Chapter 3 The Sasha Problem

NICO

The first thing I notice when I wake up isn't the sunlight or the birds or whatever poetic crap normal people notice.

It's my dick.

And it's very, very awake.

I lie there for a minute, staring at the ceiling like maybe the ceiling will explain why I'm starting my day like this. It doesn't.

Morning wood is supposed to be random biology, right? Well, mine's got a name, an address, and an ego the size of Russia

Sasha.

Why the hell would it be him?

I glare at my dick "Seriously, dude?"

My subconscious has apparently decided to run an exclusive early morning Sasha programme.

Broad shoulders, lean waist, arms that could snap me in half but probably wouldn't because he enjoys dragging it out. I can practically feel the weight of him, the heat. And those hands...

God, those hands. Big enough to palm my throat. Strong enough to hold me there. I squeeze my eyes shut, and yeah, that's a bad idea, because now I'm picturing it.

And now I'm doing something about it.

I work myself, slow and deliberate, because apparently I hate myself and like to marinate in the problem. Every stroke just sharpens the mental image: Sasha's weight pressing me down, his voice low and annoyed like he's giving me one last chance to behave-and we both know I won't.

My grip tightens without me telling it to, and my knuckles whiten as I drag my fist slowly from base to tip, just to feel that twitchy, impatient ache build.

The room is quiet except for my breathing. It's like am starring in my own low-budget porn where the only plot is 'Nico makes bad choices before breakfast"

I imagine his hand instead of mine. Rougher, bigger and more calloused in places that would scrape just right. My pulse jumps, and my hips follow like they've got their own agenda.

It's ridiculous how clear I can see it: the press of his palm over my throat, the steady weight that says you're not going anywhere. My back arches, chasing the pressure that's not even there, teeth gritted like I can will it into existence.

Every shift of my hand is another memory - the cut of his glare when I pushed too far.

I'm breathing harder now, thighs tense, stomach pulling tight as I twist my wrist just enough to make my toes curl. I'm right there, teetering, and I don't even fight it.

When it hits, it's sharp, a gut-punch release that drags a groan out of me I'd deny under oath. Hot and messy across my stomach, every muscle jerking like I've been yanked out of my own body for a second.

For a moment, I just lie there, breathing hard, staring at the ceiling like maybe it'll have something to say about the fact I just started my morning jerking off to the human equivalent of a smug smirk.

I should feel relaxed. Clean slate. Ready to start my day.

Instead, irritation simmers in my chest.

Not at the orgasm. That was fine. Perfect, even.

No, I'm irritated because it's him.

Why would it be him?.

I grit my teeth. This is pathetic. I could think about literally anyone else. Celebrities, random bartenders, my high school gym teacher (okay, no, not that). But nope, it's him.

By the time I drag myself out of bed, pull on sweatpants, and wander downstairs, I've decided I'm not going to look at him. I'm going to get coffee, maybe stare at my phone, and mind my own business.

Which is obviously why the first thing I do is look straight at him.

He's in the living room, shirtless, mid-workout. Because of course he is. Sweat is sliding down his chest in slow, perfect lines, catching the light like some cheap action movie scene. Every push-up makes his back muscles flex like a damn anatomy lesson, and I have to consciously remind myself that murder is illegal, because no one should be allowed to look that good before I've had caffeine.

I try to tell myself that I'm not ogling him, because I'm not. I'm watching the enemy.... Pathetic, I know.

I don't know what it is about him that's got my knickers in a twist. And the guy clearly said he wasn't gay. Hell, I wasn't even fully gay before yesterday. I mean, I always knew I was bisexual. I did try it once, or twice, because why limit myself to one flavour when I can have them all?. But I've never fully come out as bi.

Now? I don't know.

The guy treats the dirt on his shoe better than he treats me, and I don't know why I find that hot. What is wrong with me?.

I should be focusing on my coffee or the door. Or literally anything that doesn't involve tracking the bead of sweat sliding down his throat. But my gaze keeps dragging back, like I'm hooked, like he's reeling me in without even trying.

It's not in admiration. Not exactly. It's... assessment.

Predator clocking another predator.

Because there's a way he moves, controlled, that says he doesn't just train to look good. He trains for the kill.

My arms stay folded, casual, like I'm just passing time. Inside, every nerve's coiled tight, tuned to the rhythm of his body. His tank rides up just enough to flash the pale scar across his ribs, the kind that tells a story without giving away the ending. I want to know it. I also don't want to care. I don't care.

My dick twitches, like it's saying 'yeah you do'. Come on buddy, you have to be on my side.

And then there are his hands.

Veined, scarred and strong. The kind of hands that could pin you down or pull you up. Depending on which side of him you're on. Perfect for... yeah. That.

My hand tightens on the bannister because my brain has decided now's a great time to play the reel of something I never asked for.

Different hands. Pale fingers digging in until the world went spotty at the edges. A voice that was supposed to be holy, saying things that still make my skin crawl.

I drag myself back to the present before it pulls me under.

I already crawled out of that place, I'm not going back.

Sasha drops from the bar and lands with the kind of silent control that makes me want to mess up his wardrobe, just for sport. He wipes his hand on his shorts and doesn't even glance in my direction.

Or maybe he is looking at me, and he's just too good at pretending he's not.