The Roommate Situation (10 page)

“There’s two of them, actually,” he says.

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but from here it doesn’t look particularly revolutionary. What’s it for?”

“I figure I can sell them with the cuffs. Like you were saying, something you can use to lock a cuff to something besides itself. For people who don’t have eyebolts drilled into their walls, or maybe they prefer leather to chain. You can wrap it around, say, a bedpost or a pipe, then lock the two rings to a cuff.”

I shift a little at the crowding in my jeans.

“Or both cuffs,” he says. “Or four, if you have leg cuffs. With two straps, you can lock each wrist to a bedpost. I made it long enough that you could use it around a post or a beam too, like in a basement.” He shrugs.

Trying to sound nonchalant, I say, “Oh. Well. That’s kind of cool, then.” I slide my leg up and cup my shin in my hands, trying to cover what I really think.

“I figure I can raise the price of the cuffs I list them with. Maybe people’ll go for it; maybe they won’t. If not, they can buy the cuffs from another listing without the straps.”

“So.” I swallow quietly. He’s coiling the strap into the palm of his hand, and that lock of hair is falling over his forehead again. And his hands—I can already picture them holding one of my wrists down, connecting the D-rings together with a lock. I clear my tight throat and say, “You want to get some photos?”

“I already took some of the cuffs and straps, but yeah, I could use an application photo if you’re up for it.”

Up for it
is an unfortunate choice of words. I grasp my shin and pull my knee closer. This could be awkward. But the other option is turning down the offer, and that’s no kind of option. This is money to me—this is my guitar. Also, my dick is throbbing,
yes, do it
. “My wrists are your wrists,” I say.

“Sweet. Let me get the cuffs.” He rolls the chair back.

“Where do you want to do it?” I ask as I pull my shirt over my head.

“Your bed’s fine. There’s not a lot else in here to put the straps around, unless you want to empty your locker and use the hanger bar.” He comes back with the cuffs and camera cradled against his chest, the locks and straps filling a cupped hand.

He dumps those on the bed by my leg.

“It’s probably a little dark in there for that,” I say. “Black cuffs on a black background.”

“Right. Get these on. I’ll get some lights together. Is it okay to move your desk lamp?”

“Go for it.” I wrap a cuff around my wrist and buckle it one-handed, pulling it as tight as I can. I open and close my wrist. Jesus, it feels good. It looks good. I slip a padlock through the pin and snap it closed.

It takes effort to swallow. I glance over at Derek, who has the lamp unplugged and is trying to situate it on my chair, pushed nearer to the bed again. I adjust myself surreptitiously, hoping his attention is going to be on his new straps and not what I’ve got going on below my belt.

He goes back to his side. The light over there clicks off, and as I snap the lock on the second cuff—my cock aching already—he comes out with his lamp, its cord dragging on the floor.

I lean forward, rest my forearms on my knees, and watch him set the lamp up near the head of the bed, its shade angled toward the bedpost.

With a quick look toward my wrists, while the locks dangle in the air, he says, “I probably didn’t need to bring both over.”

“One side might look better than the other,” I say. “Or I can slide down so my head’s out of the way, and you can get a shot of both at the same time.”

“Whatever works.” He’s wrapping one of the straps around the bedpost. “Lie down.”

“Face up or down?”

“Whatever’s comfortable.”

Neither is going to be comfortable, for different reasons that stem from the same problematic source.

He holds out a hand, waiting for my wrist. I picture his hand turning, moving forward and upward, curving against the side of my face. Me leaning into it, breathing the scent of his skin.

Shit.

I turn and put my knee on the mattress. I’m going to need to build some dividers in my brain, make sure this stuff doesn’t spill out. I stretch out on my stomach—there is no fucking way I’m lying there with a massive boner on display.

As I let him pull my wrist toward a corner of the headboard, I turn my face toward the wall and say, “You never answered whether you looked at your uncle’s twink DVD.”

“I was curious. Can you hand me that lock?”

I have to reach under my stomach to get it. “And?” I ask. His fingers brush mine as he takes the lock from me.

He looks up at the ceiling. “I hope there’s enough light. I wonder if we should move the bed away from the locker.”

“Is it casting a shadow?”

