No. I’m not going to jack off to thoughts of my best friend. That’s a whole new level of that I’m not willing to succumb to. My body can get a fucking grip and calm the hell down.
Well…
My hand slides behind the waistband of my boxers without my permission, wrapping around the hard, smooth flesh. “Fuck.” My head falls back as my palm slides up my erection before stroking back down.
Images of Anderson’s big, calloused hand taking over for me, with his hard body behind me while my head falls on his shoulder.Fuck…
“Hey, Crew.” A soft knock sounds at the bathroom door. “You in there?”
My eyes fly open, hand movement halting. “Uh, yeah. Be out soon.”
“Shit, are you okay? Hungover?”
My eyes slam shut as I urge air into my lungs. Get it together. “Uh, yeah. Little hungover, but I’m okay. I’ll be out in a minute.”
“Okay, man. I’ll be downstairs.”
Sitting down on the bathtub ledge, my hands rest on my knees as my head hangs between my shoulders. This has to be some weird neurological response to my fears that Anderson will get sick of my shit and end our friendship one day. There’s no other excuse for it. We’ve been friends almost our entire lives and I’ve buried these feelings expertly, and now I can’t even be near him without getting hard?
That’s it. A response to my underlying fears.
Grabbing the toothbrush I keep here, I brush my teeth before making my way back into the bedroom. My sweats are folded on the desk chair, so I slip them on, grab my cell phone, and head downstairs to where Anderson said he’d be.
Music is quietly playing in the kitchen, so I go that way. Stopping at the entryway, I watch him in his element. Watch his hips sway to the music softly as he fries some eggs and sausage—his breakfast burritos are the best I’ve ever had.
He put on some basketball shorts but decided against a shirt. His back is tight and slightly muscular. He likes to—or liked to, not sure if he still does—go to the gym regularly. Weights and kickboxing have always been his thing. His toned, powerful body is proof of that. Bringing my gaze back up, I see his hair is still tousled from sleeping, but it works for him.
He must feel my eyes on him because he looks over his shoulder, face splitting into a giant grin when he sees me. “Hey. How you feeling?”
“Better.”
“Making breakfast. Hungry?”
“Starving.” My voice comes out throatier than I meant it to.
Something passes through his eyes, almost like a hunger of his own. His eyes trail down my body before quickly coming back up to meet my gaze. The simple gesture heats my blood.
“Take a seat,” he says, getting back to his task. “They’re almost done.”
The rest of breakfast, thankfully, goes smoothly. No accidental boners or longing stares. The way he looked at me earlier had to have been a figment of my imagination. My horndog brain making me see shit that isn’t there.
Taking turns in the shower, we both get ready, heading out of the house around ten. We’re hiking Oyster Dome today—it’s an eight-mile route in the Chuckanut Mountains. This used to be something we did frequently when we were in high school. Luca would come with us almost every weekend to various spots, but Oyster Dome has always been a fan favorite amongst us.
The drive there doesn’t take long. While trying to find parking, we quickly realize we weren’t the only ones who felt today would be a good day for a hike. This and kayaking are extremely popular hobbies in the Pacific Northwest. It’s also one hell of a way to sweat out a hangover.
Anderson shoulders his sage green REI hiking backpack, and we make our way toward the trail. The views on this hike—especially at the beginning and end of the trail—are absolutely stunning.
The switchback trek becomes steep quickly. And I’m becoming painfully aware of how out of shape I am. A sheen of sweat lines my hairline and my lungs are screaming at me a few miles in. I’m practically panting, sucking in gulps of air, by the time we stop for a break.
“Fuck, man. My out of shape ass needs to find its way back into the gym. This is pathetic.” I laugh, grabbing the back of my shirt and pulling it over my head.
Wiping the sweat off my face with my shirt, my gaze fixes on Anderson as he sets the backpack down and removes his own shirt, a whiff of his deodorant invading my senses. My eyes trail over his firm pecs, down to each notch on his six-pack, to where his shorts hang dangerously low on his hips.
He lifts his arms in the air, connecting his hands as he stretches tall, which does nothing but lower his shorts farther. The top of his pubic hair peeks out before he rights himself, my mouth watering at the sight.
What the fuck?!
“C’mon,” he says, tossing the pack on his back again. “Let’s keep going.”