Who Knows When (Joger/Dealor)

Chapter 39

I ripped my hand out of my pants and shot upward, swinging my legs over the side of the bed and jumping to my feet. I burst out of the bedroom and into the room next to John's and mine, not even bothering to turn the lights on as I rushed over to the dresser and began rifling through the flashy piles of neatly folded clothes in search of lube—something I knew for a fact Freddie had. He'd even boasted about it once when Brian and I first met him, claiming he was "always prepared" for "whatever happens."

"Come on, Fred," I growled in frustration as I discovered nothing hidden under the shirts and pants, "Where'd you fucking put it?"

I slammed the dresser drawer shut and went on to the next one, and the next one, and the next one, all with no luck. I threw the last drawer in angrily and stepped back, running my fingers through my hair as I scanned the rest of the room that had been tidied up just like John's and mine—except now the dresser appeared as though a tornado had run through it, with the clothes that had been carefully put away now tossed about recklessly. Some of them had even found their way to floor, but aside from them, there wasn't a thing in sight.

"Goddammit," I cursed under my breath as I stormed back to John's and my room and shut the door with the same force I had closed the front door with, plopping back down on my bed and sitting on the edge with my head in my hands. I let out a long breath and dropped my hands in between my legs, staring at John's bed across from mine.

This would all be so much easier if he was just here, at the flat, instead of in town with some twat he met at the show last night. Talking about basses, my arse. My leg shot out in anger and kicked his bed, pushing it further into the wall it was positioned against. I dropped backwards onto my mattress and heaved a sigh, turning my head and looking at the window that gave access to the ladder that led up to the roof.

I closed my eyes and pictured John and me last night on the university's roof. I began to sink into that reminiscent feeling of us staring into each other's eyes, exploring each other's bodies, and going to places I never imagined going before, and once I was there, I slowly brought my hand up to my lips and inserted my fingers into my mouth, imagining they were John's and coating them in my saliva. I plucked them out and looked down at myself once again, noticing the bulge that had returned from this morning. I gritted my teeth against one another as I stuck my lubricated hand into my pants once more, passing over the sensitive area and reaching further down.

I shifted my entire body to get a little more comfortable and rested my head back into the mattress, daring to slip one finger inside of me. I gasped at the feeling, trying my best to push through the discomfort and uneasiness I was bringing upon myself. I wanted to stop so badly, but I had to get to the pleasure. I knew it was there, I just had to push through to find it.

My body tensed up as I slid another finger inside, eventually finding and hitting that sweet spot I didn't know existed prior to last night. A deep moan emanated from the back of my throat, the blaring music from the radio masking the loud "Oh, fuck!" that followed.

I was writhing in the ecstasy, the front of my shorts starting to stain as I picked up the speed at which I was moving my fingers in and out and around inside of me. They weren't my fingers, though; they were John's. They didn't feel as rough as his were, nor were they as long, but they were close enough.

Suddenly, it became difficult to breathe, with the room around me growing warmer and starting to blur. I knew the sensation that was washing over me all too well, but I'd never experienced it like this—alone, by myself. I didn't even know I could do such a thing. Hell, it almost felt better than when I was with some—

My jaw dropped in a silent scream as I released the tension that had become too much to bear, my body relaxing back into the mattress it had arched up from as I finished. "Fuck," I muttered as I lied there, drained of energy and thinking about what I had just done—another act that made it harder to recognize myself and the person I'd become.

The Roger Taylor everyone knew and loved would never be reduced to pleasuring himself. He always had a girl waiting in the wings to do it for him. He wouldn't let himself be bossed around; he did what he wanted, when he wanted, and without anyone telling him what to do. This Roger Taylor, though, the one lying in this bed, he'd just done both of those things. And for what? A halfhearted promise of sex? Since when did Roger Taylor have to do anything to get laid?

"Fuck." I dejectedly sat up and pulled my hand out of my pants, frowning at the sticky substance that webbed my fingers together. I groaned in disgust as I wiped my hand on the mattress, my eyes trailing to the peach on the nightstand. I stared at it for a while before snatching it up and digging my fingers into it, forcing the pit out and tossing it carelessly to the side. I brought the fruit to my lips and started to suck the insides out in an attempt to get rid of the awful taste that started growing in my mouth.

It didn't work.

In fact, it only seemed to make the sick feeling that I was becoming increasingly aware of worse. I retched at the thought of taking another bite and set the half-eaten peach back down next to the radio, looking at the numbers displayed on the alarm clock behind it—14:39. I heaved an annoyed sigh and lied back down on the mattress, curling up on my side and staring at John's bed.

He didn't say when he was coming back. All he said was to be ready for him, and now that I was, all I could do was wait for him.