"If you're straight," Asher's voice is barely above a whisper now, "how come you're thinking about my dick?"
Heat floods my cheeks, and I'm grateful for the darkness. "I'm not," I manage, but the words sound weak even to my own ears.
"Too bad." Asher's lips curve into a small smile that makes my stomach flip. "I've been thinking about yours all night."
The last threads of my self-control unravel like a poorly knitted sweater. My body moves before my mind can catch up, stepping forward until there's no space left between us. The contact punches the air from my lungs—Asher's body is solid and warm against mine, all lean muscle and sharp angles that somehow fit against my frame like they were designed to slot together.
Asher's hard cock presses against mine through layers of clothing.
It's fucking surreal.
The sensation overwhelms me, scrambles my thoughts until I can't remember why I've been fighting this.
My hips stutter forward experimentally, and the friction pulls a sound from deep in my throat—something between a gasp and a moan that I've never heard myself make before.
My mind splinters into a thousand contradicting thoughts, each one vying for attention. ‘This is wrong’ crashes against ‘God, yes, more’ while ‘what the fuck are you doing’ dissolves into ‘please don't let this stop’. The cacophony in my head grows louder with each roll of my hips, with each breath we share.
Asher's hands find their way to my hips, his fingers pressing into the flesh just above my hipbones. The touch burns through the fabric of my jeans, anchoring me to this moment. He guides our movements, setting a rhythm that has my toes curling in my shoes, and suddenly I can't remember why I ever thought this was something to resist.
My world narrows down to sensory input: the press of Asher's chest against mine with each inhale, the growing heat where our bodies connect, the subtle catch in Asher's breath when my movements align just right with his. Each point of contact feels like a brand on my skin, marking me, changing me in ways I can't quite comprehend yet.
When Asher shifts his stance slightly, slotting our hips together at a new angle, my thoughts scatter like startled birds. The increased friction on my leaking cock sends sparks of pleasure up my spine, and my fingers flex uselessly at my sides, uncertain where to land. I settle for gripping Asher's biceps, feeling the muscles flex under my palms as he pulls me closer still.
Then he turns around in one fluid motion, bracing his forearms on the railing. The movement is deliberate, calculated, and my mouth goes dry as Asher arches his back, pressing his ass against my straining cock. The pressure is maddening—not enough and too much at the same time.
My hands hover in the air like lost birds, unsure where to land. My fingers twitch with the need to touch, to grab, to claim, but my mind still wrestles with the reality of wanting these things. Finally, they settle on Asher's hips, and the solid warmth under my palms grounds me in the moment.
The distinct sound of metal teeth separating slices through the quiet night. My breath hitches as I watch Asher's hand disappear into his pants. From my position behind him, I can see the way his shoulder moves, the rhythmic motion hypnotic in its steady pace. His t-shirt pulls taut across his back with each stroke, the fabric thin enough that I can make out the play of muscles underneath.
The sight sends a fresh wave of desire coursing through me, hot and urgent. My cock throbs painfully against my zipper as my hips stutter forward of their own accord, seeking more friction. The movement makes Asher gasp—a small, breathy sound that hits me like a blow.
I find myself transfixed by the subtle tells of Asher's arousal: the way his breathing grows heavier, how his free hand grips the railing until his knuckles turn white, the slight tremor in his thighs. Each detail feeds into my own arousal, building pressure low in my gut.
I'm only vaguely aware of my surroundings—of the fact that, any second, one of the countless people milling inside can walk through the door and see—
Oh, the hell with that.
The knowledge of what Asher's doing—touching himself while pressed against me—feels too intoxicating. It's nothing like I've ever experienced before, nothing like I ever thought I'd want, and yet here I am, harder than steel and wanting more.
My movements grow desperate, my body chasing an unprecedented high. My fingers dig into Asher's hips hard enough to bruise as pleasure builds tighter in my gut. I'm close—mortifyingly close—when Asher's voice slices through my building arousal like a blade.
"Don't you dare come," his command comes out rough, almost guttural. He punctuates the warning with a particularly wicked roll of his hips that has me seeing stars. "If you're gonna come tonight," he continues, voice dripping with dark promise, "it'll be because of me."
The words make my cock jump. I want to protest—want to point out how unfair it is for Asher to deny me when I'malready so close—but my objections die in my throat as he spins around to face me.
Asher's fingers find my zipper with practiced ease. The metallic sound seems obscenely loud in the quiet night, but I can barely hear it over the rush of blood in my ears. My muscles lock up as Asher's warm hand wraps around my cock, drawing it out into the open air. The contrast between the cool breeze and Asher's heated touch sends shivers racing down my spine.
Asher's other hand never stops moving on his own cock, his rhythm growing more erratic with each passing second. His eyes fix on my length like he's memorizing every detail, drinking in the sight of me.
A string of quiet curses falls from Asher's lips as his movements become uneven, desperate. His face contorts in pleasure—eyes squeezed shut, bottom lip caught between his teeth—and I find myself mesmerized by the sight. I've seen people come before, but never like this, never this close, never another man.
Asher comes with a broken groan that sounds like it's been punched out of him. His come paints my cock in hot stripes, and the sight of it—of Asher marking me like this—nearly sends me tumbling over the edge myself. My thighs quiver with the effort of holding back, and I have to dig my nails into my palms to maintain control.
The whole thing feels forbidden, filthy, and absolutely perfect.
When Asher's hand wraps tighter around my cock, the sensation is unlike anything I've ever experienced. The slick warmth of his come coating my length should feel wrong, dirty, but instead it sends electricity coursing through my veins. Each stroke of his hand threatens to undo me completely—the perfectpressure, the expert twist of his wrist on the upstroke, the way his thumb occasionally catches on the sensitive spot just below the head.
My teeth sink into my bottom lip, trying to contain the sounds threatening to spill out. My hips move of their own accord, pushing into Asher's grip, chasing more of that exquisite friction.
