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I only ever masturbate before bed. So it's for insomnia relief as much as anything else.
Still, I should take advantage of being alone in Brendon's room somehow.
Reading isn't quite as exciting or naughty as masturbating to thoughts of my new roommate slash guardian, but hey—
I do have dirty books on here.
I'm capable of fun. Of sexy. Of bad.
Just, I'm going to do it by myself in my pajamas.
I toss my sleep shorts on the bed.
Set my Kindle on the dresser.
Right next to the faded black sketchbook.
Wait.
That's Brendon's sketchbook.
It's right there.
I've never seen it by itself.
In his hands? Yeah.
On his lap? Absolutely.
Nestled under his arm? Of course.
It never leaves his sight.
And he snaps it fast whenever I get close.
This is it.
All the secrets to what's in that beautiful head of his.
His secrets.
None of my business.
I pick it up. Run my fingers over the worn leather cover. Undo the snap holding the pages together.
This is his.
It's private.
Yes, I want to know why his smiles are so rare.
I want to know what it is he's thinking about when he's sitting on the deck alone.
When he's alone, period.
God, I want in his head so badly I'm shaking.
This is wrong. What if it was your journal?
