but Bryce’s wedding was a stark reminder of how expendable he had allowed himself to be in that marriage, and he was determined to never let that happen again. And he did want Bryce to look at Julian and realize what he’d given up.
Turning the lights out, Julian moved to the back room. It was far too early for bed, but his emotions had wrung him out. He needed a release, and in spite of his stress, he felt himself start to harden as he lowered the bathroom lights and started the shower.
The heat billowed up over the glass in clouds of fog, and he breathed it in, filling his lungs with a faint twinge of lavender from the soap residue. It felt nice to shed his clothes, to lay his hearing aids on the counter and sink into the muffled silence of his deafness. The pressure in his head eased, and the warm cascade of water started to loosen the knots Ilan had been working on earlier that day.
Reaching for his soap, Julian poured a liberal amount in his hand, then braced one palm on the cool tiles while the other circled over his chest. His nipples had always been sensitive—and using his own hand didn’t hold the same weight as when it was another man’s, but it was enough to send little spirals of pleasure through him.
He liked touching himself more than he liked other people touching him. No one ever wanted to take the time to know his body, to see what subtle, inconspicuous corners of his skin made his heart race and his breathing hitch. But he knew himself—he knew where to drag his fingers, where to pinch and tug until his cock was begging for friction.
His eyes closed and he pictured a man—nameless, gorgeous, an expanse of skin and muscle with a gentle laugh that rushed through his limbs when he knew just how to make Julian’s need crest into desperation. He wasn’t a picky person—he just wanted to be wanted, and this faceless figure in his mind wanted him like no one else.
He would have soft lips that dragged open over the back of his neck, and careful teeth that grazed his earlobe. Julian touched himself there, scraping his nail over the soft flesh before dragging his hand down. He was ready to release some of his emotions, his pain, to let pleasure eclipse the quiet torment, even if it was only for a moment.
His dick throbbed as he squeezed, and his head rushed as he began to stroke himself.
“Just like that,” the disembodied voice said against the back of his ear. It was muffled, just like everyone’s voice would be—but it was there. He was almost able to imagine the way a hot puff of breath would feel against him. “Harder. Faster.”
He obeyed his fantasy, his fingers digging into the hard wall, his eyes shut, his face tipped down. His arm began to ache, but he was nearly there, his knees threatening to give way just as he felt his orgasm rip through him.
Come shot out, splattering against the tiles at his feet, and he let out a faint sob that tore at his throat, aching and raw. He stepped away, his eyes opening to watch the water gather the white seed and carry it down the drain.
He felt sated, but not enough. He felt tired, but nowhere near sleep.
It didn’t take long to soap up and rinse off, and he appreciated the way his limbs were more relaxed, even if he wasn’t better. It was a special kind of luxury to slide under cool sheets with his body naked and still heated from his orgasm, though. He basked in it, breathing in deep before he rolled over and grabbed the remote to turn his TV on.
It was low enough he wasn’t sure the volume was on at all, but the captions rolled across the screen, barely accurate but he wasn’t reading them anyway. He watched people move, watched their bodies, their expensive and well-practiced motions. The clock said it was barely eight, but the sky outside his window looked like midnight with December’s darkness. He squinted his eyes until the few stars he could see blurred into nothing, then he rolled over and fixed his relaxed gaze on the wall.
It was a week. Just one week—and he had never given a shit about Christmas anyway. Then it would be over. Bryce would be married, and the last vestiges of his old life