The Best Man Ch. 02

Mason arrives at his brother's wedding estate only to find himself unexpectedly sharing a room with Calvin (his brother's best friend and longtime secret crush). As tension crackles between them, Calvin's teasing grows bolder, and Mason struggles to hide just how badly he wants to be ruined by him.

Calvin was already waiting for me in the hallway in that deep blue shirt from earlier, sleeves pushed up, collar open just enough to draw the eye. The tattoos along his forearms looked darker against the crisp fabric, like the ink itself had thickened since this morning. He leaned against the doorframe with one arm braced high, the other casually resting on his thighs. His watch caught the light. His smirk didn't move.

"You coming, Pretty Boy? Or just standing there thinking about it?"

I followed. Hesitantly.

I mean, yeah, I was excited to be close to him. Who wouldn't be? But I didn't trust my dick at all. It had been trained to get hard just from looking at him. Sharing a room with Calvin Hale meant things would get hard. Literally.

Still, I followed. Slowly. Like I was walking into a trap I couldn't help but want.

The room was bigger than I expected. High ceilings. Open windows. Warm light pooling onto hardwood floors from the bedside lamp. But I barely registered any of that. Because his scent was still in the air. And the only thing I could focus on was how long I could hide this hard-on before it became a problem.

The staff had already moved my suitcase. It was near the edge of the bed, beside Calvin's messy pile of stuff. And his things were everywhere.

One of his cologne bottles was half-uncapped on the dresser, thick and masculine with that dangerous, woodsy smell that made my knees soft. His belt was coiled on the floor beside it like it had been yanked off in a rush. A white button-down, the one from earlier had been tossed across the back of a chair. His underwear, dark gray and clearly worn, sat beside the bed like a warning sign.

"Damn," I muttered, stepping in. "You're messy."

Calvin kicked the door shut behind us with one boot and rolled his shoulders. "I travel light."

"Looks like your boxers traveled straight to the floor."

He didn't answer. Just walked past me, grabbing the shirt off the chair and slinging it into a half-zipped duffel like it didn't matter. His back moved with every step; those broad shoulders flexing under that shirt like they knew I was watching.

"You're on that side Mase" he said, nodding toward the left.

I dropped my bag, still pretending I wasn't painfully hard from just being in the same space. The bed was big. But not that big.

"Don't worry," Calvin added, already unbuttoning his cuffs, "I don't bite."

He paused. Glanced back over his shoulder. "... unless you ask nicely."

I turned away too fast. My face was on fire. My dick? Hard enough to snap the waistband of my underwear. What the hell was I supposed to say to that?

He started unpacking without fanfare; a deodorant, a second pair of boots that looked expensive and fully unnecessary. I caught myself looking too long when he bent to adjust something under the bed, that tight shirt clinging to his back like it was stitched on.

I tried to busy myself with my own stuff: charger, moisturizer, overpriced night cream and told myself I was being normal. That I could survive a few nights like this. But when I turned back around, he was standing way too close.

"Forgot something," he said.

Then reached past me; deliberately... to grab something from my side of the bed. His cologne bottle. His fingers brushed mine on purpose. His body was a wall of heat.

I didn't move.

And then his scent hit me. Rich. Heavy. Masculine in the way that clung to your skin and made your mouth water. It was the kind of smell that made you want to bite down and beg. My cock twitched, thickening fast, pressing hard against the front of my pants. My hole clenched like it already knew what it wanted, who it wanted... like my body was one step ahead of my pride. I stood there, frozen, pulsing, too aware of how close he was and how fucking good he smelled.

He grabbed the bottle. Kept it on his side of the bed. Said nothing. Just smirked like he knew I was about to fall apart.

I couldn't take it.

"Uhm... let me check if they brought my duffel bag from the other room," I blurted. "Think they forgot."

I didn't wait for a response. I bolted.

Down the hall. Around the corner. Anywhere I could get a second to breathe and pray my cock didn't prematurely cum right there in my pants like some desperate, submissive little bitch who couldn't handle being in the same room as him.

Which, apparently, I was.

I tried to wait it out.

Ended up sitting on a old velvet sofa in the living room of the estate, now turned reception area, where candles flickered against the stone walls and the florists had already started prepping fake flower arrangements for a photo-op. I sat there, legs crossed tight, scrolling through nothing on my phone, willing the ache in my pants to settle. I couldn't be seen like that; not with a full hard-on and my brother's best man two rooms away looking like the way he did.

But waiting didn't help.

The more I sat there, the worse it got. I kept thinking about the smell of him. The weight of his body just inches from mine. The way his voice dropped when he said Pretty Boy like he already knew what it did to me.

