Chapter 2: Unspoken
Jake
“You just gonna stand there, Sam?”
The words left my mouth before my brain could stop them. They came out rough, sleep-thick, and dripping with a dark, gravelly challenge that sounded like it belonged to an entirely different man.
Sam’s expressive eyes went impossibly wide in the silver moonlight. His throat worked as he swallowed hard, the bob of his Adam’s apple drawing my gaze like a magnet. For one frozen, agonizing second, he just stared. He stared at the heavy shape of my hand slipped under the waistband of my boxers. He stared at the way my hips had already rolled involuntarily into my own calloused grip. I could see the exact moment the panic and the desire collided in his chest.
Then, he spun on his heel and practically ran back down the short hallway.
The bedroom door shut hard enough to rattle the cheap frame, leaving me alone in the sweltering dark.
I lay there on the cramped couch, breathing like I’d just finished a dead sprint. My chest heaved, the sweat cooling against my skin. My cock throbbed violently in my fist, heavy, aching, and demanding attention. I should have let go. I should have yanked the thin blanket back up, rolled over, and pretended none of that had just happened.
Instead, I squeezed myself once, hard, and a low, pathetic sound scraped out of the back of my throat.
What the fuck is wrong with you, Jake?
I released my grip and dropped my arm over my eyes, trying to block out the moonlight. I’m straight. I’ve only ever wanted women. I liked soft curves, the smell of floral perfume, the easy, predictable way a girl’s body opened under my hands.
I was twenty-eight years old. I knew exactly who I was. I was a mechanic. I was the responsible older brother who took care of things. I had never—not once in my entire life—looked at a man and felt the bottom drop out of my stomach the way it just had. I had never woken up rock-hard and leaking simply because a guy was standing in the dark watching me sleep.
And not just any guy. Sam. Jess’s best friend.
My little sister would absolutely lose her fucking mind if she knew what was happening in her best friend’s living room.
I forced my hands flat against my sides and stared blindly at the ceiling until the worst of the physical throb faded into a dull, persistent, agonizing ache. But sleep didn’t return. It refused to. Every time I closed my eyes, the back of my eyelids betrayed me. I saw the way Sam’s soft dark hair had fallen across his forehead. I saw the way his full lower lip had parted when I spoke. I pictured the lean, runner’s lines of his body trapped in those thin boxers.
My cock twitched violently again, pressing against the tight fabric of my underwear. I cursed into the quiet room, rolled onto my side, and faced the back of the couch like it might somehow save me.
It didn’t.
***
Morning arrived too bright, too hot, and entirely too early. I was awake before the sun finished climbing over the neighboring apartment buildings, a restless, crawling energy burning under my skin. The apartment was electric and dead silent. Sam’s bedroom door stayed firmly shut.
I needed to move. I needed to do something with my hands that didn’t involve wrapping them around my own cock while thinking about another man.
I found the rusted toolbox Sam kept shoved under the kitchen sink, pulled on yesterday’s grease-stained jeans, and headed outside barefoot with a mug of black coffee. His bike was chained to the railing in the parking lot, and it was a neglected piece of shit. The chain was rusted orange, the brakes were dangerously soft, and the rear tire was practically flat.
Perfect. A mechanical problem. Something I could actually fix.
I stripped my gray T-shirt off once the August sun got high enough to bake the pavement. Sweat was already sliding down the groove of my spine by the time I had the chain off and soaking in a shallow plastic pan of degreaser. The bold black-and-grey tattoos covering my arms and chest flexed and pulled with every turn of the wrench.
I kept my head down, forcing my brain to focus on the grit of the gears, the smell of the oil, the familiar, comforting bite of metal against my calloused palms.
I didn’t hear the apartment door open.
I only knew Sam was there when a tall, condensation-slicked glass of ice water appeared in my peripheral vision.
