Page 53 of Zeus

Frankie Jenkins is face down on top of his covers, back bare with muscles tensing as he moves, hips grinding his pelvis into the mattress.

"Fuck," I whisper, knowing I've been caught when every muscle in his body tenses.

He flips over, eyes wide, cock straining in his boxers, the patch of wet on the front of them catching my eyes first.

When I find the strength to look at his face, I see cheeks pink with embarrassment, throat working on a swallow as he stands.

I take a step back, sure he's about to punch me in the face or at minimum yell at me for invading his privacy.

I stand my ground, needing to remind him of the situation we're in and how his little dreams could get us both killed.

His eyes drift down the front of me, slowly making their way down to my knees before sweeping back up again.

When his eyes meet mine, there's not a hint of anger I can find in them.

Now it's my turn to swallow, the lump of what needs to be said, battling with the teen I was years ago who would've given both kidneys for the chance of this man looking at him the way he is now.

Instead of a fist to the face, he steps in close, reaching around me to close the door at my back.

The room is tiny, but it feels even smaller with him so close I can smell the mint of toothpaste on his breath.

"I he-heard noises," I stammer, feeling like a fool. "I wanted to make sure you were alright."

"Did I sound like I was in pain?" he whispers in my ear, his warm breath traveling down my neck.

My mouth opens to respond, but no sounds come out. The brush of his lips at my racing pulse fries my brain, making it impossible to form words.

Have I ever been able to speak?

What is language anyway?

I press myself closer, giving in to the need to press my erection against something, anything that belongs to him.

He doesn't take a step back.

He doesn't question what I'm doing or respond in a way that makes me think I'm crossing a line he doesn't want to cross with me.

I freeze, knowing from experience that the line will come, and he's the only one who knows where it is. I've been down this road with him before.

The first time I wanted to wrap my arms around him after I gave him that first hand job.

The same after I sucked him off the first time.

There were so many lines that I could spend a lifetime trying to count them.

Each one left me feeling used and heartbroken.

Promises I made to myself long ago resurface, urging me to take a step back, to draw my own line and make him vow not to cross it.

I can't, however. I'd be foolish to even think that I could push pause on what's happening, much less stop it altogether.

I know where it leads. I know how hurt I'll be. But the kid who sobbed into his pillow nearly every time we hung out as teens needs these moments to heal, despite the new pain this will cause.

"Hmm?" he prods, and my brain glitches.

I have no idea what he's talking about, and I feel more than a little ridiculous when I reach for him, a wordless attempt to beg him not to stop.

He looks down at my grip on his arm, but instead of his eyes meeting mine again with anger or irritation, he looks a little sad, as if he might be aware of the struggles I faced then and the pain he might've caused me.