The Air That I Breathe (The Game 3.5)

“Let’s see what you got—Jesus Christ. This is some violent shit, Riv.”

I cracked one eye open to see what he was looking at. It was the case cover for some dungeon scenes—probably the one I watched the most.

“That one’s good,” I murmured. “There’s this one scene about twenty minutes in where a guy beats an older dude until he shoots. No hands on his dick or anything. The pain gets him off. It’s so fucking hot.”

Reese flicked me a skeptical look.

I chuckled and pushed myself up on my elbow, and I nodded at the TV. “Trust me. Try for yourself. I can leave if you want.”

He snorted and sat up. “Like I give a crap.”

I knew he didn’t. We were two eighteen-year-old guys and shared a room. We’d lost count of the number of times we’d walked in on each other—or hell, woken up with hard-ons with the other mere inches away. I mean, we were still mindful. I tried to jerk off more in the shower and less in our room, and I was pretty sure he did the same. But occasionally, of course shit happened in the dark, under the covers.

Reese tightened the towel around his hips and plugged in the player on the floor under the TV.

“Twenty minutes in?” he asked.

“Yeah, about.”

I wanted to see what he thought about that kind of porn.

I’d actually thought about asking him before.

Once Reese had fast-forwarded it to the beginning of that scene, he pushed play and returned to my bed and got under the covers.

I didn’t know how many times I’d watched this scene last summer when we were here. Whenever Reese had left the house to hang out with buddies, I’d borrowed his TV.

The backdrop in the movie consisted of some latex cover and had a bunch of pain implements hanging on hooks. Paddles, whips, riding crops, floggers, and whatnot. Then an older man in his thirties strapped to a bench, facedown in a hole like one of those massage tables, and a guy in his early twenties going to town on the man’s ass. It started with spanking, and the man’s ass was already red.

“The man really enjoys that?” Reese asked.

“Wait till he turns over,” I said. “He’s hard as a rock.”

So was I gonna be any second now.

We watched in silence for a few minutes, and I slipped a hand down my pants when the young guy in the movie called his partner a dirty, desperate whore. I wasn’t gonna get off or anything—and it wasn’t like Reese could see me—but I needed some pressure.

It was incredible how the older man moved on the bench. How he pleaded, how he tried to rub his cock against the table, how he moaned.

“Damn,” Reese mumbled.

“I know, right?” We watched the man roll over and get on his back, and the younger guy berated him for being so hard.

It only turned the man on even more.

Reese let out an unsteady breath, and I caught his arm shifting under the covers.

I swallowed hard and felt my focus drift from the movie.

We had friends who jerked off together all the fucking time, but because we were brothers, that was a no-go. It was messed up.

Okay, it wasn’t messed up, but goddammit. I couldn’t help it. I hadn’t chosen to feel curious about some things. They were just there.

I wished I were normal.

“That’s hot,” Reese murmured.

I shifted my gaze to his face and didn’t care about what he was watching on the TV. I found it more interesting to see how Reese clenched his jaw and how his eyes were heavy with lust. He got off on my kind of porn; he couldn’t deny it. Rolling onto my side again, I happened to slip a little closer to him, just enough for me to feel whenever he moved his arm. So much for being appropriate—for both of us.

Fuck boundaries, I wanted to say. I knew it was wrong; I knew I couldn’t explain away that shit like I could with my dreams. At night, I had no control over what happened, and it wasn’t real anyway. This was real, though. And I had no excuses for why I wanted to see Reese in his most vulnerable and carnal state.

I gripped my cock a bit tighter and admitted to myself that I wanted to push my brother too. I wanted to see how much I could get away with.

There was something seriously disturbed about me.

Problem was, disturbed turned me on.

Disturbed was sexy and forbidden and weird and uninhibited and just like me.

Maybe disturbed loved company as much as misery did.

“You can get off if you want, baby brother,” I said quietly. “I don’t mind.”

He swallowed hard and looked at me, visibly torn and turned on.

“I’m hard too,” I said.

He exhaled and closed his eyes.

I had to push. “What do you like the most in the scene?”