Page 11 of Jacked
“You’re the one who asked.”
“I did.” I chuckle. I definitely did, and now it’s my own fault that I’m stuck with the image in my head of Slater with his rock-hard dick in his hand, squeezing his balls to hold off his orgasm.
Heat rushes through my body and I shake my head hard, trying to dispel the thoughts.
“Is it weird now?” He wrinkles his nose.
I huff and punch him in the shoulder. “Nah, man, it’s cool.”
He punches me back, and in spite of the strange, charged feelings still making me jittery, I really do mean it. Things are cool. Slater is cool.
Cool. Cool. Cool.
CHAPTER FIVE
AJ
The gentle humof traffic outside my window is more soothing than I thought it would be before I moved to the city. I wasn’t sure I’d be able to take the constant noise at all hours of the night and day after living my entire life in the suburbs where most stuff shuts down by 8 p.m., and the only option for entertainment in high school was getting drunk in a cornfield. But it’s kind of nice. The white noise keeps me out of my head better than the quiet ever managed to.
I yawn and roll onto my stomach, burying my face in my pillow to block out the morning sun. It’s obvious the heat wave is still going strong. Even with the air conditioner running at full blast in my window, I’m hot and sticky, and at some point during the night I must’ve kicked my blankets onto the floor.
My rock-hard dick presses into the mattress and I stifle a groan into my pillow. The wispy leftovers of a filthy dream tug at the back of my mind, scattering before I can grab any of them. I roll my hips and heat jolts up my spine. It won’t take much for me to get off—a few more jerks of my hips, a quick pinch to mynipples… I moan quietly again and then lift up just enough to slide my hand underneath me, slipping it into my shorts.
My cock throbs eagerly against my palm, but I ignore it and grasp my balls instead. They’re just as hot and sticky as the rest of my body, hanging loose to stay cool, but one good squeeze has them pulling tighter instantly. I bite my pillow and grunt softly, humping the bed again.
If there’s a better way to start the day than with an orgasm, I don’t know what it is.
“Busting a quick nut once a day is all well and good, but saving it up for a week or two then really taking your time, pushing right to the edge and then holding back…”
Slater’s words from last night echo in my thoughts without prompting. The memory of how he looked leaning against the counter fills my head next. Hard dick, skin flushed and sweaty like he’d just run five miles, his pupils blown, and his nipples pressing against the thin fabric of his tank top. My brainhasto be exaggerating just how horny he looked talking about edging, right? It can’t really be that much better than jerking off every day, can it?
Without realizing it, I’ve stopped grinding against my bed. For one hot second I’m just lying here, holding my balls, thinking about Slater and edging. My cock jerks insistently and I release my grip on my sac.
What if he’s actually onto something? It couldn’t hurt to ignore my dick for a few days just to find out. Besides, it’s like he said: After so much one-on-one time with my own hand lately, any excuse to make things a little more exciting is welcome. At least until the thought of actually getting back into the dating scene starts to hold some appeal.
I roll onto my back again and my cock gives a needy throb, but I stick with the new plan and ignore it. Since I can hear Slater moving around the apartment, I lie in bed and listen tothe traffic while I wait for my dick to get the message and settle down. When ignoring it isn’t enough, I switch tactics and think about fucked up injuries I had to learn how to avoid to get my certification as a trainer. Groin pulls, torn ligaments, slipped discs… I cringe and shudder. It does the trick though. With a reasonable amount of chub leftover, I drag my ass out of bed.
It’s too damn hot to bother with a shirt, so I shuffle out of my bedroom in nothing but my shorts. I feel a bit like a bear lumbering out of hibernation as I scratch my hairy chest and yawn. Slater is in front of the stove and a weird, sweet, burned smell fills the apartment. I cock my head and drag in a deeper breath, trying to figure out what the hell he’s cooking that would smell like that.
His hat is perched backward on his head like usual and, like me, he’s not wearing anything but a pair of athletic shorts hanging low on his hips. He’s built more like Fender than like me—plenty of lean muscle rather than bulk. My eyes are drawn to the dimples on his lower back for just a second.
The coffee maker beeps, and I jerk my attention away from Slater with a quiet grunt and a shake of my head.
“Hey, you’re up.” Slater whips around with a hell of a lot of energy and a huge, dopey smile on his face. “I wasn’t sure how late you usually sleep or what your work schedule looks like, so I didn’t know if I’d see you this morning or not, but I made breakfast just in case. It’s no big deal, just a ‘thank you’ for showing me how to cook last night and sharing your food with me until I can get to the grocery store myself, which I’m planning to do tonight.”
I blink, trying to process so many words thrown in my direction before coffee. I glance at the pan full of scrambled eggs he’s holding and cock my head. The sweet smell makes even less sense now than it did a few seconds ago.
“Uh, thanks,” I grunt, shuffling over to the coffee maker and grabbing a mug to fill.
“Sorry, I’m a morning person,” he says with an apologetic laugh.
“Why doesn’t that surprise me?” I chuckle gruffly and take a sip of black coffee, relishing the burn on my tongue. Over-the-top morning energy aside, it’s weirdly nice that he bothered to cook for me. Even if he was already making breakfast for himself, I’ve never had anybody go out of their way to think about me like that before, let alone a guy I only met this week.
When I turn back around, he’s still standing in front of the island, holding the pan of eggs and looking eager and surprisingly shy, like he’s not quite sure if making me breakfast was welcome or not. I nod at the empty plates he set out.
“Load me up.”
His shoulders sag with relief and he scrapes the eggs onto the plates. They look a little rubbery and overdone, but otherwise they don’t seem too bad for a first attempt, at least visually. Slater pulls a couple of forks out of the drawer and hands one to me. His eyes are on me as I pull the plate across the counter and stab a piece of egg with my fork. I shovel it into my mouth and as soon as it hits my tongue, I sputter and gag.
