A Whit Short
I can’t look too hard. I really can’t. He’s so fucking hot that my brain sizzles whenever our eyes meet. He’s all muscle and blond hair, and he has these blue eyes that are so full of mischief.
And I quickly realize it’s not just me who can’t peel his eyes away. He’s always watching me. I can feel that gaze on me whenever we’re in the same room. It weighs on me, hot and heavy.
He must think I’m some kind of curiosity because we couldn’t be more different if we tried. We don’t even really talk much.
We just stare at each other, circling each other around the apartment. Like primates in a zoo.
I glance over at him again despite telling myself not to. His throat works as he guzzles his beer and I feel my entire body heat.
Ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous. He’s not even my type.
The men I usually go for are petite and pretty, sometimes even feminine. Caleb is none of those things.
He’s masculine, tall, and muscular as fuck.
He’s sex. All-consuming sex.
I knew our living situation was going to be a problem the moment I laid eyes on him because something sparked inside of me.
I have been on fire for weeks.
“Going out with some people tonight,” Caleb says, breaking my train of thought, his voice low and sensual. It rumbles out of him, and I make the mistake of looking over at him again.
God, I can’t tear my eyes away. The dirty shirt he’s wearing is spread tightly over his broad chest and all I want to do is slip my hands underneath it. I want to feel my way across his skin and run my tongue across the ridges of him.
“Want to join?” he asks, and it’s then that I realize I haven’t answered. English isn’t my first language, but I could at least act like I can speak it with some fluency.
I turn my eyes back to the book in my lap and reply, “No, thank you.”
Because really, I’m not going to go hang out with him and his friends. I can’t even imagine what they do for fun. He looks like he builds stuff with his hands. They’re big, thick, and callused.
I imagine them on me when I lay in bed at night. I picture all the things they could do to me.
And to make matters worse, we share the same fucking room.
What kind of genius was that?
I’ve created my own hell and I torture myself nightly.
Because men like Caleb are not into men like me. I am one hundred percent sure that he’s straight.
“It’s trivia night, my man. You may like it.”
Oh, he has no idea what I like to do in my free time. There is so much I’d show him if he’d let me.
“Doubtful,” I mumble to myself, just loud enough so he can hear. And then I force myself not to look at him again.
I will not look.
My hands clutch my Kindle so tightly I swear I’m going to break it in half.
I hear a clink of his beer bottle hitting the counter and I peek over at Caleb, not bothering to follow my own advice, and I can’t stop the words that escape my mouth.
“Recycling, please,” I snap.
Caleb sighs loudly, and I wince internally when I hear the bottle crash inside the bin.
I care about the fucking Earth. Sue me.
Plus, I’m socially awkward on even my best days.
It can’t be helped.
“Better?” Caleb asks, and I glance over at him standing in the kitchen before focusing back on my book. I’m not even really reading it. I’ve been on page two for the past hour, the words just swimming in front of me, like little people lost at sea. But I have to pretend like I’m doing something, or he’ll figure out what I’m really up to when he’s around.
Ogling, lusting, imagining.
He’d be horrified if he knew the filthy things I do to him in my mind.
“Well, I’m heading out for a fun night of trivia,” Caleb says, exaggerating the last word like he wants to convince me to come. But why the fuck would he want to do that? Does he actually want to hang out with me?
I can’t even imagine myself standing close to him in a crowded bar, our knees and shoulders brushing against each other as we rattle off answers to trivia questions, his friends hooting and hollering in the background like buffoons.
Lie. I can visualize it in horrifying detail. Most vividly, the part where my hard cock would press up against him.
Because that would happen. It’s a guarantee.
I keep my eyes trained on my book, hoping that he gets the hint and leaves, giving me the space to breathe. Instead, he moves in front of me, pulling his shirt off over his head as he walks to the bedroom.
My heart thumps wildly in my chest.
I look up as he passes, and my god, I cannot ever see that again. It’s utterly ridiculous—all that muscle, the literal ridges between each ab. My eyes travel down to his thighs, and I bite back a groan.
My dick is twitching in my pants, eager and needy.
Caleb catches me looking. I know he has because he flexes his muscles before me, making all the definition on his abdomen more pronounced.
I divert my eyes, feeling my cheeks heat. Damn him. I never fucking blush, and here I am simpering over him.
He chuckles a little and then disappears into the bedroom to grab a new shirt. I breathe a sigh of relief because I can finally think semi-rationally when he’s not in my line of sight.
I can keep it together.
I can and I will.
When he’s dressed and finally makes it out the front door, I peek over at him once more, catching sight of his tight ass as it leaves.
