Roomies in Arms - Part 8

Everyone in this story is 18+

-------------Jax’s POV------------

Nick’s head rested in the crook of my arm, light wavy curls brushing my shoulder, his fingertips lazily tracing the lines of my stomach like he was sketching some secret map. The morning light slipping through the blinds.

Somewhere beyond the door, Sebastian was cleaning again. We could hear the occasional clink of mugs and what might’ve been a dramatic sigh. The sound of moral responsibility.

Nick smirked. “He’s like a haunted Victorian ghost. Floating around in linen, quietly judging the filth.”

I chuckled, brushing my lips against his hair. “A ghost with Marmite and a mop.”

“He’s… surprisingly cool though,” Nick said, his hand drifting up to my chest. “I thought he’d be uptight. But he’s kind of chill with us. Tolerant, even.”

“Yeah,” I agreed. “I guess he’s seen it all. Boarding schools tend to do that.”

Nick nodded, thoughtful. “I bet he walked in on at least six illicit blowjobs before he graduated.”

“Probably offered someone a handkerchief afterward.”

We both laughed quietly.

“What about Lex?” I said. “He’s like the tech gremlin of the group. But I swear, he’s got a thing for Seb.”

Nick raised a brow. “You mean the weird tentacle bonding?

I groaned. “Yeah.’”

Nick shrugged, sliding his hand down to over my chest and resting there. “Lex is chaos incarnate, but he’s kind of sweet underneath. I think he likes Seb in that weird, feral raccoon way.”

I laughed again. “Yeah. Like, ‘I stole your charger, but also let’s kiss.’”

Nick smirked. “Still think Asher’s the one though.”

“Oh, you’re team Asher?”

He nodded. “You saw them last night. That look. That whole brooding energy. History and tension.”

“I don’t know,” I said, twirling a piece of his hair absentmindedly. “Seb might be too emotionally repressed for Asher.”

“Or too uptight when it comes to hygiene for Lex.”

“True. I also can’t help but wonder if he’s gay or just… European,” I said.

Nick snorted. “Right. The pansexual fog of Oxford.”

A silence settled between us for a beat, soft and warm.

Then Nick’s voice turned playful. “Speaking of pansexual fog… what do you think of Bryson?”

I rolled my eyes. “The golden boy?”

“The golden rod, more like.”

We both laughed, but then Nick’s hand moved—lower back down to my abs, curious—resting just above the waistband of my tenting boxers. I glanced down. His eyes sparkled.

“You’re thinking about it now,” he said, smug.

“I’m thinking about you thinking about it,” I smirked.

He leaned in, lips brushing my neck. “Good.”

And then his hand slipped under my boxers with a slick swipe of spit. His grip was tight and wet, the slide of his palm raw around my dick.

My breath hitched, thighs tensing as he pumped, fast and messy, the slick sound cutting through the morning quiet. His eyes glinted, smug, lips parted as he watched my face twist with the sharp edge of pleasure. The blinds’ slatted light striped his skin, sweat catching the glow.

“Fuck,” I hissed, head tipping back, fingers knotting in his curls.

He didn’t slow, thumb grazing the tip, sending a jolt that had my hips jerking. Then he slid down, mouth replacing hand, lips wrapping around me with a greedy, spit-soaked hunger.

His tongue lashed around my cockhead, swirling, the wet heat of him overwhelming—sloppy, unapologetic, pulling a deep sound from my throat. The bed creaked as I shifted and pumped into his mouth, knuckles white in the sheets, his curls brushing my thighs with every bob of his head.

“Nick,” I rasped, voice raw.

He just hummed greedily, the vibration shooting through me, and doubled down, lips stretched, spit dripping, taking me deeper. My hips bucked, the floorboards groaning under the strain. The distant clink of Sebastian’s cleaning faded—nothing but the slick rhythm of Nick’s mouth, the way his throat tightened around me.

I gently yanked his hair, pulling him up. His lips were red, slick, eyes dark with want. I kissed him, hard, tasting myself, hands shoving his boxers down. His own cock was hard, flushed, bobbing as he straddled my thighs.

I grabbed the lube, slicking my fingers, and worked his asshole open—slow at first, then faster, curling, stretching. His breaths came sharp, ragged, nails digging into my shoulders. His body arched, sweat-slick, the air thick with the musky morning scent of us.

“Jax,” he gasped, voice breaking as my fingers hit deep.

I pushed in, he took me so well now, my thighs slapping his, the bedframe rattling with every thrust. His legs hooked around me, heels digging into my back, urging me harder. The room was on fire—bed creaking, floorboards protesting, Nick’s cries sharp and unrestrained. My hands gripped his hips, fingers bruising, the slick slide of skin on skin primal, relentless. His curls stuck to his forehead, lips parted, eyes half-lidded as he took every thrust, body trembling.

“More, deeper.” he panted.

Nails raking my back. I leaned down, teeth grazing his collarbone, thrusting harder, the bed slamming against the wall. His cries grew louder, desperate, and I felt him clench, the heat of it driving me wild. The world narrowed to this—the sweat, the friction, the way his body moved with mine.

I was close, so I pulled out, both of us gasping, and Nick shoved me down, straddling me. Our dicks pressed together, slick with lube and sweat, and he ground against me, hard, fast.

His hands braced on my chest, nails biting, my abs flexing under his weight. I gripped his ass, guiding the rhythm, the slide of skin scorching, relentless. His breath hitched, eyes locked on mine, wild and unguarded.

The friction built fast, a tight heat, and Nick’s cry broke first—his body jerking, cum streaking my abs, my dick. The sight, the slick warmth, pushed me over, my own climax hitting like a freight train, mixing with his, messy and raw.

We collapsed, chests heaving, tangled in sweat-soaked sheets. Nick’s curls brushed my neck, his breath ragged against my skin. The room stank of sex, the bed a wreck, floorboards still creaking faintly from the aftermath.

“Seb’s gonna exorcise this room,” Nick muttered, voice hoarse, lips curling.

I smirked, hand in his hair. “Let him try.”

We lay there tangled, sweaty and smug, limbs wrapped like we’d just wrestled each other into orgasmic oblivion. Which, to be fair, we had.

Nick was still catching his breath, cheek pressed against my chest. I ran my fingers lazily through his hair, grinning like I’d won a goddamn trophy.

Then—

Knock knock knock.

Three sharp raps at the front door.

Nick groaned. “Probably one of the ABCD crew. You know they love showing up at the weirdest times.”

I smirked. “What, think someone heard us and came to give feedback?”

“Or join in.”

We both laughed, unmoved, entirely too satisfied to care.

“Sebastian’s up,” I said. “He’ll probably guilt them into helping clean or offer them marmite or something equally British and cursed.”

Nick snorted, curling closer. “Poor guy. He deserves a medal.”

We didn’t move. Not even when the knocking came again, a little louder.

Because we had no idea who was on the other side of that door…