“I’m not gay,” Andrew said again, but his words came out more like a moan.
“I’m not hearing a no,” Logan said, jacking him off.
“As if a no would stop you.”
“You won’t find out unless you try it,” Logan said dryly, but he didn’t press. He knew Andrew felt better about this if he could pretend that he was being forced. Logan should have probably been more bothered by it, but he wasn’t. Had he cared for Andrew or—God forbid—actually wanted a relationship with him, this would have been offensive as fuck. But as things stood, Andrew continuing being a bigoted little shit practically guaranteed that Logan wouldn’t get attached. This meant nothing. Just a base need that didn’t mean anything.
So he stroked Andrew’s cock, deriving a sick sort of pleasure from every moan that bigoted straight guy let out as a “homo” jacked him off.
Andrew clearly was trying to be quiet, trying to swallow his noises, but soon enough, he couldn’t stop his moans from slipping out of his mouth. His hips started moving too, fucking into Logan’s fist helplessly until Andrew was a moaning, trembling mess.
“No—” Andrew cried out as Logan took his hand away.
“Turn around.”
Andrew did as he was told, gasping.
“Touch my cock,” Logan said.
“I won’t.”
Chuckling, Logan took Andrew’s hand and wrapped it around his aching cock. “Jack it off.”
“I’m not gay.”
“Jack it off. Or I won’t touch yours.”
“I hate you,” Andrew said, but his hand finally moved, a little hesitant at first. “This is disgusting.”
“Shut up, or I’ll shut you up with my cock.”
That shut Andrew up.
“But maybe you’ll like it,” Logan said, pressing their foreheads together. He resumed stroking Andrew’s cock. “Maybe that’s what you actually want: a fat cock in your mouth—”
“Fuck off,” Andrew said breathlessly, squeezing Logan’s cock tighter and fucking into Logan’s fist. “I’m not a—”
“Faggot? You have a cock in your hand, straight guy.” Logan sucked on his jawline. “And you like it.”
“No—” The word turned into a long moan as Andrew came into Logan’s hand. “Oh.”
Logan pushed Andrew’s boneless body onto his back.
“My turn,” he said, stroking his own cock with Andrew’s come, getting it nice and slick.
The guy under him seemed barely conscious and allowed Logan to arrange his limbs the way he wanted them. Fuck, something about it went straight to Logan’s cock. Having this confrontational, opinionated asshole so pliant and satisfied in his arms was beyond arousing. Logan put his slick cock between Andrew’s thighs, squeezed them together, and then fucked them, hard and fast, until he saw stars.
He collapsed on top of Andrew, burying his face in his neck. He breathed, his body still shuddering with the afterglow.
He felt better than he had in months.
Chapter 9
The rain finally stopped on their eleventh day in the shelter.
It was too little, too late, but Andrew still felt relieved.
The enforced closeness had fucked everything up, not allowing him to put some much-needed distance between them—not allowing him to escape. A week. He’d had to put up with Logan groping and molesting him every night for a week, and Andrew’s stupid, traitorous body had betrayed him every time—to Logan’s amusement.
God, Andrew hated him.
He was so glad the rain had ended. They wouldn’t have to live on top of each other anymore. The madness was finally over.
But as Andrew stretched out on his blanket under the clear starry sky, his heart was pounding and his skin was prickling with anxiety. He felt naked, even though he was wearing a t-shirt for once. He couldn’t make himself relax, tensing up at every sound. He couldn’t relax enough to sleep.
Squeezing his eyes shut, he focused on the sound of the ocean beating gently against the shore. It should have been calming. Soothing. But all it did was remind him of how small and insignificant he was compared to Mother Nature, how far from civilization they were.
He hugged himself, feeling illogically cold. He wondered if they held a funeral for him already. Probably.
He wondered who’d even come to his funeral.
He had to swallow the sudden lump in his throat. It didn’t matter. Why did he care if people didn’t come to his funeral? Had he been truly dead, he wouldn’t have cared. Dead people didn’t care about anything. Vivian was likely mourned by hundreds of people—everyone loved her—but it was a small comfort when she was dead. No one likely gave a fuck if Andrew was dead or alive, but so what? He didn’t want people to mourn him. He didn’t need people, period. He’d only ever needed Vivian, and now she was gone. His wife, his best friend, and his beloved. What did it matter if people he didn’t give a fuck about didn’t give a fuck about his death?
But no matter what he told himself, the cold, lonely feeling in the pit of his stomach didn’t go anywhere. He felt achingly alone, and for the first time in years, he hated the feeling, couldn’t stand it, felt like he was choking on it. It had been easy to be a loner when he still had a loving, supportive wife. Now he felt… He felt anchorless. Adrift. And any other word that meant miserable.
He wanted arms around him. He wanted not to be alone.
He wanted to feel wanted.
Andrew opened his eyes.
Then, he got to his feet and walked toward the other man’s bedroll, his bare feet silent on the sand.
He looked down at Logan. The moonlight was bright enough to see that Logan’s eyes were open. He was gazing up at Andrew, his expression impossible to read.
Andrew wet his dry lips, his heart pounding against his ribcage. He pulled his t-shirt off. Then he hooked his thumbs on the waistband of his shorts and dragged them down. He stepped out of them, his eyes still locked with Logan’s.
For a long moment, there was only silence as they stared at each other.
Then Logan pushed his own boxers down and pulled out his half-hard cock. It seemed huge in the moonlight. Obscene. “Get on your knees.”
Andrew’s knees suddenly felt weak.
He dropped to one knee, then the other, until he was settled between Logan’s thighs.
Logan’s hand buried in Andrew’s overgrown hair and pulled him down. “Suck me off,” he said, his voice low and hoarse.
Andrew closed his eyes and shook his head. “I’m not sucking your dick. I’m not gay.”
Logan made a frustrated sound. “Then what the hell are you—”
“I’m not sucking your cock. Force me.”
Logan’s hand went very still.
Andrew was glad Logan couldn’t see that he was blushing.
After a long, tense moment, Logan said, “All right. But you’ll need a safeword.”
Andrew frowned, bewildered. “What for?”
“I’m not forcing myself on you without a safeword, you twisted little fuck,” Logan gritted out. “I need to know when you really mean it if you want me to stop.”
Andrew scoffed. “You didn’t ask for a safeword in the shelter.”