I stopped wiping down the gears and looked up. He stood a few feet away, the sun catching the soft dark hair falling into his eyes. He was wearing an old, faded T-shirt and a pair of athletic shorts that hung dangerously low on his narrow hips. His gaze flicked over my bare chest, tracing the geometric lines of ink, dropping to the heavy sweat pooling at my collarbones, before he forced himself to look at my face and held the glass out.
“Figured you’d be thirsty,” he said. His voice was quiet, hesitant.
I reached for the glass. Our fingers brushed.
The jolt hit my groin so hard and so fast I almost dropped the fucking glass. It was a sharp, electric shock—like someone had hooked a live jumper cable straight to the base of my spine. I tightened my grip on the glass so hard my knuckles turned white. I drank half the ice water in one continuous, desperate pull, just to have an excuse not to speak.
Water dripped down my chin and tracked a cold line down my chest. I wiped my mouth with the back of my grease-stained wrist and looked up at him from under my lashes, fighting a dark, ravenous hunger I absolutely did not understand.
Sam’s sharp cheekbones were dusted with a faint, telling pink flush. His expressive eyes gave every single one of his secrets away—the way his gaze dropped helplessly to my mouth for half a second, the way his throat worked as he swallowed the heavy tension sitting between us.
“Thanks,” I managed to say. My voice came out as a low, devastating rumble.
He nodded once, far too quickly, and retreated back inside the apartment like the parking lot had suddenly caught fire. I watched the door click shut behind him. I looked down at the half-empty glass in my hand.
My cock was already half-hard, pressing a thick, heavy ridge against the stiff denim of my jeans.
“Fuck me,” I muttered to the empty parking lot. I set the water on the concrete and went back to the bike like manual labor could somehow burn this sickness out of me.
It couldn’t.
I stayed outside in the blistering heat until the chain was thoroughly cleaned and oiled, the brakes were tightly adjusted, and both tires were properly inflated. Sweat ran in steady, thick rivers down my chest, soaking the waistband of my jeans and mixing with the scent of motor oil and cedar. Every time I reached up to push my slipping black-framed glasses back up my nose, my knuckles brushed my own mouth.
Every single time, I remembered the way Sam had stared at my lips the night before. The memory sat heavy and wrong in my gut, yet so unbelievably hot that I had to covertly adjust myself against the bike frame more than once.
When I finally admitted defeat and went back inside, Sam was in the tiny kitchen making eggs. The domestic smell of butter and toast filled the small space. He glanced over his shoulder as I walked in, his eyes immediately tracking the fresh sweat gleaming on my skin before he forced his attention back to the stove.
“Bike’s done,” I said, leaning against the doorframe.
“You didn’t have to do that, Jake.”
“Needed something to do.”
We ate breakfast in near-absolute silence at the tiny, wobbly table. The air between us was so thick you could have cut it with a wrench. Every accidental brush of our knees under the wood sent another spike of heat shooting up my thigh. I kept my eyes glued to my plate. I knew that if I looked at his mouth for too long, I was going to do something we could never take back.
The rest of the day dragged by in agonizing, hour-long increments.
Around two in the afternoon, I locked myself in the bathroom and took a freezing cold shower. I stood under the spray, braced both strong, calloused hands against the cheap tile, and jerked off. I squeezed my eyes shut and tried desperately to picture the blonde bartender from the shop down the street. I tried to picture anyone else.
But the second I started stroking, my treacherous brain filled with the image of Sam’s smooth skin, the dark flush of his cheeks, the quiet strength in his runner’s legs.
I came with his name locked violently behind my teeth, panting into the steam. It didn’t help. The release didn’t purge him from my system; it only cemented the terrifying reality of what my body wanted. The second I stepped out of the bathroom and caught his faint, clean scent lingering in the hallway, my cock twitched with heavy interest all over again.
***
Night fell like someone had dropped a heavy cast-iron lid onto a pressure cooker.
I was stretched out on the too-small couch, stripped down to nothing but a clean pair of dark boxers. One arm was tucked behind my head; the other rested uselessly on my stomach. I stared blindly at the ceiling fan, watching the blades cut through the sweltering, stagnant air. My body felt entirely too big for the space, every thick muscle wound tight with anticipation.
