Blair's dressed, left, gone, and Jim's waiting. Naked, hard, his fingers wrapped around the rail above his bed, his untouched cock ready, ripe.
He closes his eyes; doesn't need them. Stops listening; he's heard enough to get aroused, aching.
Breathes in deeply and lets his skin taste the first pattering drops before the rain comes down and he's arching, bowed, writhing, his fingers grinding against metal.
The damp, heavy air from Blair's shower, redolent, musky, rises slowly -- he's drowning in the scent of skin and come, each gasping, panting, painful breath crammed into the short space of time before he stops breathing and begins to scream, wordless, exultant, coming.
Then he'll shower where Blair stood, trembling with the need to let himself breath deeply here, too, and knowing he can't risk it, dry himself on towels Blair's left scent-marked… drift through his day tormented, half-hard, happy.
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