“So you get to stay there the rest of the school year?” Spencer asks, absently trailing his fingers down his taut belly. My eyes follow the motion, and my brain short circuits a little bit. It takes me a moment to reorient myself.
“Apparently. I mean, I don’t think they’re going to stop pressuring me to head to Elisa’s, but for right now, we’re at a stalemate. They basically took away the one thing I wanted most, which was to stay at Adamson. I’m not scared of anything else they might throw at me. I did agree to spend at least two weeks at my mom’s place during the summer though.” A sigh escapes me, and I swipe a hand down my face. I do want to spend time with Mom, that’s not the issue. It’s just, I don’t trust her and dad not to pull some coup and force me to spend my senior year in LA. It’s my worst nightmare.
“Well, shit, we’ll join you then,” he says, and I force my eyes from his firm lower abs to his face. “Ranger’s mom has this killer estate in LA that she never uses. We can hang out there for a bit, and be your backup.”
A smile takes over my lips, and I exhale, noticing the way Spencer’s running a finger along the waistband of his shorts.
“What are we doing?” I ask him after a minute, my senses hyper-aware as he sets his palm down on his lower belly. There’s a tension between us that I can feel, even though he’s on the opposite side of the country.
“I was honestly hoping you'd tell me that. But since you asked … do you want to uh, make this a thing?” His hand slides a little lower, fingers teasing the waistband of his sweats. “Like a sexting thing?”
That's not exactly what I meant, but … I'll take it.
“Is it still sexting if, you know, there's no texting involved?” I raise an eyebrow, but Spencer's already running his tongue along his lower lip in a seductive little come-on.
“Does it matter?” he asks, mouth curving to one side as his lids droop into a seductive, heavy bedroom look. “Do you really want to talk semantics, or do you want to do this thing?” Spencer makes this low, groaning sound in his throat, the movement beneath his gray boxers indicative of, um, well jacking-off. “I'm already imagining you touching me, your hand curving around my cock …”
“I've never actually touched it with my hand,” I add, squirming in the sumptuous satin sheets and hating this perfect bed, and this perfect room, and this perfect house. I just want to be back in Connecticut with the Student Council. The stupid, stupid Student Council.
Spencer pauses, and then curses under his breath.
“We can rectify that when we see each other next,” he purrs, stroking himself. Or at least, I think he's stroking himself. I swallow hard. I want to ask when that might be, but I don't want to ruin the moment. “Come on, Chuck, don't leave me hanging.”
“Take your boxers off,” I command, wanting to see him naked and vulnerable before I dare to go there. If I close my eyes, I can just imagine his woody smell, like cedar and hyssop. Ugh. “Also … what fragrance do you use?”
“Fragrance?” Spencer asks, his eyes opening wider, the turquoise color shocking even when it's only pixels on a screen. After a moment, he flashes a cocksure grin. “Ahh, okay, I gotcha. You want to buy the cologne I use and spray it all over your shit, huh?”
“What?! No!” I shout, far too enthusiastically. I pretend to yawn, hoping Spencer won't be able to see the pinkness in my cheeks with the low light from the bedside lamp. “I just … I need a gift for my new beau here. And your scent wasn't all that bad.”
“Your new beau, huh?” Spencer asks, and then he pushes his boxers down his hips, revealing the path those gorgeous 'V' muscles take downward, toward the hard length of his cock. My throat gets tight again, and words fail me. “I guess maybe your new beau wouldn't appreciate you sneaking around with me behind his back? We should probably stop.” Spencer wraps his hand around himself, and teases the head with his thumb.
Crap, crap, crap.
“Okay, fine, I want to buy your scent. So what? That doesn't mean anything. I just like it, and I recently ran out of my usual lemon meringue stuff.”
“It's Kenneth Cole Black, and I think even a poor, little peasant like you could afford it.” Spencer strokes his hand along the length of himself, and then rolls over, digging around in his nightstand for some lube.
This is getting seriously real, I think as he adjusts his phone, holding it up high over himself, so I can see everything. Like, everything.
