Not playing nice

Kael

Riven was trembling.

Not in the obvious, dramatic way. It was just these tiny, barely-there tremors running through his thighs where my forearms rested. His breathing had gone shallow and ragged, like he was trying to hold it together and failing miserably. His cock was still straining hard against the front of his shorts, the damp spot at the tip darker now, spreading slowly. Fuck, the sight of it made my own dick twitch again even though I’d just come minutes ago.

I stayed crouched between his legs, close enough to feel the heat rolling off his body, close enough to smell the sharp, clean scent of his arousal mixed with whatever soap he used. My hand hovered just above his thigh, not quite touching.

“Huh? What do you say?” I asked, my voice low but edged with impatience now. I was done playing nice. “You want me to help you or not?”

He stayed stubbornly silent, eyes fixed somewhere over my shoulder, jaw tight, cheeks flushed dark. The internal war was written all over his face — straight boy versus the aching hard-on he couldn’t hide.

I let my gaze drop pointedly to the obscene bulge in his shorts again. My own cock was already starting to fill, heavy and interested beneath the towel. “Oh well,” I sighed, pulling my hand back slowly, deliberately. “Since you don’t want me helping, maybe I should just leave. I don’t feel like getting hard for the second time tonight.”

The second my hand left his space, Riven’s fingers shot out and wrapped around my wrist — tight, almost desperate. His grip was stronger than I expected.

I paused, arching one brow as I looked up at him. “Changed your mind already?”

He looked away again, mortified, but his hold on my arm didn’t loosen. His voice came out small, cracked with embarrassment. “Just… just make it quick.”

A slow, wicked grin spread across my face. Oh my god. Is this real? The almighty straight boy Riven actually wants me touching his cock?

“You’re serious?” I asked, letting the smirk bleed into my voice. “Does the big, straight hockey player want my hand on his dick?”

“You doing it or what?” he snarled, still refusing to meet my eyes, but his fingers were digging into my forearm like he was afraid I’d actually pull away.

I nodded, trying to keep my expression somewhat composed even though triumph was singing through my veins. “Yeah, I’ll do it. But you know you should look at me while I help you.”

His head snapped back toward me, eyes wide. “Do I need to do that?”

I felt a flicker of irritation mixed with heat. “Yeah. Do it now.” My voice dropped lower, rougher. “I want to share gazes with you. Let me look at that pretty face while I make you cum.”

Riven swallowed hard, throat working visibly. For a long second he just stared at me, conflicted as hell. Then, slowly — so fucking slowly — he turned his head and met my eyes.

Those eyes… dark, stormy, embarrassed, and so goddamn hungry underneath it all. It hit me straight in the gut.

“Is this what you want?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper, like he still couldn’t believe he was saying it.

“Attaboy,” I chuckled, reaching up to rough my hand through his hair in a mocking little gesture of praise.

He slapped my hand away immediately, glare sharpening. “I’m really losing patience. Get on with it and go away.”

I laughed under my breath. So fucking cute when he tried to act tough.

I moved slowly, giving him every chance to stop me. My hand slid up his thigh, over the thin fabric of his shorts, until my fingers slipped just beneath the waistband. Riven’s breath hitched sharply — a soft, involuntary sound that went straight to my cock.

“What?” I asked innocently, letting my fingertips play with the soft curls of hair at the base of his shaft, teasing without quite touching where he needed it most.

“I can’t believe I’m letting you do this to me,” he muttered, shaking his head, eyes still locked on mine even though he looked like he wanted to die from embarrassment.

“Well, you might as well enjoy it,” I murmured, my voice low and rough.

Then I finally wrapped my fingers around him.

He was hot. Burning hot. Thick and heavy in my palm, the skin velvet-soft over steel. Riven hissed through his teeth, his free hand flying up to grip my strong forearm hard, nails digging in. His cock jerked violently in my grip, leaking a fresh bead of pre-cum that slicked my fingers instantly.

“You’re quite huge…” I commented, giving him one slow, experimental stroke from base to tip, feeling every vein, every twitch. “Well, not even half as big as me.”

Riven just glared, but the glare was weak, fractured by the way his hips twitched forward into my hand.

I tried to tug his cock fully out of his shorts so I could see him properly, but his grip on my arm tightened even more, almost panicked.

I sighed deeply, pausing with my hand still wrapped around his throbbing length inside the fabric. “What is it, Riven? Do you want me to stop?”

He shook his head quickly.

“Then what?” I pressed, my thumb brushing lightly over the slick head, spreading his pre-cum in slow circles. He shuddered hard.

Riven swallowed again, eyes fluttering for a second before he forced them back to mine. His voice came out small, humiliated, and so fucking needy: “How about you just do everything you need to do… while inside my shorts?”

Fuck.

The shy, embarrassed way he said it made something dark and possessive coil low in my stomach. He didn’t want to see it. Didn’t want to fully admit it was happening. He wanted the safety of the fabric, the denial, even while my hand was wrapped around his leaking cock.

I smirked, slow and filthy. “Whatever you need, straight boy. I’ll make you feel good right here… inside these shorts.”

My grip tightened just a fraction, and I started stroking him — painfully slow, and deliberate, letting the fabric drag against the sensitive skin with every pass. The wet sounds were muffled but still obscene. His pre-cum was soaking through everything now, making my palm slick, making the inside of his shorts a hot, slippery mess.

Riven’s breath stuttered. His thighs tensed around me. His eyes stayed locked on mine like I’d ordered, wide and glassy, full of shame and raw pleasure.

I wasn’t going to rush this.

Not even a little.