After a few minutes, I gave up.

I walked down the hall, ducked into my old bedroom.... grabbed my duffel from the corner, and made my way back to Calvin's room. My stomach was still tight. My cock not fully soft.

When I walked in, the shower was running.

Steam slid out from under the bathroom door. Calvin's blue shirt was slung carelessly over the chair. His pants were bunched up on the floor beside the door, one sock half inside out like he'd peeled them off in a rush. His belt had been dropped beside the dresser again... wide, leather, thick enough to do damage.

I swallowed and looked away.

Dropped my duffel next to my other suitcase. Fished through it, grabbed a pair of my boxers. Usually, I sleep with nothing on just skin and sheets but tonight? I couldn't trust my cock with Calvin Hale in the same room. So I changed. Quietly. Quickly. Pulled the waistband high and tried not to imagine him wet, nude, dripping on the other side of that door.

I climbed onto my side of the bed and tucked myself under the blanket, willing myself to breathe normally. Just lie down. Just sleep. Just don't think about--

The bathroom door opened.

And my eyes, completely betraying me, drifted over.

Calvin stepped out in nothing but a pair of black trunks; tight, high on the thigh, clinging like they'd been painted on. His skin was still damp, glistening under the light. Water dripped from his collarbone down his chest, sliding between two ridged pecs before vanishing across his abs. His arms looked thicker wet. Veins visible. Shoulders wide enough to block out the doorframe behind him.

His tattoos; thick blackwork along one shoulder, curling across his chest like smoke were even darker now, soaking into every inch of skin like they belonged there. His hair was wet, messy, pushed back with his fingers. And his cock, heavy and outlined through those trunks, swung slightly with each step like it didn't give a single fuck what room he was walking into.

I blinked.

I could not believe the sight of him. Calvin Hale.. in his fucking underwear... huge, walking toward the bed like it was just another night and he wasn't the living embodiment of every single orgasm I'd had in the last 10 years.

I gripped the blanket tighter.

"Masey-boy," he said from across the room. "You find your bag?"

I nodded, still gripping the blanket like it could hide the very obvious hard-on in my briefs. "Yeah. The staff already brought it up," I muttered, not trusting myself to say more. My eyes flicked down once more before I could stop them. His cock was still swinging gently in those black trunks, heavy and outlined like it was half-awake and didn't care who saw. I tried not to stare. Failed miserably.

Calvin tossed the towel on the chair and walked over to the bed like nothing about this was unusual. Like he wasn't shirtless. Like he wasn't built like a fucking greek god.

He pulled the covers back on his side and sat down with a grunt. "Glad you found your bag," he said, leaning into the pillows. "Otherwise you'd be stuck wearing my suit tomorrow."

I glanced over, then immediately regretted it. One arm behind his head. The other resting casually on the sheet, just above where the outline of his cock was barely hidden.

"You're fucking massive," I muttered. "I doubt it'd even fit."

Calvin turned his head, smirked. "I get that a lot," he said. "But it's usually not about my clothes."

He winked.

I barked a laugh before I could stop myself. "Yeah, okay. Sure."

But my cock didn't think it was funny. It thought it was the hottest thing I'd ever heard. The heat in my cheeks flared instantly. I turned my face to the side, trying to keep it casual, but every muscle in my body was tense. My cock was throbbing under the blanket, already leaking into the fabric of my briefs. I shifted, trying to discreetly adjust without drawing attention.

Calvin shifted beside me, adjusting his arms and settling deeper into the bed like he'd already claimed his space. The mattress dipped slightly under his weight, and I could feel the warmth of his body bleeding into mine, his legs occasionally brushing against me beneath the sheets. Casual. Effortless. Torture.

His scent drifted in with it. Clean skin, heat, the faint musk of sweat that hadn't quite been washed away. Sharp, intimate, dizzying. Like he'd stepped straight out of a sauna and into my bed. I couldn't stop breathing it in.

My cock grew harder, thick and aching under the sheets. I couldn't hold off anymore.

Slowly, I glanced over my shoulder. Calvin's eyes were closed, his breathing steady. Still. Unbothered.

Carefully, I slid my hand into my boxers. My fingers curled around my length, and I started to stroke; slow, quiet, desperate. My mind flooded with him. Calvin. Inches away from me. In bed. Shirtless. Smelling like heat and sweat and skin.

It reminded me of those nights I used to jerk off to his pictures. Shirtless mirror selfies. Post-workout shots. That cocky grin. And now; now I didn't have to scroll. He was right fucking there. His massive chest rising with every breath. That scent surrounding me. Too close. Too real.