I can’t tear my fucking eyes off of him.
Why did I think that choosing him as a roommate was a good plan? What the fuck was going through my mind at that point in time?
Pure and unadulterated lust, that’s what. Also, perhaps, a deep-seated hatred for my parents. Yeah, definitely that too.
As soon as Caleb is gone, my Kindle is discarded and I move about the apartment, cleaning the small space. Cleaning always helps me feel more in control, having things organized and just as they should be.
Lately, I feel like I’m slowly losing my grip on reality. Everything right now is so messy.
How am I supposed to make it through the rest of the semester living in such close proximity to this man? I slump against the wall and run a hand over my face.
I just need to tread very, very carefully.
And try not to look.
I wake up to the sound of a crash. Bolting out of bed, I switch on the lights and jog out to the living room. Caleb is half-naked lying on the floor, his pants hanging off his ankle.
Immediately, my eyes fly to his crotch because I can’t not look. And yes, I can see the outline of his dick in his briefs, thick and long.
“Hey there,” he slurs, and my eyes flash up to meet his. A lopsided smile is plastered on his handsome face, his eyes twinkling with mischief.
“What are you doing?” I ask, and Caleb snorts a loud laugh.
“Trying to go to bed. Tripped though. And fell,” he replies, waving his hand dramatically around and hitting it roughly on the wall.
He winces at the contact, and I rub at my forehead to try and keep it together.
He’s drunk. I will not ogle him.
Fuck it. I am ogling.
“You’re so goth, emo boy,” he says, and my eyes narrow at him. Because yes, he’s noticed my unwavering black attire. I’ve caught him looking in my dresser too, snooping about. He was trying to be sly, but I saw.
He’s curious about me. Just as curious as I am about him.
“You’re drunk,” I mutter.
“Sherlock.” He reaches out a finger and tries to touch my nose but ends up hitting me in the cheek. I can smell him, the soap on his hands. Why does he smell so damn good?
“So fucking smart,” Caleb mutters, our eyes catching and my entire body hums with desire.
A sigh escapes me because I realize this is hopeless, me trying to ignore him. So, instead, I tug his pants off his ankle and fold them into a nice little square.
He watches me the entire time, those blue eyes intently following my every move, and when I reach past him, placing his pants on the end table near his head, he inhales deeply.
Did he just…smell me?
My breath stutters out of me as he sighs, his eyes closing briefly.
“Let’s get you to bed,” I say but then freeze and just stare at him for a long minute. I’m afraid if I touch him, I won’t be able to stop. My hands will travel across that broad, strong chest straight down to his waiting cock. I’m afraid my mouth might get involved too.
It would be mortifying.
“I can get myself up,” Caleb says, a frown on his handsome face, and then I watch in fascination as his thighs bunch and flex as he pushes himself upright.
Shit, those legs. I want them wrapped around me while I fuck into him, my face buried in his neck as my cock sinks into his tight hole.
My cheeks are on fire at that filthy thought and I shove it away.
There is no fucking way.
No way that is ever happening.
“Why you always blushing around me?” Caleb asks, and my cheeks burn even more. My skin is going to melt right off of me.
“I don’t blush,” I say, my heart nearly bursting from my chest.
What would this man think if he knew what was going on in my head every time I looked at him?
I push to my feet and move into the small bedroom I share with him. My eyes land on his bed and I think of all the times I’ve watched him sleep. How I’ve imagined slipping in behind him, wrapping my arms around his narrow waist before letting my hands travel south.
How he’d wake up begging for me.
“You’re really pretty when you blush,” he says to my back, and I stumble slightly as I move toward his bed. Because now he’s just messing with me. There is no way in hell he thinks I’m pretty.
Quickly, I pull the sheets back and hold them open for him. As I do it, a whiff of his scent floats toward me and I inhale sharply.
Fuck. This is worse than I imagined. I’m doomed.
“Get in,” I mutter.
“Tucking me in?” he asks with a teasing smile as he slides between the sheets, and then I toss them over his body. I should stay and tuck him in nicely, but I’m afraid if I accidentally touch him, things could go sideways. As in, I’d go sideways right on top of him.
Caleb sighs loudly and then swallows roughly.
“Are you going to throw up?” I blurt, needing to focus on something other than having sex with this man.
“I’ll be fine, man,” he says, peeling one eyelid open and peering at me.
I can’t move, though. I just stand there, watching him, my eyes narrowed. Should I stay awake and make sure he doesn’t asphyxiate on his vomit? It seems like a distinct possibility right now. Growing up, I would hear my mom choking on it after a long night of drinking.
