Warning: NSFW
Chapter One—Lachlan
January
Me: Are you in independent study?
That hot girl from camp: Y
Me: Can you get out of it?
That hot girl from camp: Y
Me: Meet me.
Me: Usual spot.
Me: In 5.
That hot girl from camp: K
Fourth-period art is the easiest class to ditch. Once we finish the day’s assignment—today’s was designing a new logo for our favorite clothing company—Mr. Henry lets us hang out, play on our phones, talk, whatever. He doesn’t mind if we leave the room to go to the bathroom, either, which is what I’m supposedly doing. Someone stole his large orange plastic spatula that says “HENRY HALL PASS” on the handle, but he tells me to go without it. He’s pretty chill, especially since it’s the first day back since winter break.
Leaving the humanities building, I step into the cool California sunshine, then speed walk past the cream stucco administration building, singing under my breath. On the exterior walls, pale blue flyers held up with dull gray duct tape announce upcoming auditions for the spring musical and advertise presale tickets for prom. Something flutters in my chest and stomach as I think about where I’m headed. When I notice movement inside the attendance office window, my instinct is to duck and race away.
But sometimes it’s better to hide in plain sight. I smile wide and wave to Mrs. Olson, who smiles and waves at me in return from her desk, mouthing “Hello, Lachlan.” I point in the direction I’m going, doing my best to look like I’m supposed to be there, and go back to singing quietly. Success.
I cross the quad and sneak into the north wing of the industrial arts building, home to a defunct auto shop and a barely used welding lab. As I walk down the hall, the sound of a lecture filters through the door of the 3-D printing computer lab. The slight odor of melting plastic filament tickles my nose. I’m all alone, but I’d better be quick in case someone else comes along. I’m the one who should be coming. Heh.
Heart pounding, dick thickening, I use one of the keys I nabbed to unlock the auxiliary supply closet.
My insides are vibrating as I wrench the heavy door open and slip through, then use my ass to slow it down before it can bang shut. It closes with a satisfying click. My breath is speeding up, and I do my best to regulate it.
I click on my phone’s weak flashlight to illuminate the small, windowless space. Plastic jugs of floor cleaner and industrial disinfectant line shelves at the back, and boxes of paper towels and toilet paper are stacked to the sides. Everything is where it’s supposed to be.
Except me. And unlike those detergents, all I do is foul up a place. Still, in the dark, in private, I can pretend I’m different.
Now, all I have to do is wait.
Too bad I’m feeling majorly impatient, my hands aching with the need to touch … him.
I wipe my palms on the rough fabric of my jeans and can’t resist giving myself a little stroke as I get erect fast. I keep myself from humming and check and recheck our text exchange, but there’s nothing new.
How long is he going to make me stand here with a hard-on?
I frown and put my phone back in my pocket, then cross my arms. He can’t even be bothered to send me an entire word. I just get one letter. To be fair, I can’t put him in my phone with his real name or correct gender, because what if my uncle—er, great-uncle, who isn’t so great—saw? So maybe I shouldn’t criticize his lack of verbosity.
Footsteps squeak on linoleum outside, and my body energizes. Is it him?
Keys rattle like they’re attached to someone’s belt. Definitely not him. A shadow blocks the sliver of light that comes under the door.
I tense, and my head swivels frantically. Is there space to hide behind the shelving unit?
Annnd the person passes by. My shoulders droop, and I lower my head, my breathing evening out.
I check my favorite app for the twentieth time since I woke up this morning. 227 days. You can make it, Lach.
What if he doesn’t show up? What if someone else finds me here? How am I going to explain why I’m standing in the janitor’s closet? I can’t even pretend to be helping Robert, since his schedule is first thing in the morning and after school. I’m beginning to feel ridiculous, like a total creep—which I’m not.
Honest, I’m not. Except maybe when it comes to him.
More footsteps, but these are lighter, and they pause outside the door. My pulse thumps, moving from my heart to my throat. A key slides into the lock with a metallic click. Then a dark-haired dude steps inside.
The door shuts behind him, and we’re standing together in the dark. The space is much too small for two six-foot high school seniors. The brief flash of daylight ruined my closet vision. I hope he can’t see, either, because I can’t help my silly grin, though I wipe it off my face quickly. I blink, and I can make out the outline of his shape.
I nod at him. “Hey.”
“Hey,” Isak says, his voice rough. He clears his throat like he’s going to say something but apparently changes his mind. He shakes his head and drops to his knees, his hands skimming down my hips, making my skin zing and my cock harden fully.
I fucking love his hands on my body—the tiny touches he can’t seem to help. I want to run my fingers through his shaggy hair, but I don’t do that. I want to kiss him, but I don’t do that, either. I never have. I never will. I part my legs, hiding my trembling.
There are a lot of things I want to do, but I don’t. I can’t.
It doesn’t count if you never touch him.
Rustling noises. Isak pulls a vape out of his pocket, sucks on it, and exhales. Sweet candy scent permeates the room. I’m pretty sure it’s just nicotine. He holds it out to me, but I shake my head. “Nah,” I whisper.
“’Kay.” He reaches up to my waist, and together, we unbutton and unzip my jeans, then slide them and my boxer briefs far enough down my hips to get my cock out. In the dark, he can’t see me clearly. That’s the point.
Isak pauses. Just a second. Then he kisses the tip.
Nrgh. The antici … pation.
He nods and squares his shoulders as if he’s decided something.
Finally, he starts licking and sucking up my length, and fuck, yes. This is why I’m here. My knees buckle, and I inhale sharply.
His mouth is wet, hot. Mine.
Not mine. Never mine.
“You’re so damn good at this,” I hiss. In my head, I call him baby, but that’s not a thing I could ever say out loud. He’s not my baby. Or sweetheart. I don’t know what he is.