My strokes got faster. I could feel my fingers wet with precum, leaking from the sheer thought of it; a hot fucking man lying beside me like it was nothing. Especially Calvin. Especially him.

It felt too casual. Too easy. Like my body didn't get the memo that this wasn't supposed to happen. I was scared of waking him up. But I'd been hard all day. Watching him in the estate, working, moving around like he owned the place. That white shirt in the morning, half buttoned, sleeves rolled. Then later, the blue one stretched across his back. Didn't matter what he wore. It always clung to him like it knew exactly how badly I wanted to peel it off.

I bit down on a gasp, my strokes quickening under the covers, precum slick between my fingers. The image of him; shirt sticking to his chest, forearms flexing as he worked, that easy grin was too much. Too fucking much.

And then....

"I was waiting to see how long it'd take you to touch yourself." His voice cut through the dark like it had weight. Heavy. Low. Calm.

My hand froze, still wrapped around my cock, fingers covered in wet precum, trying not to breathe too loud. Not to move. Like if I stayed still enough, I could pretend he hadn't just said that.

His body shifted behind me. The mattress dipped. I could feel him turning toward me, that same impossible calm in his voice. "I knew you were hard earlier," he said. "Back when you made that excuse to go look for your bag."

I swallowed, throat dry. Turned my head just enough to look over my shoulder.

"Ca--lvin."

He held my gaze, eyes half-lidded, voice dipping even lower.

"It's okay," he murmured. "It's kinda hot. Having someone jerk off to the thought of you."

I tried to speak. My voice came out low, rough. "You are awake."

"Yeah, all that breathing," he said, his voice dark with amusement. "You really thought I wouldn't notice?"

I didn't answer. I didn't need to.

His gaze dipped. "You want help with that Monroe?"

I blinked. My throat went dry. "Uh-okay."

That was all it took.

His body shifted behind me, turning fully now, closer than before. I could feel the heat of him at my back, the brush of his thigh sliding against mine under the sheets. Then came his hand... steady, warm... gliding over my shoulder and down my chest. Slow, unhurried, teasing me.

His hand dropped lower. Slid beneath the waistband of my boxers without hesitation. I exhaled, sharp and heavy, as his fingers closed around my cock; already wet, already pulsing in his grip.

He leaned in, breath brushing the shell of my ear. "Fuck," he whispered. "You're so wet."

His body shifted behind me. Closer. His thigh slid between mine, and I felt it then; his cock, hard and thick, pressing against the curve of my ass through his briefs. Not grinding. Just there. Hot. Heavy. Intentional.

His fist tightened just slightly around me, stroking once, slow and possessive. I bit back a sound. My body arched, desperate without meaning to.

He didn't stop. Didn't even pause.

His cock pressed harder against my ass. His breath behind my neck. His grip; tight, slick, perfect fisting around my cock like he owned it.

Fuck. I'd been hard all day. Watching him. Thinking about this. There was no way I could hold it.

"Uh--fuck--"

I came. Hot spurts over his hand, my stomach, the inside of my boxers. My body jerked in his grasp, breath shattered, heart pounding.

"Shit," I gasped. "Sorry. I didn't have time to warn you."

He laughed; low, cruel, amused. "You're such a slut, Monroe." His hand came up from between my legs. Wet fingers dragging up my chest, past my throat, until they reached my face. He pressed two of them against my lips without waiting.

I took them. Opened up. Sucked the cum from his fingers like I'd been craving it. Let my tongue drag along every inch, lips closing around him slow. I could feel his breath catch just behind me.

He leaned in, voice rough at my ear.

"The next time," he said, "I'll let you taste mine."

His fingers slipped out of my mouth with a soft, wet sound. The taste of my cum still lingered on my tongue, warm and heady, but it was his presence I craved more; the heat of him, the weight of him, the way his voice settled into my skin like a bruise.

He didn't speak right away. Just shifted behind me, his body pulling back slightly. I felt the change before I heard it; the slow fade of tension in his breath, the subtle amusement curling at the edges of his voice. "This wedding's going to be fun," he said, quiet and low, like a promise more than a tease. Then he moved, rolling onto his back with the kind of ease that only made it more frustrating. Like none of this had even scratched the surface for him.

"But not tonight."

I blinked, disoriented by how quickly the heat had turned to cool air. He didn't look at me when he said it, just folded one arm under his head and let the other rest across his stomach. Casual. Unbothered. Like he hadn't just made me come in his hand and fed it to me like I belonged to him.

"Sleep, Monroe," he added, lips twitching. "We've got to take the groomsmen golfing at seven."

And just like that, the night shifted. But my body still buzzed with everything he didn't finish.