That night, I toss and turn amidst his lingering scent on my sheets, mentally dissecting the evening over and over. His eyes. His hands. His body…
I'm hard again and more confused than ever.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
7
Win
One thing they warn you about in recovery is the proclivity to replace your addiction with another. And boy have I found a new and equally self-destructive one.
I double-check my watch.
Five more minutes.
Stepping onto a college campus without being enrolled feels illegal. Like I’m going to get caught by campus security and escorted away while crowds of disgusted students chant to burn me at the stake.
A bead of sweat rolls down my temple. I would commit a whole host of criminal offenses for some air-conditioning right now, but the idea of missing him keeps me glued to the side of the building.
The heavy door of the lecture hall bursts open, spilling a stream of students like ants from a kicked hill. I thumb the ring on my middle finger and chew the inside of my cheek.
Since the fateful party a few weeks ago, I’ve been outside more than I have in years. Mom’s laying off on the nagging; she thinksI’m getting my life together since I asked to buy a visitor parking pass for FMU. Lugging V with me on these adventures sells it to her, though, I doubt my precious violin is thrilled to be tucked in the back of a Range Rover, baking in a parking lot for hours. (Borrowing Mom’s SUV is decidedly less humiliating than begging Richard to buy me another car after I totaled mine.)
Finally, the straggler I’ve been waiting for elbows the door open. He's staring at his phone, a mess of brown curls obscuring his eyes. If the little frown he’s sporting is any indication, he’s not having a good day.
Remy doesn’t smile much anymore. I’ve been following him for almost a month and only counted three forced shows of teeth.
I hate it.
He stops under the shade of a massive oak, his thumbs tapping the screen at lightning speed. Who the fuck is he texting? Sweat collects in the waistband of my jeans but I stick to my hiding place, examining him head to toe.
He’s in a light blue t-shirt today with grey shorts that are just tight enough across his ass to drive me wild. Although he still has a couple inches on me, he's filled out compared to the lanky boy I remember; sun-kissed skin stretches over defined muscles dusted in blonde hair, practically screaming for me to touch. There's even a delicious hint of stubble shadowing his square jaw. I want to lick it, mark his neck with hickies and bites—
I’m getting ahead of myself.
Seeing Remy again has reawakened my sex drive. My dick has been perpetually chubbed since encountering the stunning man he’s grown into. The thought of what’s beneath his clothes? Full mast. His disbelieving voice whispering my name? Ready to blow.
Too bad he only gifts me death glares… like the one leveled at me now.
He doesn’t say anything to me. He never does when he catches me lurking. And yeah, I could hide better, but Iwanthim to see me. Iwanthim to know he’ll always consume me.
He’s not meant to escape me.
Not in this life.
Or the next.
With a huff in my direction, he adjusts his backpack and marches toward the breezeway. I follow at a distance like a stray dog begging for scraps.
I won’t lie, he’s tried many times to shake me off by taking alternative routes or darting into buildings with locked doors, but I patiently wait him out or meet him at his next destination. I have his schedule memorized.
Walking behind him does havesomeperks. I get to admire his perfect ass— I think I want to bite that too. Leave a nice bruise to brand it as mine.
I’m lost to the fantasies of him bent over for me when I notice he’s ducking into a coffee shop outside the Student Union.
Doesn’t he have Developmental Psych in ten minutes?
I squint, unable to distinguish anything through the glare on the shop’s windows.
