Just a Bit Wrecked (Straight Guys #11) - Alessandra Hazard Page 0,19

Logan found himself unable to stop touching him after and during the blowjobs. Andrew reacted to a gentle touch beautifully: all but purring and leaning into the touch like a touch-starved kitten.

Logan had trouble believing it was Andrew’s normal. It was probably just the isolation getting to him.

It was getting to Logan, too.

The more time passed, the blurrier his self-imposed rules became. What did it matter that Andrew was a bigoted asshole when they were going to be stuck on this island for the rest of their lives? Neither of them was their real self here. The island had changed them both into something else. The real-world Logan normally avoided homophobic, latent homosexuals like the plague. The real-world Andrew would never suck a “homo’s” cock.

Neither of those men existed on the island.

There was only here and now, the slick mouth around his cock and Andrew’s glazed, drunk eyes as he gazed up at Logan as if he were a god.

Fucking hell.

Logan had never liked being needed.

Now he wanted it, craved it like his own personal drug.

***

Time passed strangely on the island.

It felt like the days crawled, and yet at the same time, they blurred together, and months flew by.

Logan wasn’t sure when they’d started sleeping together.

At some point he just realized that it’d been ages since Andrew had slept on his own bedding. The guy dozed with his head on Logan’s stomach most of the time—when he didn’t fall asleep with Logan’s cock in his mouth.

The realization didn’t freak Logan out as much as it probably should have.

He just shrugged mentally and figured it was only practical. Convenient. If Andrew slept with his head burrowed against Logan’s stomach or thigh, it would be easier to slip his cock back into Andrew’s mouth in the morning.

Sometimes Andrew sucked Logan’s cock while Logan slept. Just on the tip of it, as if it were a giant pacifier. He really seemed more content with Logan’s cock in his mouth, as if sucking Logan’s cock comforted him. Logan probably shouldn’t have found it as arousing as he did, but it was just another thing he’d stopped giving a fuck about. This whole arrangement was weird and surreal.

What was one more weird thing to add to the pile?

***

Andrew had six moles on his left arm and just two on his right arm. Logan traced them idly with his fingers when he had nothing better to do—and he rarely had something better to do.

Andrew allowed it. He seemed so used to his touch by now that he never reacted negatively when Logan touched him—just leaned into the touch like a flower turning toward the sun. It did terrible fucking things to Logan’s insides.

He found himself touching Andrew more often with every day, until it became just something they did, all the time. They were rarely apart from each other for more than a few minutes. They did everything together, the concept of personal space long gone.

The one time Logan left their bedroll in the middle of the night to answer the call of nature, he had to run back to their camp when Andrew started calling out his name in a tight, panicked voice.

“Shhh, I’m here,” Logan said, wrapping his arms around Andrew’s shaking form.

Andrew clung to him, breathing raggedly, his face buried in Logan’s neck.

“Just a nightmare,” he said at last, clearly trying to save face.

They both knew it was a lie, but Logan didn’t call him on it.

He understood.

He understood all too well.

***

That nightmare may not have been real, but Andrew had real nightmares too.

They never really talked about it, but Logan often woke up to Andrew burying his face against Logan’s armpit and breathing oddly. Taking deep breaths. As if the scent of Logan’s sweat calmed him. Grounded him in reality.

It was heartbreaking and terrifying. Terrifying and exhilarating.

Logan could no longer deny that he loved being needed by Andrew. He liked being relied on. He liked it a little too much to be healthy. The subconscious trust in Andrew’s body language and attitude gave him such a rush, a thrill unlike any other.

He was addicted, in the worst possible way.

***

They had been on the island for seven months when Andrew got sick.

He was weak as a kitten, barely conscious, and his fever was so high his skin felt like a furnace to the touch.

Logan had no idea what was wrong: it wasn’t like he was qualified in any way to diagnose him. He could only observe him helplessly, feeling useless and angry, his