Cold and Charisma (BoyxBoy)

Chapter Thirty-Four

Riley's Perspective

As I laid sprawled across his warm, comfortable king-sized bed, I came to a concluding thought: this crybaby, golden retriever, himbo nerd had started to play a much bigger role in my life than I thought he ever would.

I glanced over to his long, muscular figure laid out on the floor beside me, a blanket lazily thrown over his legs. He decided to sleep on the floor to give me space, and who would I be to decline?

I didn't really want to be at home—not after what happened—and if I had a place to stay the night, I'd accept. I couldn't just be homeless and sleep on the streets. Although, that would be a good choice too, considering it was Archer's room we're talking about.

That night at Carter's party stayed with me throughout everything I did—weekend soccer practices at 6 a.m., drinking vodka on my porch, and even just simply laying down. He clouded my mind more than I'd like to admit.

But then again—this was the same jerk who ran out on me when I was about to put his dick in my mouth! The thought humiliated me to the point of anger, and I can't even think about it without wanting to punch him.

I looked down at his peaceful expression, mouth a little open from yawning, and I wanted to sock a punch right across that golden boy face of his. Fuck you! I put a middle finger up—even though he wouldn't see it.

Never in my life would I ever put another man's genitals into my mouth, but there was something different in the air that night. I felt a sudden urge, after everything that happened with us making out after my soccer game, to be more comfortable around him.

To kiss him, hug him, to... let him fuck me, even. I'd never tell him I was ready to go as far as he wanted to that night. He'd get scared like the coward he is, and run off crying again.

I thought about it over and over—he made a big deal of liking me, stalking me to the point of me wanting a restraining order, and then... giving up on me? Why, was my handjob game weak? Please, I'm probably the best handjob he's ever gotten.

Scratch that—I think I'm the only one he's ever gotten. I immediately sat up, and walked around his room. There was a small lamp in the corner lighting up his room, and it allowed me to see everything more clearly.

On his shelves were swimming and robotics trophies, paired with framed pictures of him holding them with his dorky smile. It was hilarious in a way—this six foot four, jock-looking nerd, with muscles that showed through his t-shirts—was just a geek.

I examined each and every single one of the photos on his shelves. I saw a few of him with his friends on a pier, them shotgunning drinks while he sat with a sprite. I bit back a laugh. He truly was just an innocent nerd blessed with muscles and a handsome face.

I moved on to his desk. Piles of textbooks were stacked on top of each other, two open on his desk with his notebook full of notes next to it. He was at the top of our class, and he clearly worked hard for it.

Then, in a far corner, I saw a picture of us. The two of us. Smiling and laughing. I remember that day clearly. 

We'd just won our first league game, and of course, Archer came out to support me and then forced my teammate to take a photo for us.

Archer was so innocently stupid, just standing there and smiling as he tightly hugged my side, his free-hand pointing at my jersey number.

He looked so proud—like my achievements made him happy more than they made me. Archer truly did care about me more than he did about himself.