Page 56 of Loverboy

“I could tell,” I said sarcastically.

The only thing that mattered was that I’d stopped him from making another monumental mistake. Moreover, I wouldn’t hesitate to do it again. He could use me as many times as he needed to if it meant never seeing him get his heart broken again.

I wouldn’t lose him, not to anyone.

25

Milo

THERE WAS A special place in hell for people like me. People who dry-humped their brother’s leg until they came. A normal person would be disgusted with themselves, but I wasn’t normal. Instead, I was elated, buzzing from finally getting the attention I desperately craved, no matter the level of depravity that it took to get it.

It hadn’t been romantic. There hadn’t been any kissing, or soft touches, or whispered confessions—only the sting of teeth, relentless teasing, and the burn of adrenaline. Still, it consumed me. After catching him fucking Oliver, it felt like reclaiming what was mine.

That was fucked up.

But he was mine. He was my blood brother, my best friend. The only person I believed when he said he’d never leave, and the only one who could look at the worst parts of me and not run for the hills. I was deranged enough to let the whole thing go if it meant that his attention was only on me.

I’d never liked sharing. Not lovers, not friends, not even family. I knew that people weren’t possessions, but whether I liked it or not, jealousy always pricked at my insides whenever someone else stole some of their time.

With Jasper, that feeling stretched to dark places I never knew existed inside me.

I wanted to pretend it never happened, but if something was on my mind, it killed me to keep it inside. The issue, however, was that this wasn’t the kind of thing I could bring up over breakfast without absolutely humiliating myself.

Hey, Jasper. How do you feel about last night on a scale of one to ten? Was it good?

I think the fuck not.

I settled on internalizing my thoughts, listening to him as he moved around the kitchen. The rich aroma of coffee drifted through the apartment, the staple of our unofficial routine. It reminded me of when we were younger, back when we caught each other in the hallway on the way to grab a snack or down our respective medications for our broken minds. The Pill Bar, we’d called it.

It was just another day for one of us, and that person sure as hell wasn’t me. Jasper was acting like nothing had happened while my brain attempted Olympic-level mental gymnastics, trying not to shatter into a million pieces. He was getting ready for work, and the opportunity to ask him about last night was slipping away with every passing second.

Every time I opened my mouth, my resolve died on my tongue.

“You okay?” Jasper asked, peeking out from the kitchen.

“Yeah, just hungover.”

“I bet.” He smirked, voice low and teasing.

A jolt of heat surged through me, unwanted and impossible to ignore. My cock twitched traitorously in my pants, followed by a healthy dose of shame. Was that look on his face really about my drinking habits? Or was it the other thing?

He approached with two mugs, his glasses sliding down his nose a fraction as he leaned over, loose strands of sleep-tousled hair falling over the frames. My stomach twisted in anticipation, though I wasn’t sure what for.

When I reached for the slightly more creamer-heavy mug, the brief contact between our fingers left my heart lodged somewhere in my throat.

I was fucking losing it.

“Was the party what you needed to feel better?” Jasper continued like I wasn’t falling apart at the seams, settling in the armchair instead of beside me on the couch.

Annoyance swelled in my chest. It was equal parts because of the distance between us and the audacity he had to ask such a question. Obviously, it sucked. My plans for retribution were completely derailed the moment he took me into the bedroom. Did it count as masturbating if he helped me get there? More importantly, what could I call it to make it less humiliating?

“No,” I said hesitantly, crossing my legs and leaning back.

“What, you’re telling me that getting wasted and acting stupid didn’t cure your depression?” He mock-gasped.

Prick.

“Oh, shut up.”