I unlocked my apartment door, walked inside, and nearly beat my fists into the wall out of frustration.  Work was getting more and more grating as the holidays drew near.  It seemed since the days had grown shorter, so did everyone’s decorum.  And I’d been raised on manners and thinking of others first and “Yes, Sir” and Ýes, Ma’am”-ing all over the place.  Today had been no exception, of course, but my aggravation had been incited earlier than most days.

I shivered from the residual chill as I removed my coat and scarf.  “Shit, it’s gotten cold,” I muttered to myself.  I walked the few steps to my kitchen cabinet, looking for something quick and easy to heat up for dinner, but the only thing my eyes lingered on was my bottle of Jameson Irish whiskey. 

Why the hell not?

Wrapping my fingers around the neck of the bottle, I took it from the shelf and poured at least three fingers’ worth into a high-balled glass.  I dropped an ice cube in as an afterthought.  The clinking of the ice against the glass was oddly reassuring and more familiar than I’d care to admit.  Raising the glass to my lips, I drank.  The liquid flowed into my mouth, and I held the taste on my tongue before I swallowed, allowing myself to feel the burn and wanting to ignore the tension that had set into my jaw.  The numbness would set in soon, but the sweet and bitter flavor of the drink was appreciated on the way to getting there.

God, when was the last time I’d let myself let go? 

…

The alcohol-induced fog hadn’t quite set in, but I had started to feel the stirrings of it.  I knew my cheeks were becoming flushed, but I didn’t feel any warmer.  Glass in hand; I slowly walked to my bedroom, momentarily pausing outside my bathroom door.  A shower would feel nice and hot.  A shower sounded like an excellent idea right now.  I threw my head back to drain the rest of my drink, set the glass down and immediately shucked off my slacks.  The cold air in my apartment pricked my skin as I continued to undress, not caring where my clothes were thrown once they were off my body.  I turned on the faucet, letting the water run over my hand, testing it, letting it heat to as scalding as I could possibly stand it, and switched the shower on.  I sighed and stepped in.

“Fuck!” I swore.  Well, I had wanted it hot.  Dumbass.

The water burned against my torso, pummeled my head and streamed down the rest of my body.  I closed my eyes, simply taking in the heat, and swayed a little on the spot.  Putting my arm out against the cold tile to steady myself, I gasped, reeling at the extreme difference in temperature which electrified my senses.  My mouth felt dry, but I could feel the drops of water against my cheek; it was unbelievably arousing.  I shivered, pulling my arm back and stepping beneath the showerhead to collect myself.  The hot water hit my face and ran down my chest. 

Closing my eyes again, I leaned against the tile, more mentally dazed and yet feeling more than I’d set out to.  Actually, I’d have been content with flipping on the TV and staring at the screen with another glass of whiskey, but somehow THIS made me feel more alive…

…Like he used to.

What am I doing?  I tugged my hair in bewilderment.  My cock pulsed and my breath hitched.  Groaning, I stifled a laugh; I’d completely forgotten that pulling my hair was a turn on for me.  How I’d even found out had been a complete accident…

During my senior year at McKinley, Regionals had miraculously lined up with the spring term break at NYU and Kurt had returned to Lima for a visit.  After our second place finish, Kurt had stayed over for what he called “the grieving period” while my parents were yet again, out of town.  Our making out had become feverish, and I pulled away to collect myself, panting, resting my lightly stubbled cheek against his.  Without warning, he had grabbed ahold of the curls at the base of my neck (as opposed to my collar) and yanked me away to kiss me again when I let out a startled cry. 

“Oh Blaine!  I’m so sorry!  I didn’t mean—I mean, you’re just driving me crazy and—I’m sorry, Bl—“

I had cut him off with a kiss, making sure to rub my jaw along his cheek again, dipping my head to his neck, where I proceeded to lick and nip at his neck.  My lips hovering over his ear, I groaned, “Do that again, Kurt.”  He didn’t immediately respond.  I pressed my forehead to his brow, my lips a breath away from his.  “Please,” I growled, just shy of begging.

Kurt’s heart was racing; I had felt it pounding against my chest through his damned designer vest and shirt.  But he threaded his fingers through my hair and pulled.  It had been tentative and firm and my senses exploded; I couldn’t see straight and the hair on my arms stood up on end, flooding my body with chills.  Kurt saw what just that little action did to me, and swore in his melodic, low voice.  “I want you so badly right now, Blaine.  I need—god, wanna fuck you…”

I hadn’t been able to speak.  I only nodded and he pushed me down onto the bed…

Lost in my thoughts, I had wrapped my hand around my cock and was tugging gently.  As the shower stream began to lose its heat, my body was responding to how desperately I needed to FEEL…him… again.  I hadn’t been touched in so long, and my hole was throbbing in want.  I remembered how he had felt thrusting inside me, promises falling from his lips as we rocked together, but in that memory, we had barely spoken.  He had taken me for the first time that night; the handful of times before that had been full of love and soft looks.  But seeing how he craved me, at least in that moment, more than anything else in the world, made my heart swell and my lust-addled head begged to be used over and over again.  He had fallen into a chant to accompany his rhythm,

“Mine.  Mine.  Mine.  Mine…”

My hand moved faster and faster, beating, jacking, tossing, fucking…

“KURT…” I moaned, gasping, panting, grunting, and finally coming all over my hand, somewhat splattering the tile wall of my shower.  I slumped against the cold, cold tile, finally feeling that the heat from the shower had no longer been functioning, and the water had also grown chilly.  It took a great deal of effort to rinse and turn off the stream of water.  I stepped out of the tub, and walked to my linen closet where I kept spare towels, halfheartedly throwing one around my waist, the droplets running off my limbs as I made my way to my bedroom.  Anyone else would have taken the time to change into sleepwear and actually get ready for bed.  But between the whiskey and the residual body heat from my shower jerk-off, I felt warm enough for now, and numb to everything else.  I climbed into bed, absentmindedly thinking I’d regret the bed head come morning, and shivered, feeling the cold starkness of the sheets against my naked body.  There was no one but me to warm them, but I had all the time in the world to wait as I drifted off to sleep.