The next morning I woke up unbelievably hungover. I could barely even keep down the stale water in the glass by my bed. I ventured out to piss and I could barely keep my balance over the toilet. The sun was setting by the time I felt stable enough to drag myself out of bed properly and venture down to the kitchen for more water.
Evan was at the table, eating a hot pocket with a fork and knife. (They were his.) The floor creaked when I walked in, and he jumped.
That would have been a cute time to pour out our long-suppressed feelings for each other or whatever, but I was using every ounce of my willpower not to heave stomach acid all over the kitchen. As I poured my water, I glanced back at him. His eyes were tracking me like a prey animal, and he started jiggling his leg seemingly without thinking.
"Sup," I muttered before going back upstairs, leaning heavily on the stair rail.
A couple days passed uneventfully. Like I said, we barely saw each other, so we didn't really even have to try to avoid one another.
I have to give him credit. He's the one who broached the topic. Well, broaching is putting it one way.
I was jacking off in the middle of the afternoon as usual. I mean, I say as usual, but I had been abusing myself way more than usual the past couple days. The mental images of him wrecked on the floor, his cute little lips wrapped around my cock, moaning in desperation, were burned into my brain. No one had ever fucking devoured my cock like that. Every time I thought about it my dick twitched, and I had spent half my waking hours with my hand wrapped around my cock.
