Chapter 5 5. JORDAN (5)

JORDAN

Days dragged by, yet that night at the restaurant never left my head neither did that kiss with Jibril Reynolds leave my dreams.

I woke up every night in the middle of the dark with a filthy amount of lust that made me shiver, moan, and clench my fists just to stop myself grabbing my cock. I was horny. If there was a stronger word for it, that was me.

My body remembered every detail—the hard press of him against me, the way he’d pinned my wrists to the wall, the taste of his mouth. Fuck. Jibril Reynolds was ruining my life and it was only the fourth day.

I woke up with a raging hard-on, dick pulsing and aching. I wanted to fuck something.

But is it possible to want to bend over and properly fuck that arrogant American bastard?

“God, what is wrong with me?”

I dragged a hand through my hair and opened my phone again and find an old match footage.

I’d watched the same goals so many times I’d burned them into my brain. Sometimes in the dark I could almost see him standing at the end of the bed.

He’d assaulted me with that kiss, taken the last bit of control I had over my own body and left me like this. Fuck him and his bloody audacity. Why did I have to suffer because he couldn’t keep his mouth to himself?

Whatever he’d put inside me that day in the changing room was still there.

Three days ago I’d been glad I’d never have to see him again. Now I was the one who needed to find him.

I looked down at the tent in my shorts with pure disappointment. It was inevitable. I had to wank. Again.

I’d never done it this much in my life. Not even before the diagnosis. Now I beat my meat in mornings, nights, sometimes twice in between. I rub my cock with him on my mind and I always end up with his name in my mouth and a thick shame of a cum sitting in my chest.

Ever since that dinner, Mary kept texting about the specialist appointment.

Today was the day and I nearly didn’t go. Because when I remembered the eight hundred quid referee gig, the fancy restaurant, the way the bills to pay had got a bit easier these last months, I realise all of it had come from him.

He helped my sister come out of her depression. He was the one those times, texting her and making her giggle over the phone. He was the one who helped me get both the gig and the specialist's appointment.

Anyone else would’ve been chuffed their sister was marrying a celebrity player like that. But not me.

Jibril Reynolds wasn’t straight. He was gay.

That bloody gay kissed me while texting my sister! But good thing I wasn't gay. I was straight, and I was going to prove it. So I went for that appointment.

The clinic was too bright and smelled of disinfectant. I sat in the waiting room picking at a loose thread on my jeans until a nurse called my name.

The doctor was in his fifties, calm, no-nonsense. He asked the usual questions like how long, any morning erections, any recent changes. I kept the answers short.

Then he moved on to the tests.

First a set of photographs. Men in different states of undress. I looked at each one and felt absolutely nothing. My cock stayed soft against my thigh.

Next a short video on a tablet. Two men fucking with no soundtrack. I watched it with my jaw locked right holding in my disgust, waiting for any reaction at all. But nothing, not even a twitch.

The doctor made a quiet note on his pad.

“No response to male visual stimuli,” he said. “That would suggest you’re not homosexual. The erectile difficulty is more likely still the primary issue… unless there’s something else you’re not telling me.”

I stared at the edge of his desk. I already knew there was something else.

That morning I’d woken up hard, put on a World Cup match from 2022, and cum across my own stomach while moaning Jibril’s name into the pillow like a man possessed. And now the doctor is saying I still have erectile dysfunction.

That only meant, Reynolds had left something behind in that changing room—some filthy switch I couldn’t turn off.

I thanked the doctor, walked out, and sat in the old hatchback with the engine off for a full ten minutes before I pulled out my phone.

"Where is he," I texted Mary.

Mary called almost straight away. “Jordan? You’ve been ignoring me for days—”

“Where’s Jibril.”

A pause. “He’s got a condo in Canary Wharf. I’ll send the address. But Jordan—”

I hung up the second the postcode arrived, drove across the city with the engine coughing the whole way, parked badly, walked into the building like I belonged there, took the lift, and banged on the door hard enough that the sound echoed down the hallway.

It opened.

Jibril stood there in a black T-shirt and joggers, hair slightly damp. Behind him I caught long hair and bare legs. A girl. Of course.

I looked him dead in the eye. “Tell her to get lost. Or I tell the whole world you’re gay.”

The girl stepped into view, lipstick already smudged, one of his shirts hanging off her. “Who the fuck are you?”

I raised my phone. “An engaged man with another woman? Bullocks, I wonder how much the papers would pay for the photo.”

She let out a short laugh. “He’s not gay, trust me. He drills me just fine.”

I kept the phone up and waited.

Jibril gave her a small nod. She cursed under her breath, grabbed her bag, and shoved past me hard enough to clip my shoulder. The door clicked shut.

I stayed in the doorway, pulse hammering in my throat, cock already starting to thicken just from the smell of his skin.

“Undo it,” I said.

He tilted his head slightly. “Undo what?”

“Whatever you did to me in that changing room. Whatever the fuck you left behind. Undo it. Then get out of my life and my sister’s life. I don’t want your money, I don’t want your ring. Fix me and disappear.”