9. Ryan

“Hey, Siri, set a timer for two minutes.” Miller’s voice is relaxed and calm, friendly even, as if soliciting his roommate is a common occurrence for him.

Be that as it may, it’s far, far from normal for me. I can confidently say it’s about as far from normal as I’ve ever been.

Which really does beg the question: what the actual fuck?

Why is my towel around my ankles?

And why on God’s green Earth am I standing naked with Miller fucking MacAvoy looking at me like he’s hungry and I’m the last snack on the planet?

My breath catches when the full horror of what I’ve done dawns on me. I turn to the side, both hands over my junk, trying to find a position that shows as little as possible. He’s undeterred. He takes a long stride toward me and then another smaller one so he’s standing directly behind me. I clench every muscle in my body to stop myself from shaking.

Calm down.

Two minutes. It’s only for two minutes, then it’s over. It’s already been a few seconds, so it’s less than that now. How bad can it be?

Just breathe, and don’t move.

Keep blinking. And don’t show any sign of fear.

I feel Miller’s gaze on my back, drilling into my spine, slicing through muscle and bone, reaching into me worse than the fist ever has. Reaching in harder than I’ve ever felt. Thick and hot. Runny. Spilling down the small of my back, tracking lightly over my ass.

“Mm,” he says softly.

I jerk, cringing as if I’ve taken a solid blow to the kidney. It makes him smile. I can’t see it, but I can feel it, and right now, that’s worse.

He leaves me like that for a long time, a long-ass motherfucking time. He leaves me like that until I’m painfully aware of every inch of my skin. Every dent and curve of my body. I feel it all. Hot and pulsing and breathing. Crimson from shame and discomfort.

Jesus Christ, how fucking long can two minutes possibly be?

“Turn around.” His voice is soft and smooth, silky as it pours over me. Commanding in a way that makes me feel like something jointed and wooden. An inanimate thing. Strung up. Dancing to the whim of a far-from-benevolent puppeteer.

I turn stiffly, twisting my head slightly, looking longingly at the blond timber and high gloss of the door.

“Hands at your sides.”

It takes a second. Common sense, self-preservation, and survival instinct all scream their objections but ultimately fall on deaf ears. My hands drop flaccidly to my sides. Miller’s lips part, top lip twisting up on one side, a slow exhale puffing so close to my face I feel it against my cheek. His eyes travel down my face, down my neck and chest, burning like a laser when he gets to my pecs, leaving a humiliating trail of gooseflesh in his wake. His Adam’s apple travels up and down the column of his throat, front teeth scraping a pillowy bottom lip. Sucking it into his mouth and releasing it when it’s shiny and wet.

“Mmm,” he says as he takes in my right nipple and then my left.

My heart beats like a drum. A war drum. A warning. Hard, jarring pulses that make my ears ring and beg me to run and take cover.

Miller looks up at me again, frying me with a blistering gaze until my eyes skid off his like hot oil off water. He sinks to his knees. I step back as fast and far as I can. It isn’t far at all. I connect firmly with the desk behind me, ass cheeks tensing as they make contact with the cold surface behind me.

He crawls closer to me, eyes not leaving my body. He moves slowly. Sinuously. Feline movements that leave me in no doubt whatsoever that Miller MacAvoy is an apex predator with dubious intent.

“Y-you said no touching,” I whine, nasal and affected, hating the way I sound.

He kneels before me, sitting back on his heels and raising his open hands to the side of his head in surrender. Gentle lines carve little tracks into his palms but offer me nothing.

No lifeline for me.

His eyes are vivid and wide. Sparkling with life and lust and righteous satisfaction. His lashes cast webbed shadows over his cheeks, and the overhead light catches the highlights in his hair and makes them glow gold. He smiles at my cock. A smile so perfect that angelic is the only word to describe it.

I admit it. Miller looks good on his knees. He looks pretty and good, maybe even sweet at a push.

He isn’t.

In the history of good, no one’s ever been further from it.

He pushes himself up off his heels, his face now mere inches from my cock.

“H-hey, Siri, how much time is left on the t-timer?” I splutter.

It makes him smile worse. Worse than before. His steel gaze cuts into me deeper. So deep that it hurts.

“There’s a timer with twenty-three seconds left,” chirps an overly clear, smarmy voice.