I hated hearing that, wondering if she’d be alive the next morning.
Fuck. Now I’m going to worry.
I pull my bottom lip between my teeth and continue to stand there, lurking above him.
“What?” he asks, oblivious to my inner turmoil.
“I don’t believe you,” I say softly.
“Believe me, man. I’ve been drinking since I was thirteen. I can handle a few beers.”
My god, thirteen? Who raised this man?
“A few?” I ask, with an arched eyebrow.
“Fine, more than a few. I’ll be fine. Just go to sleep. There’s only so much scowling I can take from you.”
My eyebrows meet and I blurt, “I don’t scowl.”
But Caleb isn’t listening, he’s kicking his feet out, sending the sheets tumbling to the floor in a heap.
He mutters about picking them up later, but I’m not listening. I’m just moving toward them, putting them on the end of the bed.
“Don’t you dare fold my sheets. It’s unnatural.”
I bristle because I’ve seen what Caleb does to his clothes. I can only imagine what he does to his sheets; he probably squishes them into small balls and stuffs them in the closet.
“There is nothing unnatural about folding sheets.”
“You’re a freak.”
I scoff, folding my arms across my chest, ready to defend myself. There is nothing better than a well-folded, well-ironed fitted sheet, but then suddenly, Caleb moans.
“Ugh, I feel like shit all of a sudden,” he says, clutching his stomach.
And I knew it. I called it. Drinking since he was thirteen. Pfft. Like that matters.
“You’re going to vomit, aren’t you?” I ask.
“I never vomit,” he replies, and then promptly turns onto his side and brings it all up. It rolls down his chin and onto his chest and I quickly grab the garbage can.
As I hand it to him Caleb starts apologizing profusely, saying that it has never happened before, but I’m moving to the window, wanting to air out the stench. It makes my stomach churn and brings back so many memories.
Ones I’d rather forget.
I return to the bed and press a hand to his overheated forehead.
“You’re going to take a shower,” I say, trying not to look at the throw-up on his handsome face. It doesn’t detract from it much, to be honest.
That’s how far gone I am.
“Probably a good idea,” Caleb mutters.
Reaching around him, I help him up and then walk him to the bathroom, turning on the shower.
“Will you be able to stay standing while I clean up?” I ask because I don’t want to leave him alone in here to wash himself only to find him on the floor again.
“You’ll know if I can’t,” he mumbles, stumbling toward the tub.
I just stand, momentarily stunned, watching as the water hits his skin, before pulling my gaze away.
It is inappropriate. I am behaving abominably.
He’s drunk and quite possibly sick.
I will not stare at him creepily.
Moving back into the bedroom I make myself useful, changing his sheets and replacing them with some of mine.
When I’m done with that, I wipe down anything that the vomit could have touched and then I wait.
Where the fuck is he? He should be out of the shower by now.
I move toward the door and press my ear against it. I can’t hear anything but the water running.
“Are you okay in there?” I ask and hear a grumbled fine.
Okay, so he’s not dead, but he’s also not moving around.
Suddenly, the water is shut off and I hear the shower curtain being pulled back and then nothing.
Not another movement.
“Can I come in?” I ask after a few drawn-out minutes.
When I enter, I see Caleb standing on the bath mat completely naked except for a tiny towel wrapped haphazardly around his waist.
Fuck. I need bigger towels. What I wouldn’t do to have that tiny piece of cloth slip off of him and fall to the floor.
I wrench my eyes away and take in the rest of him—thick thighs, damp skin…and his hair white with suds.
“You still have shampoo in your hair,” I say.
“It’s fine,” he says with a limp wave of his hand.
Oh, but it’s not. He’s not putting shampoo hair on my pillowcase.
I reach out and gently grasp his arm, pulling him toward the sink. I ignore the zing of pleasure that moves through me from just touching him, and focus on the task at hand.
“Lean down,” I say, pressing the palm of my hand to the back of his head and pushing him forward. I know he’s not feeling well, but the perverted part of me likes that he’s bending to my will.
That he’s bent over the counter because I told him to.
I need to get on with it before I do something stupid.
Quickly, I turn on the faucet and cool water pours out. I rinse out his hair as best as I can and as I do so, Caleb sighs, his eyes closing as I work my fingers against his scalp.
Suddenly I feel something at my feet.
The towel has slipped from his waist and there he is—naked Caleb bent over the counter, looking like sin.
“Hold on,” I hiss, feeling my dick instantly harden because his bare ass is completely edible and if I look just right, I may be able to see his hole. “Stay there.”
