One simple brush of the man's thumb across his
lips, seven simple words, and Jackson's entire body was poised on the edge of
an earth-shattering orgasm. Jackson had never become so aroused so fast in his
entire life.
Jackson could feel his cock throbbing in his
jeans. He closed his eyes and clenched his fists. He tried to wish his hard on
away, but the only thing he could see was the strange man's deep,
copper-colored eyes as they stared back at him.
Jackson groaned as another wave of desire
flashed through him.
Spinning around, he opened his eyes and hurried
to the men's room. Thankfully, it was vacant. Going into one of the stalls,
Jackson closed the door and locked it. He leaned back against the side of the
stall and reached for the zipper of his jeans.
Pulling his cock free, Jackson stroked himself
fiercely. He could feel the fire in his blood licking its way up his spine. He
panted, his cock throbbing in his hand. He was on edge, but no matter how fast
he stroked himself, he couldn't seem to fall over that edge into orgasmic
bliss.
Suddenly, a picture of the man slipped into his
mind. Jackson cried out and came instantly, spurting all over his hand and the
side of the bathroom stall. His knees shook and threatened to give out on him.
Jackson quickly sat down on the toilet seat, his chest heaving with the
intensity of his release.
Jackson looked down at himself and grimaced. He
was covered in spunk. He had jerked off in the men's room of a bar to the
mental picture of a complete stranger. He was crazy. He had lost his ever-lovin'
mind.
He suddenly didn't feel so well. In fact, he
felt pretty woozy. His stomach was churning and the orgasm he had experienced
just moments before now felt somehow lacking. Oh, it had been one of the best
orgasms Jackson had felt in quite a long time, better even than several times
he had been with a partner.
And if that didn't confuse Jackson, he didn't
know what did.
Well, besides the fact that he had gotten off
over the image of some stranger... a stranger who had been staring at him for
weeks and called him pretty boy in the deepest, sexiest whiskey voice
Jackson had ever heard.
Jackson knew he had good looks. He had all of
his life. Still, no one had ever made the words pretty boy sound quite
the way that man had. It was spoken almost as an endearment, and just thinking
about it made Jackson's cock begin to rise again.
Jackson groaned and reached for some toilet
paper to clean himself off. Tossing the tissue into the toilet, he shoved his
semi-hard cock back in his jeans and zipped them up.
He was so fucking pathetic.
Shaking his head in disgust, Jackson unlocked
the stall door and crossed to the sink. He washed his hands and cleaned a bit
of his shirt where he had splattered come. Then he wet a napkin and ran it
over his face. He felt flushed.
Jackson tossed the napkin in the trash and
looked at himself in the mirror. He had the looks, the muscle-bound body, the
blond hair, the blue eyes. He had the whole package, and sometimes he wished
that he didn't.
He couldn't count the number of times he had
found some nice guy and taken him home only to find out the next morning that
the guy was just sleeping with him because he wanted to brag to his friends
that he had bagged the hot guy.
None of them seemed to want to stick around to
find out what type of guy he was beyond his looks. None of them wanted to get
to know the real him.
And that made Jackson so angry his skin itched
as his muscles munched. He was more than a gorgeous body. He was also a mind
and a heart and a soul and—Oh, to hell with it. Jackson was going home.
Alone!
|