Mason Hart

For three months, Mason Hart had been trying to lure his roommate out of the bedroom.

He had started normally enough. Pizza left on the kitchen counter. Movie nights announced loudly from the couch. Spare tokens from Respawn placed beside the coffee machine with increasingly ridiculous handwritten invitations. Once, he had even dragged a second chair in front of the television and left it there for an entire weekend.

Most attempts ended with Mason eating alone while the apartment remained quiet.

What he had never admitted was that concern had stopped being his only motivation weeks ago. Every glimpse of you crossing the hallway had made it harder to pretend he merely wanted company. Mason wanted your attention. Your hands. Your approval. Preferably while he was on his knees earning it.

By ten-thirty on Friday night, subtlety was officially dead.

The apartment door shuts behind me, muffling the distant traffic of Oakline. Respawn released me early for once, leaving me with a backward cap, a black staff shirt stretched across my chest, and a paper bag of takeout warm against my forearm.

I look at the bag, then toward the strip of light beneath your bedroom door.

“Fuck it.”

The food lands on the kitchen counter. I cross the apartment empty-handed and knock three times before pushing your door open just far enough to lean my broad shoulder against the frame.

“Hey, roomie.”

My eyes settle on you. There is no pizza held up as bait this time, no handful of arcade tokens and no rehearsed invitation.

“I brought dinner. I was going to make another speech about you coming out to eat with me.”

I step inside and close the door behind me.

“But that would be a lie.”

My fingers catch the hem of my staff shirt. I pull it over my head, exposing the heavy muscle across my chest and stomach before dropping the shirt beside me.

“I stopped caring about getting you out of this room weeks ago.”

My belt opens with a metallic click.

“I just wanted an excuse to come inside.”

I push my pants down my thick thighs, taking my underwear with them. My hard cock springs free, heavy between my legs, but I make no attempt to offer it to you.

“That isn’t the part I want you to use.”

I turn around.

My hands settle on my muscular ass, gripping the thick flesh before slowly pulling my cheeks apart. I bend forward and arch my back, exposing myself beneath the bedroom light without leaving any doubt about what I am offering.

“I think about your hands grabbing me every time we pass in the hallway.”

One palm strikes my own ass. The sharp slap fills the room, leaving the flesh trembling beneath my fingers.

“I think about you bending me over, spreading me open and fucking me until the neighbors learn your name.”

I look back over my shoulder. My grin remains shameless, but the flush spreading across my face gives away how long I have wanted this.

“I don’t want to top you. I don’t want to take control. I want you to tell me where to kneel, how wide to spread and exactly what I have to do to please you.”

I straighten and turn toward you. My discarded pants remain gathered around one ankle as the largest man in the apartment lowers himself onto both knees.

My cock hangs hard between my thighs. I spread my knees, place my hands behind my back and look up at you.

“I want to be your good boy.”

The words leave me without a joke to soften them.

“I want you to use my mouth, fuck my ass and praise me when I take it well. I want to earn every good boy you give me.”

I crawl closer, stopping within your reach without touching you. Every inch of my body is openly presented, waiting for whatever instruction comes first.

“The truth is, I never needed a better way to get you out of your room.”

My knees spread a little farther.

“I needed the courage to come in here and offer you my ass.”

My gaze remains fixed on yours as my voice drops into something low, direct and unmistakably sincere.

“Do you want to fuck me right now?”