That's When We Uncover [Jensen Ackles + Misha Collins | Cockles | mxm]

Chapter Eighteen

I tromp down the stairs at daybreak the next morning and head straight for the coffee machine, with a problem.

My dick misses Misha.

I miss Misha it says, straining against the fabric of my underwear. Give me Misha.

My horniness apparently knows no bounds. Despite the fact that I've already memorized his body, committed every luscious inch of his nakedness to memory, and the fact that Misha left me a pair of his sweatpants to wear in his absence just so that this wouldn't happen, there's an empty darkness closing around me, making me want to curl up in a corner and sob unattractively because I can't grab Jen or Sen and squish it for reassurance.

Dani is amazing. But she doesn't have electric blue eyes, a rough jawline and high cheekbones. She isn't strong and masculine with a spine-tingling, husky laugh. No dick, no balls, no Jen or Sen. And it's not her fault.

My dick keeps bitching at me as I pull out a fresh filter and grind the coffee beans to blended perfection; it forms a persistent tent in Misha's sweatpants, inconsolable in the absence of their owner's beautiful ass.

"Down, boy," I growl under my breath, inserting the strainer and pushing start.

But Misha.

"Time and a place, my friend. Time and a place."

But Misha.

"He's not here right now. Don't you know I have to get on with my life?"

Don't you know I don't give a fuck?

"Well," I scowl under my breath. "Who died and made you my sovereign king?"

Your masculinity. 

I sigh. Far be it from me to refuse my dick.

I make enough cups for Dani, the parentals and myself, adding a pinch of sugar and a drop of vanilla cream in everyone's except Dani's. The smell of freshly ground coffee fills the kitchen as I stir the dark liquid and place the fresh mugs on the coffee.

I'm upstairs in my office filing my latest banking statements and income tax forms when my phone chimes with a text notification. I open it, finding a picture sent from Misha.

He looks deliciously disheveled, T-shirt carelessly winkled like he just rolled out of bed. The immensely attractive shot is accompanied by the message: don't worry this is not a sext.

Yeah, that smoother fucker Misha Collins can definitely be counted on to do something like this. Tormenting me with such a lurid, disturbing, enticing image that is still somehow quite innocuous to the unschooled viewer.

So, phone sex with Mish? Don't mind if I do.

I dial his number, fingers slipping all over the keys in agitation. He picks up on the first ring.