair falls all around you both, and his fingers are steady under your chin when he sucks on your tongue. You could physically remove him from your space; it’s not like you aren’t exponentially stronger than him. So there’s no good excuse but lack of willpower, and how good it feels to have him all over you. He trails his scalding, wet mouth down the column of your neck. When he bites the space behind your ear, you grip his arms hard—probably too hard—and pull back. The headboard has no give, so you have to push him forward a little.

“Tell me to leave, Ster,” you say, low-voiced. “Tell me to go upstairs to our bedroom, or you can go, and I’ll stay here. Whatever you want. But we can’t do this.”

“Why?” he asks. He tilts his head, considering you with his pretty, pretty eyes. “I’ve never not wanted to sleep with you. I think about it all the time; I just don’t tell you. In bed, in the shower. At rehearsals. When I’m in conference calls and I have a free second. I don’t understand why now is any different.”

It’s logic from a stoner, but damn if the logic isn’t sound. Or maybe you’re just a weak man after all. Because, when Sterling’s fingers creep to the waistband of your underwear, you still them, but don’t remove them. “I’ll help you get off,” you hear yourself say, before your brain can catch up. “But you don’t touch me, okay? This is about you. I’m going to take care of you.”

He hums a bit, and you don’t know whether it’s in agreement or discontent. Leans back in and kissesyou some more.

Between your bodies, you stroke him the way he likes, tight and with a twist. You can hear and taste how much he likes it as he mashes his mouth against yours, feeding you little cries. It’s not like you don’t know how to get Sterling off by now. You’re good at it, usually, and you’re applying every trick in the book to get him to fuckingcome.Under the cradle of his thin hips, your poor, neglected cock aches. You curl your toes, bite Sterling’s lip, rub your thumb over his slit. Anything but listen to your own body.

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