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I’m hard, achingly hard. From something as simple as having a guy cuddle me in bed. We’re both fully clothed. There’s a thick blanket between us. But all my dick cares about is that I have a man on top of me and it feels fucking good.

Connor is already asleep. He was out the second I laid down with him. The ten extra minutes I stay there are for me. Only me. I let myself enjoy his weight, the softness of his hair, the scent of Mars’s locker room soap that still clings to his skin. I let myself soak it all in, as much of it as I can get, until I’m almost falling asleep myself.

Then I ease myself out from under him. I collect my now-cold mug, turn off the lights, and close the door behind me without a backward glance. It was nice. I needed that. But I didn’t bring Connor back here so I could take advantage of his body while he is unconscious.

I go upstairs and turn the water on for a shower. Under the spray, I close my eyes and run my soapy hands over my still-tingly skin. My dick sticks out from my body and I gasp when I wrap my fingers around it. I’m so sensitive—I’m so hard—I’m almost afraid to touch myself for fear of ending this too soon.

My balls hang heavy between my legs and I fondle them, tugging them down and away. The light pain reels me back from the edge and I give myself a couple strokes. Yeeesss. My entire body shudders as all my pleasure receptors fire.

I imagine Roger behind me, his big body covering my back. He reaches around me and it’s his hand on my cock, his hand on my balls. I tilt my head back, water falling on my face, sluicing down my body. Roger squeezes tight, exactly the way I like it, concentrating his strokes near the head of my dick. Heat pools in my groin, a pressure that builds faster than I would like. But I can’t hold it back this time, it’s rushing at me too quickly. My balls draw up and there’s a moment where I hover on the edge, where that one moment stretches into eternity, then I’m falling.

The orgasm crashes through me, bursting out of my cock in thick ropes of cum. I milk myself until I feel weak in the knees, then nestle into the broad chest against my back. I sigh and turn my head for a kiss. The imaginary lips that find mine aren’t Roger’s. They’re Connor’s.

My eyes snap open and I slap my hand against the wall to brace myself. Jesus Christ. My body is still all light and floaty, my head a little dizzy from the steam filling the bathroom. Guilt, thick and cloying, seeps into me and I hurry out of the shower.

It was Roger in my fantasy. Not Connor. Roger—not Connor.

Except Roger had a beard and the man in my imagination was clean-shaven. Roger was a few inches taller than me and the man behind me was my height. Roger’s lips were wide and the lips that touched mine were plumper, poutier.

I rush through brushing my teeth, throw some moisturizer on my face, and pull on my own set of pajamas—not the light blue set. I climb into the king-sized bed and reach across to where Roger used to lie next to me. There’s so much space, so much cold bedding. I feel so small in the middle of it. I squeeze my eyes shut against the guilt and pleasure fighting for space inside me.

I don’t know which one I should feel or which one is the right reaction to have. The only thing I know is that I’ve felt the weight of Connor’s body against mine. And I want more.

CHAPTER FIVE

CONNOR

Ugh. I’m hot. Sweaty. I’m trapped in a tangle of blankets and uggghhh. Oh, wait.

I open my eyes to an unfamiliar ceiling. I’m not at home. This is not my bed.

It all comes flooding back into my head. Going home. Finding Miles and Wyatt. Running out of the apartment and somehow ending up at Mars.

Donnie.

He brought me to his house and everything after that is kinda fuzzy. There had been salmon, incredibly soft pajamas—the ones that are currently trying to smother me—and getting wrapped up in something that felt so comfortable and safe.

I kick the blankets away and reach down to strip the fuzzy socks off my feet. I immediately feel ten degrees cooler. The flannel I put on last night had been warm and cuddly, but now it’s damp and every inch of me feels gross. I push myself up and a jackhammer goes off in my head.

“Ah, fuck.” I press the heel of my hand against my forehead, waiting for the pounding to fade. I haven’t had a hangover like this since… film school? Nope, no, not going there. No thinking about film school or anything to do with Wyatt or Miles.

Moving slowly, I swing my legs over the side of the bed and notice a bottle of Gatorade on the nightstand. Of course, hydrate. Donnie did say something about needing to drink more Gatorade. I down half the bottle, the sickly-sweet liquid clinging to my morning tongue. “Yuck.”

I need to brush my teeth, but I only make it as far as the floor. My ankle flashes with pain when I try to step on it and I end up in a pile of limbs and sweaty flannel beside the bed. “Fuck, Jesus, what the hell?”

Footsteps fly up the stairs. “Are you okay?”

Donnie is on me, running his hands all over me like he’s searching for injuries.

“Yeah, I think so?” I’m holding my ankle with one hand and bracing my head with the other, waiting for the spiky throbs to die down.

“What happened?” Donnie takes my foot into his hand and gently moves his fingers over the joints of my ankle. “Your ankle wasn’t injured yesterday, was it?”

“I don’t know. Maybe?” The flash of pain is familiar though. Oh, right. “I think I stepped on it wrong when I was… running down the stairs.” Trying to escape the horror show that was unfolding in the apartment.

“It didn’t hurt yesterday?”

“It did, initially. And then it didn’t until just now.”

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