Chapter 16

Anthony

“What are you doing?” Joey hisses when I grab him.

“What I should’ve done two weeks ago.”

With a gentle grip on his upper arms, I urge him backward until we clear the threshold and I can close us into his bedroom. I don’t let him go until his ass hits his desk chair, but even then I only move my hands until they’re on the armrests. He’s trapped, bracketed by my arms.

“Tony,” he whispers.

He’s not afraid even if there’s a tremble in his voice. If I had to bet, I’d lay money that he’s aroused.

“My name is Anthony,” I correct, the heat of my breath blowing the long strands of hair surrounding his beautiful face.

“Anthony,” he repeats.

My cock loves the sound of my name on his lips as much as my brain does.

“What are you doing?” he asks again.

Honestly? I didn’t think past the very moment we’re in right now.

“I wanted to say hi.” I lean in closer.

I missed you. It was hell not coming by even though I’ve been invited three times in the last two weeks. I’m tired of fighting against whatever this pull is you have on me.

“So,” I say leaning in even closer. “Hi.”

A tiny grin plays on his lips. “Why are you so obsessed with me?”

I want to laugh. I know he’s trying to get back to the taunting guy he is in front of his friends, but there’s no place for that man in this room right now.

“I am,” I say softly. “Obsessed with you that is. I’m obsessed with those purple boxers and the stretch of them over your cock the other week.”

My eyes cut down, and I hate that his skin and muscular thighs are covered by a pair of denim shorts.

“Oh yeah?” he breathes. “And if I tell you I’m wearing them now?”

Shaking my head, I try to focus on anything but those purple fucking boxers. His brother and two of his closest friends are right outside in the driveway. Hell, they’re probably already wondering where I am.

“I’m obsessed with that freckle behind your ear.”

His hand reaches up to the exact spot that has me mesmerized every time he walks away from me.

“I’m obsessed with the way your eyes track me no matter where I am in the room.” I lean in closer. “I can feel them on my skin, on my mouth.”

“I thought I was doing a good job of hiding it,” he whines. “I’ll do better.”

“I want your eyes on me,” I assure him.

“I’m obsessed with your ass in gray sweats.”

“Good to know.” I lean in another inch, our breaths becoming one.

I skip telling him I figured as much, and that’s the only reason I didn’t get here sooner. I forgot the bag I packed this morning at home, the anticipation of seeing him tonight was all I could focus on, and I had to run back home after work to change into them.

“I can’t stop thinking about your lips on mine.”

I groan at his words.

“You’ll have to remind me.”

He nods softly but doesn’t make a move to come closer.

“You smell amazing.” His eyes flutter closed, and with the disappearance of his bright blues, my restraint falls away as well.

Hand in his hair just like two weeks ago, I hold it in my grip and tilt his head to the perfect angle. Catching his gasp with my own mouth, I slide my tongue inside of his warmth. He’s sweet, arousal mixed with the wine he was drinking when I showed up to find him looking more gorgeous than I’ve ever seen. His groan and the bristle of his scruff on my face are nearly my undoing.

His mouth, the soft whimper he emits, and the sting of his blunt fingernails on the back of my neck literally bring me to my knees. As I sink to the carpet, his legs get involved, wrapping around my back and urging me forward. The heat of his cock is exactly where I need it, albeit separated by too many damn layers of clothes.

The hand in his hair grips him tighter as my free hand roams the length of his torso. The rippling muscles and the smooth skin of his shaved chest are driving me wild.

Why in the hell are we wearing clothes?

“Joseph,” I moan as he pulls his mouth away offering me his neck.

I fought coming here tonight. I fought the memories of this sweet little mouth for nearly two weeks. I failed on both counts, so I don’t bother fighting his offering right now.

Nipping his ear, I clench his hair tighter. In return, his legs flex harder, and his nails dig deeper.

“You make me crazy,” I confess against the column of his neck.

“And hard.” I groan at his words, but when the shift of his hips forces his cock against mine, I almost embarrass myself.

“You have to stop,” I hiss against his neck, tongue tracing the throbbing pulse point just under his chin.

“You first,” he challenges with a sigh when my hand sweeps over his hardened nipple.

Laughter outside of his window is worse than cold water being tossed all over us. We pull away from each other with a snap.

“Jesus,” I hiss as I draw my arm up to wipe my lips.

“Exactly,” he agrees.

I expect to find him just as confused by what we were doing when I look back from his window, but instead, his eyes are on the erection I’ve practically shoved in his face when I stood.

“Sorry,” I tell him and step back.

“I’m not,” he says with a devilish grin.

After a long moment, and him not bothering to pull his gaze away while I adjust the issue in my sweats, he finally peeks up at me. Cheeks flushed an amazing shade of pink, his eyes shine bright, but it’s the red, swollen bow of his upper lip that makes me question my sanity.

“We can’t do this,” I tell him as I run rough and shaking hands through my hair.

He swallows, pain and rejection in his eyes. “I know.”

That’s the only thing he says for a long moment, a snippet of time we use to stare at each other, both wishing things were different.

“Sorry I busted in on you.” I press my lips to his temple.

The lean of his head, the soft rush of breath from his perfect lips, and the way he clenches my t-shirt for the quickest of seconds before he releases me are the purest torture I’ve ever experienced in my life.

“Me too,” he whispers as I step out of his room and close the door softly behind me.

My next stop is the bathroom. Only one room away from him feels like the distance of a full rotation of the Earth.

Forearms against the vanity mirror, I beg my cock to calm down. I plead with him and explain that what we both want more than air in our lungs is not going to happen. He doesn’t listen. The asshole never fucking listens.

I’m as disgusting as Dave, actually contemplating rubbing one out in his house, only to step outside and face his brother with shame I can’t even speak of.

I’m to the point of having to explain my long absence to the guys before I actually commit to the act. I wish I could say I hate every second of it. Wish that I could deny having my nose pressed against the purple towel (it has to be his towel, right?), breathing in the delicate yet manly scent of body wash as I stroke my cock in his bathroom. But I can’t.

I can’t even deny the fact that I moan his name more than once in the process, or that being around his things and smelling his things makes me so fucking aroused that I consider blowing my load on his bath sponge, just so I can stroke off again when I get home at the idea of him rubbing my cum all over his body.

I don’t, but the thoughts are almost as devious as the acts themselves. I should be arrested. I should be put on some sort of creeper watch list because I don’t just jack off and get it over with. No, my sorry ass strokes until I’m near completion three times, edging myself for a finale that leaves me so breathless I can’t even hiss his name above a whisper when I spurt repeatedly into an abundant length of toilet paper.

It’s still minutes later, head hung in shame, that I actually open the bathroom door.

“I could’ve done that for you.” It’s a purr, an invocation, and the most agonizingly painful promise I’ve ever heard.

My cheeks flush as guilt, thicker than I’ve ever felt before, clogs my veins.

I can’t even face him. Or the guys for that matter. I rush straight out his front door, wave quickly to the guys after complaining of stomach trouble and get my ass out of there.