Actually, yes, I do: He’s my secret.
He licks my cockhead and then sucks on it hard enough to make my soul exit my body. Why is it that someone sucking on my skin feels so fucking good? Not only my cock: my neck, my ear, my finger, my lips, my tongue.
Except, in my fantasies, it’s never a generic someone. It’s always Isak. And if I’m honest, every time I’ve been with a girl, he’s the person I was imagining.
My cock is the only part of me Isak touches with his mouth, though. I dream about him sucking on those other places. But we don’t kiss, don’t explore, don’t hold each other.
I can’t be into dudes that way, I remind myself.
Tell that to my dick. Traitor.
“Yes, please,” I mumble. “I need”—you—“this.”
Encouraged, he plays around, licking the slit, getting into a rhythm as he sucks down lower, artless and noisy, and it’s all I can do not to groan too loudly. Please, please make me come.
Sometimes it’s as if Isak knows what I’m thinking. He has me good and wet, and I feel him nod. I start thrusting my hips so my cock goes down his throat, then pulling almost all the way out. Again and again. Bliss.
I can barely control my movements or the words that come whisper-spilling out of my mouth. “God, fuck. Isak, you’re so good at sucking my cock. Look at you. You’re gorgeous on your knees like this,” baby.
No. He’s not my baby. I force my hands to stay still and not stroke his silky, messy hair.
It doesn’t count if you never touch him.
Isak doesn’t say anything. Obviously. But his sloppy noises and quiet groans and gags turn me on even more. I’m pretty sure the world could end, and I wouldn’t even care. This distraction, this rapture, it’s everything.
Footsteps outside make both of us freeze, me with my cock shoved deep, cutting off his airway. I pull back, and he breathes through his nose. I reach over and surreptitiously tug on the door handle. But it locks automatically, and we’re the only students who have the keys. No one should be coming in here.
“We’re fine,” I murmur, stopping myself from touching him by yanking my own hair.
Humming, Isak swallows around my length, clutching my ass cheeks now and pulling me deeper down his throat. Hot pressure around my dick takes my breath away. Makes my knees weak. Makes me want to shout.
It doesn’t take long for me to shudder and crest into a massive orgasm.
Like after standing and bouncing at the edge, toes on the rough surface, I take that leap off the highest diving board. Knees bent, I jump, hit the platform again, and get springboarded up and out into the heavens, weightless.
I soar.
Suspended for just a second.
I’m high.
I’m safe.
I’ve escaped.
Fuck, yes, I’m finally fucking free.
My come pulses into his wet, waiting mouth, my ass clenched, my abs tight.
And I let go as gravity pulls me down into the abyss. I can’t control my descent as I’m free-falling down, down, down into a dark, familiar place where I fall back to earth, twitching with aftershocks.
Oh, yes. Fuck, yes.
My chest rises and falls.
Then I open my eyes.
Okay. Okay, that’s all better now.
Control yourself. Control your breathing.
Isak laps up the last of my come, and I tuck myself back in my pants.
I lean against the shelf.
Don’t be selfish. Give him something. Anything.
Well, anything but you.
“You can come, too,” I murmur.
The zip of the fly of his floor-length jean skirt. The rubbing, skin-on-skin friction of his hand on his cock. The sexy gasp-groan of his release.
His entire body goes from rigid, on his knees, to a slumped heap of dark clothes and pleasure.
God, I love seeing him come, even in the shadows of the closet.
For a moment, we both stay still.
Then I hand him a stack of paper towels from the rack next to me. “Here.”
That gorgeous hair is right there. I really want to touch it. I make a fist. Fuck, why am I about to burst into tears? Stop it.
I blink a few times, pressing my lips together. My voice thick, I say, “Thanks.” Then, “Don’t tell anyone about us.”
“Yeah,” he mutters. “I know.” He sounds even hoarser than before.
I wait for him to stand and get himself together. My ears and cheeks are burning. What else do we have to say to each other?
Sighing heavily, I stare down at my shoes, and I finally ask the question I should’ve asked three months ago. “Why do you let me do this to you?”
Isak leans in close to me and murmurs, “I like it, too.”
Every part of him makes my body shiver in the best way. I love his scent—like gummy cola bottles and Irish Spring soap. I want to drink him in, but I ground myself. Tight knots are forming in my belly, because I hate what I have to say. There’s an awkwardly long pause before I respond. My voice is a low rasp. “It’s never going to be more than this. You know why.”
“Yep.” His voice is curt but quiet. I start to say something else, but he holds up his hand. “Don’t worry about it. I knew what I was doing when we started this. You’ve never lied to me. I get it.”
I nod, but those knots inside me tighten rather than loosen at his words. I’m bending toward him, reaching out …
“I’d better go,” he whispers. He gives me a lingering look. I have to keep from running my fingers along his jawline, his Adam’s apple, his lips.
I want to touch him.
And I really fucking can’t. My eyes grow hot. Why do I do this to myself?
Because he’s my weakness. I tell myself I’ll stay away from him, but I can’t.
We both clamp our lips shut and listen.
Nothing from the hallway.
Isak opens the door, looks both ways, and takes off without a backward glance, his black denim skirt sweeping the floor, his boots quiet. I catch a movement as he tosses his paper towel in the trash can right outside.
I press my forehead to the door when it closes.
I hate how I feel. I hate who I am. I hate my life. I hate how I have to burst our bubble. I really hate hurting him.
I take a final deep breath.
Time to compartmentalize.
I lock up my time with Isak in the janitor’s closet, where it needs to stay, and run my hands through my hair, smoothing it down. I straighten my clothes. I check my face in my phone camera. Chin up. Shoulders back.
And I emerge the captain of the football team and senior class president.