“No, it’s just kind of murky.”

“Do whatever you have to.” I settle on my chest, my cheek against the pillow, my head turned away again. “What happened in the video?”

He puts a knee on the bed and leans over me to wrap the other strap around the other bedpost.

I pick at the edge of the pillowcase with my free hand, waiting. As he works the strap between the locker and the post, he says, “It was three or four guys fucking a younger guy in a barn.”

“I’ve never watched gay porn,” I say.

“I was, like, thirteen.”

“You haven’t watched any since?”

“I don’t watch a lot of porn to begin with. I think I’m more touch oriented.” His hold around the cuff is firm as he snaps the lock closed around the D-rings.

He backs off the bed.

The heels of his boots tread across the floor.

I try to pull my wrist away from the post. I’ve got a couple inches of leeway. Bending my fingers, I catch the lock between the tips of two and manipulate it around so the keyhole is facing my palm; then I pull on the lock, trying to pop the shackle out.

Nope.

I settle my head down, fist my hands, and pull both arms at once.

Derek shifts one of the lamps, splaying light across the wall.

I dig my hips into the mattress and pull harder.

My breath catches at the back of my throat—at being locked there, at the grip of the cuffs, at the pleasure rippling from the weight of my body pressing my dick into the mattress.

“Move your head toward the wall. I’m going to do this wrist first.”

I tip my head forward. Wait for the digital shutter to sound. Instead, shadows and light play across the wall again as he readjusts the lamps.

I shift my forehead a little closer to the wall, my breaths warm on the bare skin of my arm. I close my eyes. All I can feel is my weight resting on my cock.

The camera clicks, then again.

“Make a fist.”

I do, making it look like I’m fighting the cuff.

As the camera clicks some more, I breath shallowly and slowly.

“Okay, the other wrist. I don’t think it’ll turn out as good, but you’re here.” I can hear a smile in his voice when he says, “And it’s not like you’re going anywhere.”

“Funny.” I pick my head up and shift over, trying to keep my expression blank as sparklers light up in my crotch.

As he climbs over me, I set my other cheek on the pillow, my forehead against the arm he’s done with. While he’s got one knee on the bed, his other leg is planted on the floor. I study the way the worn denim creases toward his knee, the way it clings to his thigh just above that. How close his body is to mine.

“Open your hand a little.”

I uncurl my fingers.

Click. Click.

“All right. Time to get your head out of the way.”

I start to lift myself up to scoot backward, but he grabs my ankle and yanks, fast. Sparks shoot from my groin. I bury my face in the rumpled comforter, my arms stretched taut over my head. My toes push against the floor beyond the end of the bed. The footboard digs into my thighs.

The shutter goes off. Derek adjusts the lights again. I clench my hands, holding on to the fading tendrils of pleasure that being dragged down the bed stirred up.

The camera goes off a few more times before Derek says, “That should do it.”

I keep my face in the comforter. I really,
really
want to cant my hips forward and push the head of my cock against the blankets. I do press them forward, just a little, and it feels amazing—the stretch in my arms, the cuffs holding on, keeping my hands out of reach.

Derek’s bent over my arm, his fingers brushing my skin as he turns the lock toward him.

I grip the bedpost and pull myself back up, onto my knees instead of dragging myself over the bed.

He pulls the lock out, freeing my wrist.

I feel like I’m all cock as I look down at my hand, opening and closing my fist.

He unloops the strap from the post.

“These look so awesome,” I say. They’re the iron-cross cuffs. Pretty badass, even if they’re not the top tier.

Derek, closing the lock and strap into his palm, looks over at my wrist. “They do look pretty cool. I don’t usually get to see them on someone else’s wrist.”

“You try them on yourself?”

“Not since I worked out the pattern.”

I’m watching his mouth as he says it. He turns his attention to stuffing the strap into his pocket. I realize what’s missing from his mouth. “What happened to your toothpick?”

“Broke. I haven’t grabbed a replacement yet.”

I lie down on my side, my head resting on the arm that’s still attached to the bed. “I’m not used to seeing you without something in your mouth.”

He smiles as he reaches for the other lock. “That’s me.”

His hair’s falling toward his eye again.

I hook the strands in the crook of my finger and drag it out of the way.

