Chapter 1
Clay
Balance the books for the month, double check enrollment figures and class schedules, check with Beck about picking up an extra class, start planning the end of season recital…
The list goes on and on, rattling around in my mind as I rush through my morning routine of shaving and styling my hair into a messy faux hawk. My body buzzes with energy I need to expel, which means I need to make time to dance this morning and ideally work in some yoga. Maybe I can get Beck to roll out our yoga mats in the studio during our lunch break today.
I bounce on the balls of my feet as I wipe down the bathroom sink and make sure all my personal grooming items are stashed away again. I’m nothing if not a thoughtful roommate.
With a towel secured around my waist, I step out of the bathroom and run headlong into a wall of solid muscle behind a soft, black t-shirt.
“Whoa, sorry, man,” Max chuckles, his large, calloused hands wrapping around my biceps to steady me.
My heart thunders in my chest as I fight the urge to fist the fabric under my palms and press the rest of my body against the huge, solid frame of my very straight roommate. I said I was a good roommate, I never said I was a saint.
“Sorry.” I yank my hands back and tilt my head back to meet Max’s friendly smile with one of my own. We’re bros, no big deal I’m half naked and fighting a chub brought on by his spicy, masculine scent.
“No problem. You finished in there?” he asks.
“Oh yeah, it’s all yours.”
Max gives me a nod of thanks and claps me on the back hard enough to cause me to stumble. I swear that man is like Lenny from Mice and Men, a big dope who doesn’t know his own strength.
In my bedroom, I toss my damp towel into the hamper and open my closet to pick some clothes to wear. I card through a few different V-neck t-shirts and past some tank tops, trying to decide.
When I get to the end of my hangers of clothes, my fingers brush the silky black rope draped there, and a hot pulse zips through me, causing my half-hard cock to fill and stand at attention.
“Down boy,” I mutter to myself.
It’s been ages since my ropes and bindings have had any use, hence my hair-trigger.
For some people, being tied up from time to time is a great way to spice up their relationship once they know and trust their partner. But for me, it’s a necessity, a desperate and deep craving. I need to be restrained and give my pleasure entirely over to my partner. Not only is it the one-time my mind is ever quiet and calm, but it’s also the only way I have satisfying orgasms.
Something people with serious kinks don’t tell you often: they can be extremely inconvenient. I haven’t had a boyfriend in years, and with my luck lately, it doesn’t look like it’s anywhere on the horizon. And letting a stranger tie me up and fuck me is far from ideal. And trust is just the beginning of the issue.
I force myself to release the rope and turn back to the task of picking something to wear. I ignore my aching erection and the drops of pre-cum trickling down my shaft from even a few moments of imagining my hands bound behind my back as a man licks me, drawing out my pleasure until I’m sobbing for relief.
I huff at myself in annoyance and grab the next shirt I touch to tug over my head. Next, I pull open my top dresser drawer and grab a black jock and a pair of leggings—my typical work attire—and finish getting dressed in a rush.
I step into the kitchen and take note of grime on the counter and dishes in the sink. I grab a fresh rag from the drawer beside the sink and sniff it to make sure it doesn’t smell moldy. It drives Max a little nuts whenever he catches me sniffing the clean rags. But I don’t get up his ass about any of his hang ups. Granted, I may have a few more hang ups than most.
I make quick work of the dishes, wipe down the counter, and then keep going until I’ve made sure every surface of the kitchen is spotless. Only then do I breathe a sigh of relief.
I put the rag in the laundry basket, and when I return to the now clean kitchen, I notice a full pot of coffee.
“Have I told you I love you recently, you sexy man-beast?” I call out to Max in a teasing tone.
“You’re just saying that so I’ll keep making you coffee in the morning,” Max yells back from the bathroom.
“Oh baby, if you’d let me, I’d show you that you’re so much more than coffee to me.”
Max’s deep chuckle echoes down the hall and warms my insides.
I met Max a few years ago off a roommate-matching app. I nearly turned around and walked right out of this place when I laid eyes on him for the first time. The last thing I needed was a meathead roommate desperate to prove how straight he is at every turn. I wasn’t going to walk on eggshells or fake being straight. Unfortunately, I also needed a roof over my head, and he was asking for obscenely low rent for such a nice place.
The universe must’ve been smiling on me that day because, as it turned out, Max is nothing like I thought he’d be. Yes, he oozes masculinity from every pore, and he’s a bit of a grease monkey and gear head, working at a nearby mechanic shop. But he’s also funny and comfortable in his own skin. He has no problem taking and dishing out my flirtatious teasing. In no time at all, he became one of my top two favorite people in the world.
I fill my travel mug with coffee and French vanilla creamer and slip on my shoes.
“Don’t forget you promised to pick up Gigi from school,” Max calls out as I open the front door.
“I wouldn’t forget in a million years, love. I’ll see you later; have a good day.”
Max
I smile to myself as I hear the front door close behind Clay.
A guy couldn’t ask for a better roommate and friend than Clay Rollins. Not only does he help me out with my daughter, hell he’s the reason I still have shared custody of my daughter.
To say Georgia was unplanned is the understatement of the century. I met her mother, Jessica, in a bar seven years ago. I was a twenty-four-year-old kid, drunk off my ass and thrilled to be taking a gorgeous woman home with me. To this day, I can’t remember if I bothered to use a condom at all, or if it just failed to block the goal.
The next morning, Jessica was gone, and I went on with my life without a second thought. Until four months later when she showed up at my door with a little round belly and an ultrasound picture. She told me she had no doubt I was the father and that she didn’t want anything from me, she just wanted me to know.
It took me a few days to wrap my head around everything, but once I did, I knew there was no way I was going to have a child somewhere in the world I wasn’t raising personally. So, I’d called Jess and told her I wanted to be together and raise our child.
That lasted one year before I realized that no matter how much I tried to feel something for Jess, I just didn’t. There was no spark, no excitement, and almost no attraction.
But when I told Jess it was over, she did everything in her power to keep Gigi from me. Enter Clay. We’d barely known each other a few months at that point, but when he found out what was going on, he got his friend Beck, who is a kick ass lawyer, to save my parental rights.
I never had a best friend before Clay. That must be why I feel a little zap of energy. He’s an awesome person, and I’m lucky to know him.
I finish shaving and brushing my teeth, leaving my towel slung over the sink as I exit the bathroom.
A few minutes later, I’m throwing my leg over my bike and roaring out of the driveway toward work.