Why the hell did you think the closet was good place?
You're palming yourself through your pants now. There's a hiss as you feel some sort of relief from this ungodly arousal.
Why couldn't Feliciano answer his phone, dammit? All you had now was a stupid line he left on your voicemail. A sultry tone whispering, "Ludwig, I miss you. Come over." But your mind repeats the "come" and "Ludwig" parts only.
You don't remember unzipping your pants and putting a hand down your boxers, but that would be where you are at the moment, slowly jacking off as you bite your lip, careful not to alert the others.
There is no way in hell you are living this down.
Your imagination has never been the best, but you attempt at thinking up a situation. Feliciano breathing down your throat, nibbling at your neck in the way he knows you like, flashing those amber eyes at you. He's all consuming. All you can see, feel, hear, taste, and smell.
It's almost too much right then. You wonder what he would say if he could see you now. You can hear that tinkering laugh, and his warm, lowered voice. "What a good boy," you hear him whispering, "Finally lightening up, Lud?"
You moan in reply, wanting nothing more for this figment of your imagination to pull you in close, wrap his hot hands around your cock, and bring you to a shuddering climax. The thought of him urging you to release only brings you closer, causing a louder-than-wanted whine to escape past your lips. You can hear the content noise Feliciano would have made. A sort of laugh that makes you feel small. But that's all right. You like that.
You like that very much.