To my utter mortification, I feel the tell-tale warmth, the slow trickle, the subtle burn of blood rushing south.

No!

Surely not.

But yes. Oh yes. My dick, which has always had a mind of its own, starts to thicken, rising, lifting slowly away from my balls as I look down in complete horror.

No, no, no!!

This can’t be happening. Not now. For the love of God, not now!

It’s clear my dick hates me. Can’t stand me. Resents me with every fiber of its being for not finding it more warm, wet holes to call home. It’s had it up to here with me and has decided that now is the time for revenge. Sweat beads on my top lip and my hips squirm in discomfort.

“Hold still,” Miller warns, bracing himself with both hands on the edge of my desk, crowding me as he leans in even closer.

My body revolts. My heart punches my sternum with enough force to crack bone and my lungs rasp for air. Miller’s mouth is less than an inch away from me. Less than an inch. Way less. He closes his eyes and opens his mouth. I see teeth and tongue. Soft wetness and warmth.

He tilts his head back, opening his eyes and waiting expectantly until I make eye contact. Then he exhales. Blowing a long, steaming hot breath up the length of my shaft.

The timer sounds, a blaring sound that makes me jump even though it’s the very sound every cell in my body has been primed to hear for the last hundred and twenty seconds. Miller moves his hands, uncaging me, chuckling softly as I cover my dick and balls with both hands.

He gets to his feet, stepping back and considering me for a moment.

He cocks his head to the side, pressing his lips together lightly and nodding slowly. “Five stars,” he drawls. “Will buy again.”

An intense burst of fury catches on fire but splutters and changes to something worse as he brazenly rearranges himself. He makes no effort to hide how hard he is. If anything, he wants me to look. He wants me to know.

He flops onto the sofa, pressing the heel of his hand hard against his erection, then he unzips, holds his hand out near his mouth, and spits into it.

“The fuck are you doing?” I demand.

Bev’s hearing about this. Don’t think she isn’t. I don’t give two shits if it paints me in a less than favorable light, I’m going down there first thing tomorrow, and I’m not leaving until she’s moved me. That’s what I’m doing.

“Well, Ryan,” he says matter-of-factly, “I’m jacking it. Fapping. Jerking the gherkin. Beating the bishop. Tugging the tiger.”

It occurs to me distantly that I’ve never seen Miller truly happy before. But I have now.

And holy shit, do I hate it.

I turn on my heel, floundering for a second as I try to decide what to do about my towel on the floor. God knows I’m loathe to give Miller more of an eyeful than he’s already had.

The thing is, I need another shower more than I need air.

I crouch beside my towel in an awkward half-curtsy, grabbing it quickly before jumping up and racing to the bathroom as I hold it bunched over my ass to protect what little dignity I have left.

“Ryan.” There’s something in his voice that stops me. Something guttural and raspy that tugs at the strings in my joints. The strings that let me know that even though the worst has passed, I still dance to the beat of his choosing. “When I come”—he breathes out heavily—“Imma say your name.”

I slam the bathroom door behind me and turn both faucets on full blast. I lean a shaky hand on the sink and look in the mirror, straight into the bloodshot eyes of a stranger.

Holy fuck. That happened.

It actually happened.

It’s still happening. Miller’s outside with his hand on his cock. A cock I made hard. He’s touching himself and thinking of me.

I jerk the bathroom cabinet open and riffle through Miller’s side, roughly knocking things over, opening a small sandblasted container with a shiny silver lid, and digging out an unnecessarily large glob of his overpriced moisturizer.

I slather it all over my aching cock and stroke as hard and fast as I can.

Quiet. Not a sound. Not a single goddamn sound, I look down and threaten my dick, or, or…I’ll take you in for a circumcision. I’m serious. I mean it. I’ll do it. Not a sound.

My orgasm hits like the crack of a whip, buckling my knees and starving my brain of oxygen. My hips jerk and my eyes roll back as waves of pleasure wrack me. Tumbling me, rolling me, spurting out of me in thick, hot floods.

I cling to the sink, knees trembling, as I desperately try to work out how to be human and totally braindead at the same time. The water is still running. My head is spinning, and there’s a loud whooshing sound that feels like it’s coming from inside me. Even so, I hear it. Soft and wispy. Smooth baritone.

“Ryyyy…”

Jesus. Goddammit.

How many times do I have to tell him not to call me that?