Down the short hall, I could hear Sam pacing in his bedroom.
Soft footsteps. The quiet, protesting creak of the floorboards. Back and forth. Back and forth. It was driving me clinically insane.
I couldn’t stop thinking about his mouth. I couldn’t stop obsessing over how pretty it was. The fullness of his lower lip. The way it had parted on a sharp inhale when I asked if he was just going to stand there. I found myself violently wondering how that mouth would look stretched around something thick, how his expressive eyes would look gazing up at me from his knees.
It’s wrong, my brain screamed. He’s Jess’s best friend. He’s a guy.
But the wrongness didn’t matter anymore. It was entirely eclipsed by the fact that I was rock-hard on his couch, leaking pre-cum into the cotton of my boxers, aching so badly my vision was going blurry at the edges.
Every single creak of the floorboards down the hall made my stomach tighten a fraction more. The pacing was a countdown, and I didn’t know what was going to happen when it hit zero. I slid my right hand under the thin gray blanket and gripped my aching length through the fabric, just trying to take the unbearable edge off.
It only made it worse. A fresh drop of slick pre-cum dampened the cotton. My hips shifted restlessly against the cushions. I was so hard it bordered on physical agony.
And then, the pacing stopped.
The silence that followed was deafening. My breath hitched in my chest. I waited.
The bedroom door clicked open.
Sam walked into the living room barefoot and desperate. He moved quietly, like he was trying not to startle a massive, feral animal. His soft dark hair fell into his eyes in a messy sweep. He was wearing nothing but a pair of dark, tight boxers that did absolutely zero to hide the fact that he was just as hard, just as desperate, and just as affected by this proximity as I was.
The lean, long lines of his body looked deceptively breakable in the low, silver light spilling from the streetlamp outside. But there was nothing fragile about the way he stood there, his chest rising and falling with rapid, shallow breaths, staring at the blanket currently tented over my lap.
My chest was already heaving. The blood roared in my ears, drowning out the hum of the fan.
I didn’t think. I stopped trying to rationalize, stopped trying to be the protective older brother, stopped pretending I was something I suddenly wasn’t.
Without a single word, I grabbed the edge of the blanket and shoved it violently down to my knees.
My cock sprang free. It was thick, flushed a furious, dark red, the blunt head already slick and shiny with leaking pre-cum. The cool, air-conditioned breeze of the room hit my overheated skin like a shock, but I didn’t flinch. I didn’t cover myself.
I just looked up at my sister’s best friend like I was a starving man, and he was the only meal left on earth.
Sam’s eyes dropped instantly to my exposed cock. He froze. His full lower lip parted on a shaky, desperate inhale, his chest stuttering. For one agonizing second, I thought the reality of it—the sheer size of what I was offering, the absolute taboo of who we were to each other—would make him turn and run again. I braced myself for the rejection, my jaw clenching so hard my teeth ached.
But he didn’t run.
Sam crossed the last few feet of the living room floor on silent feet. He dropped to his knees right beside the edge of the couch.
He didn’t hesitate. He reached out, his hand trembling just slightly, and wrapped his fingers completely around my cock for the very first time.
The sensation was absolute devastation.
He was hot. Firm. Possessive. It was a velvet-over-steel heat that short-circuited every nerve ending in my body and punched the air straight out of my lungs. It felt infinitely better than any woman’s touch, better than my own hand, better than anything I had ever experienced in my twenty-eight years of life.
My hips bucked hard and violently into his grip on pure, animal instinct. I chased the pressure, desperate to feel him squeeze tighter. My head fell back against the armrest, my glasses fogging instantly from the heat radiating off my own skin.
A filthy, broken, utterly ruined sound ripped from the back of my throat.
“Fuck, Sam…” I groaned, my broad hands tangling helplessly in the soft fabric of the couch cushions. “Don’t stop.”
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