But of course, Caleb doesn’t listen. Instead, he stands up and knocks his head against the faucet. A curse slips from his mouth as he straightens up, his cock hanging limply between his legs.
And fuck, can this man get any more perfect?
He’s enormous, even while soft.
“Think you need bigger towels,” Caleb mutters as he rubs his head, his biceps flexing and I can’t even think. Not when he’s naked in front of me.
I just blink and blink at him. When my brain finally decides to start working, I bend down quickly, grabbing the towel and righting it around his waist. Quickly, I grasp onto his hand and anchor it to the fabric, making sure that it won’t fall again because I can’t handle seeing his dick again.
Now that I know what it looks like, the image is permanently seared in my mind.
“Sorry, man. I think I’m sick,” he says, looking so damn sad.
And now I feel even worse about my wayward thoughts when he is clearly miserable and incapacitated. What the hell is wrong with me?
I meet Caleb’s eyes in the mirror and press my hand against his forehead, moving down to his cheek.
“You’re burning up.”
“Told you. I never throw up from drinking. It’s a superpower.”
I arch an eyebrow at him, biting back a grin. He’s ridiculous in an endearing way.
Reaching under the sink, I grab another tiny towel and begin drying off his hair.
His eyes flutter shut as I massage his head, and I swallow roughly.
I let that towel slip down to his chest, drying off the wet, exposed skin there. I know I need to stop because this man is straight and I’m groping him like a fiend. But still, I persist.
“Let’s get you to bed,” I say softly.
“I don’t have any extra sheets. Never got around to buying more,” he says miserably.
“You can use some of mine,” I say and then follow him into the bedroom.
Caleb notices the newly made bed and sighs, dropping the towel from around his waist and slipping between the covers.
“Smells like you,” he says, turning his head into the pillow and inhaling deeply. And my entire body lights up.
Since when does he enjoy the smell of me?
What the fuck is happening?
In this moment he looks so endearing that I can’t help but tuck him in a little better. I bring him some Tylenol and a glass of water, and when I slip the pill between his lips and my fingers touch his mouth, my entire body clenches with desire.
“Swallow,” I say.
Everything I’m saying is sexual now.
I hope he doesn’t notice.
“I’ll make this up to you,” Caleb says, and I reach over and smooth the wet hair from his forehead. I can’t help myself.
This may be the only time I can do this, can touch him like this.
“Just rest. I’ll be right over here if you need me.”
But before I can move, Caleb reaches out and grasps my hand, pulling it back to his forehead.
“Don’t stop,” he whispers.
I freeze, not truly believing this is happening, that this man is asking me to touch him like this, but when my brain catches up, I move my hand through his hair, lightly caressing his scalp until his eyes flutter shut.
And then I watch him as he sleeps.
My dreams are never pleasant. I’d rather not have them at all, but this is one place where I have no control.
Right now, I’m dreaming of my father standing over me, a belt in his hand as he screams in my face. As the piece of leather is about to hit my skin, I shoot up in bed with a gasp. As my vision clears, I see a presence looming over me.
Naked in the shadows of the dark room, right next to my bed.
“Caleb,” I say, clearing my throat. “Are you okay?”
“I’m so…. fucking cold. Can’t…stop shaking.”
So I do the only thing I can think to do. I pull my covers back and say, “Come here.”
He shifts on his feet. “I’m naked.”
“You’re sick,” I counter, knowing my argument is weak. Magnus would roll his eyes if he could hear me right now.
I am a weak, weak man.
Caleb doesn’t even hesitate. He’s so easily convinced to lie naked in bed with another guy. He just slides in next to me, all warm, bare skin, and wraps himself around me. His leg is thrown over my thigh, his arm snaking around my torso.
Hell, he’s half on top of me, and I can feel his dick pressed up against my hip.
“Why do you smell so good?” he asks, brushing his nose against my neck, and before I can respond, a small snore rumbles from him.
He’s completely out, leaving me to lie beneath him for hours, desperately trying to be respectful. But there is only so much restraint I have. Eventually, I give up and let my hand wander. Just a little. I tell myself it’s an innocent touch, a friendly touch.
My fingers slip across his shoulder and up his neck, and he moans lowly in his sleep as I do it. He likes being touched like this.
He shifts a little, pulling his body almost completely on top of mine.
For a second I lose the ability to breathe because he’s so much bigger and heavier than me, but then after a moment of adjusting to it, it’s like a weighted blanket and I find myself feeling…calm.
I run my hand up and down his back and he tucks his head against my neck.
And for the first time in ages, I feel content.
What are the chances I can get Caleb to do this again when he’s in his right mind?
Probably not good.