Whit huffs a disbelieving laugh. “Are you being serious right now?”
“Um, yeah. I am.”
He eyes me, his cheeks slightly flushed, so I decide to push him a little more.
“He told me some things too,” I add, and Whit freezes.
“What did he tell you?”
I smirk and then take another swig of beer. “Interesting things.”
Whit begins tapping his fingers against his thighs, and when he catches me staring at them, he shoves his hands into his pockets.
“Tell me,” he demands.
I pretend to mull over it before I shake my head. “Nah.”
Whit stands completely still, his eyes blinking before he steps toward me.
“Tell me,Caleb.”
Nng, when he says my name. It gets me going. I feel myself start to chub up even more and I hate myself just a little.
“You gonna to make me? Heard you like to be in control.”
Whit mutters under his breath, and then before I can even blink, he’s on me, his hand at my throat, pushing me back against the wall, his body pressed up against mine. I could easily throw him off. I know I could, but I don’t. I just let him maneuver me wherever he wants.
And I am so into it. Love being thrown around, apparently. My cock is rock hard now, straining against my pants, begging to be touched.
“I do like being in control,” he says, his lips near my ear. His warm breath against my skin makes me shudder beneath him.
He moves one of his thighs between my legs and presses forward with it, right into my aching dick, and I huff out a breath.
“Oh fuck,” I whisper, and he chuckles darkly.
“Magnus has a big mouth and a nonexistent filter. Did he tell you I like to fuck men?”
“Yeah,” I say, my hands moving up to grip his biceps. He’s stronger than he looks.
“Do you like to fuck men, Caleb?”
I exhale shakily and don’t answer because I don’t fucking know.
“Or do you like to be fucked?”
Oh shit.
He shifts his leg against my hard length as his hand squeezes against my throat. I should have jacked off last nightandthis morning, so I wouldn’t seem like such a desperate motherfucker right now. It’s humiliating.
But I’m into it because I allow myself to be held against the wall and tormented.
“Did he also tell you, you’re not my type?” he asks, and I force myself to look at him.
“I’m everyone’s type, asshole,” I grit out before my breath catches.
“Not mine,” he says, and then he’s pushing away from me.
He runs his hands through his hair, and he inhales and exhales a few times deeply like he’s trying to get himself under control. And all I can do is just stand there and try and not come in my pants like a pathetic thirteen-year-old boy after his first sexual experience.