Robby knew it was wrong. Fuck did he ever. So wildly inappropriate that his therapist would undoubtedly have a conniption if he knew about the obscene thoughts going on his head. But fuck, it had been a long shift and he needed some relief. He just wanted to sleep and his usual method of a hot shower combined with reading a horrifically predictable mystery novel he’d bought three moths ago wasn’t working.
He was still wired, on edge, in desperate need of something. So, he’d decided to indulge. His hands had drifted down to his boxers of their own accord as he stared up at the ceiling of his bedroom. The bedside lamp was casting an orange glow throwing shadows across the soft sage green of his duvet.
He wasn’t aroused yet but he knew from years of experience that jerking off was a tried and true method of making sleep come faster. He was often too busy or too wound up to actually enjoy himself. If anything it was clinical just a means to an end. Hard fast strokes with spit to ease the way and memories of some ancient porn he’d watched as a teenager. He wouldn’t call it ‘exciting’.
His imagination had been fucking obscene. Tired blue eyes, a tiny smile, and soft brown hair that curled tantalizingly around an even more tempting neck had been haunting his fantasies.
Robby slid his hand underneath the waistband of his boxers feeling his cock twitch. He closed his eyes, hissing loudly in his otherwise quiet room as he teased the soft skin of his lower stomach—bristly hair tickling his fingertips.
It was just a means to an end he repeated like a mantra to himself. He just wanted to sleep.
Whitaker’s soft voice echoed in his mind, so desperate for praise and approval. Even the way he said his name turned him on. ‘Doctor Robby’ had never sounded so sweet, each syllable said so carefully from the younger man as he looked to him for guidance.
He felt himself get harder.
Fuck, Robby was a bad man. He shouldn’t be thinking like this.
He palmed himself, the friction immediately making him moan.
The voice echoed in his mind again. How could his own name sound so fucking erotic?
His eyes were still closed as he started to coax his needy flesh to life. Images of strong forearms and bright eyes flashing through his head. He thought about the feeling of his own hands squeezing a shoulder, the nape of Whitaker’s neck, his palm splayed on his lower back.
Fuck it was so unethical. He didn’t care.
He groaned as he gripped himself properly giving the first real stroke to his rapidly hardening cock— hips involuntarily bucking up into his dry fist.
“Fuck,” he gasped, his own voice sounding far too desperate.
Robby knew this was wrong. He shouldn’t be thinking about him.
He opened his side table drawer and grabbed a familiar bottle of half empty lube.
He just needed to sleep. That’s all this was.
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