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Now I’ve made it weird. Wesley would be a saint not to think so. It isn’t a small sketchbook and some of the drawings are… less innocent than the guitar one.
But he doesn’t look angry when I sneak a glance at him. He flips through the pages methodically, like someone perusing the newspaper, only stopping when he gets to that spread. The one I drew earlier this morning before breakfast.
Drawing after drawing of Wesley with his head thrown back, his face the picture of ecstasy. Of Wesley’s hand wrapped around himself, of his abs and pecs and broad shoulders, each memory given painstaking attention. All of it laid bare on 200gsm paper.
When he reaches the end, his eyes lingering on the guitar sketch, he closes the sketchbook and places it aside gently.
My mouth opens before I can stop it. “I’ll burn the entire thing right now if you want, promise. The images just wouldn’t leave my head and I thought I would go mad if I didn’t have somewhere to put them, but it’s such a breach of trust and I know that and-”
“Oliver.”
I clamp my mouth shut. He’s not smiling but there’s a bright look in his eyes that sends shivers down my spine. He places two of his large hands on the tops of my thighs, fingers splayed and digging into the soft fabric of my sweatpants.
“You are a marvel,” he says, and the tone of his voice rips a gasp from me. “How long have you been drawing me?”
I fist my hands in the hem of his t-shirt, looking everywhere except for at him. “Not long. That sketchbook is all I’ve done, I swear.”
“I like them all. You make me look like an underwear model.”
I feel myself blushing and I bury my face into his chest. Despite his words, I can’t help but feel horrible.
“Let’s talk about something else,” I say, inhaling his scent to calm myself down. “Tell me more about your crush. Have you ever kissed them?”
Wesley squeezes my thighs. If he’s surprised by the change in conversation, he doesn’t say.
“I have. I’ve only kissed him three times but it’s my new favorite thing.”
Maybe it’s the way my nerves feel rubbed raw from exposing a deep part of myself, or maybe I’m just being emotional, but suddenly I hate this mysterious crush with a passion. I get up, almost crawling off Wesley’s lap before he grabs my waist and pulls me back.
“Let me go,” I say. I don't really mean it.
“Wait for a moment, Ollie, please.” He runs a hand through my hair, and I lean into the touch. “Tell me what’s wrong.”
“Nothing. I just don’t want to talk about your crush anymore.”
Wesley frowns. “You’re the one who asked. Wait— you can’t be serious.”
The mean, vicious feeling in my stomach from before has blossomed into a monster I don’t know how to put away.
He dips his head and brushes our lips together, our mouths so close that when he exhales, it feels like I’m inhaling his breath. My skin prickles. This is a new level of intimacy, more so than him licking my come from my fingers.
“You really don’t know?”
I cross my arms. “Know what?”
“I was talking about you, Ollie,” he says, and my heart stops. “I’ve wanted to kiss you senseless since I first laid eyes on you at Callum’s party.”
I don’t know what to say to that. All this time, he was talking about me? I’m barely aware of myself pulling away and scrambling to my feet until I’m staring down at Wesley.
The smile from earlier is gone. He gets up, hands held out like I’m a wild animal in the mountains ready to attack. But I don’t feel like attacking. I feel like running away, curling up in our bed, and going to sleep for a thousand years.
“How long?”
“I just told you-”
I shake my head, cutting him off. “No, I mean how long have you known you liked me? Not just wanted to kiss.”
“Maybe a few months later,” Wesley says. “I’ve had feelings for you for years, Ollie.”