He glances down at me, then says, “Shit,” turning his attention to looking for the key he just dropped.

I lift my head, looking for it too, somewhere near my arm. Then I feel it, just under my forearm. I push my fingers under and have it.

“And here I was thinking you were gonna be stuck here,” he says with a grin. He reaches to take it from me.

Smiling, I pull my hand out of the way, the key pinched between my fingers.

His eyebrows come down—and I lob the key over his side and across the room.

He turns to look where it went, then back to me. He’s practically leaning over me, braced on one arm, the fingers of his other hand relaxing now that they’re not expecting to have a key in them.

I have no idea what the fuck I’m doing.

“Guess you’re not in any hurry to get free,” he says. His empty hand turns. I feel it come to rest on my hip.

“I guess not.” I put my head down, looking up at him. Swallowing.

“I must make comfortable cuffs.”

“Very.” I pull my wrist a little, and the lock holds with a satisfying tug. Reaching up with my free hand, I move that lock of hair off his eyebrow. “That’s always getting in your way.”

“Yeah.” He hooks his thumb into my belt loop.

Instead of dropping my arm, I let it rest on his shoulder, my thumb against his neck, where I can feel his pulse, strong and steady.

I really like him. I mean, even just in general. Jamie and Taylor, Chuck and Pete, they’re fun to hang out with and all, but I really like Derek.

His thumb uncurls from my belt loop. Warm fingers touch my skin, just above my jeans.

My hips want to roll, moving my crotch right under the heel of his palm.

“Maybe you could write a testimonial,” he says.

“Guaranteed to get your dick hard.” It comes out of my mouth before my judgment can vet it.

“Is that what it’s done?” he asks, not recoiling in horror, just rubbing his fingers in light little back-and-forths against my skin.

I nod. I mean, that’s all I can do, just that one lift and lower of my head while I stare at his mouth, my breath stalled in my chest, my cock surging at the proximity of his hand.

“Maybe I should add a note about unintended side effects to the listing.”

“Maybe you should,” I say hoarsely. I drag his face toward mine with a grip on his warm nape.

The softness of his lips gives way to the hardness of his teeth behind them, and then his mouth opens, and so does mine. There’s the shock of his tongue, the tip licking mine. He draws back, just a few inches, his lips still parted as he looks into my eyes. My heart races.

“I—” I swallow. “I can’t be held responsible for the effects of an untested product.”

“Right.” His voice is all edges, lowered almost to a whisper. “The guinea-pig excuse.”

“I don’t think there are any ill health effects, unless you punch me for this.”

He laughs. It’s sudden and surprising compared to how low we’ve been speaking. “I’ll try not to punch you.”

And then his mouth’s on mine again, his five-o’clock shadow rough against my chin. My fingers clutch his hair as I kiss him, desperate. Desperate like I wasn’t with Katie Duke or Alexis Whitney, though I’d pretended to be. I’d told myself that what I felt making out with them was what I was supposed to be feeling, that what I saw in movies was just acting, but this—
this
is what I’m supposed to be feeling, this heat, this desperate urgency, this sense of satisfaction.

He curls his fingers into my waistband, his weight pressing down on his hand as we explore each other’s mouths, breathe each other’s air.

He shifts, stretching out alongside me, taking his weight off my hip. The heel of his hand turns and brushes the front of my jeans, and my breath goes out of me. I grip his neck and press my forehead to his, and I just—I can’t even breathe. All the air’s gone.

His body presses against mine, his arm around my back, pulling me to him, pulling us together, and we’re kissing again like our lives depend on it. I’ve got just the one hand, and I’m tugging his shirt up, finding warm skin underneath, pushing over his belt, finding the hard ridge in his jeans, and he grinds it against my palm, forcing his knee between my legs. I want in there, and I fumble with his belt. He pulls his mouth away to work my belt free, both of us with just one hand to work with, both of us in a hurry, fighting with leather, buckles heavy enough to knock knuckles as they swing free, buttons that are hard to work loose because of the pressure behind them. I pull at his zipper until it catches on the bulge and won’t go any farther. Good enough for me. I shove my fingers into the heat of his jeans, my palm flat against his stomach, feeling his breaths, the twitch of his muscles.