I’m so close to his face, and I want it more than I’ve ever wanted anything.
But I don’t.
I fucking can’t.
And I don’t want to think about why.
I drop low again. I bring his cock into my mouth and work him in a hard rhythm until he’s unraveling beneath me,saying a string of curse words and coming on my tongue, leaning back and giving me the gift of his ragged, desperate moan.
I’m so greedy for him. And so weightless, at the same time.
Every time he comes for me, I just want to make him do it again. Keep my hands on his skin. Hold him until he melts into me, our bodies merging until I don’t know if the heat between us is mine or his.
I’m still draped over his body long after he comes, pressing my weight onto him, while we’re breathing in tandem. And it’s still right there, at the core of my chest. An endlessneedstill coursing through me. A hunger I don’t know how to sate.
Stay.
Stay here.
Just like this.
I watch as he loses himself in me, too. Over and over again, across the next week, he goes to the bottle of Scotch too often when I come over. Does he need to numb himself from the rest of his life, or from me? When I get the inkling that there’s something else below his surface, is it a secret he’s keeping, or just fear?
There’s a deep well of pain that’s inside him.
And he won’t open up about what it is.
Do I even really know him?
It feels so much like I do, in the moments where he’s coming for me, or so ready to follow anything I say.
But I also know the truth about myself like it’s running through my blood.
I’m bad for people.
My chaos seeps into other people’s lives like a toxin.
And it’s seeping into his world, too.
Logan is a very private person, and he doesn’t want to be pictured in public with anyone. But I find my mind wandering to dark places, wishing photos of us could be plastered everywhere for the world to see. I’d love being seen with him. I’d want to show him off, and have him show me off, too.
Stupid, I know.
I don’t even know if he ever wants this thing to continue between us, outside of hushed, secretive late nights alone in his room.
He’s so afraid of the public eye.
When the thoughts confuse me, I just touch his skin again. When I doubt everything between us, it gets obliterated the moment his fingers curl around my cock or I make him get down on his knees for me.
I don’t ever kiss him.
When I get that close to him, night after night, something sparks behind his eyes, and I’m afraid that if I kissed him he’d run away or disappear right in front of me.
We don’t kiss, and we don’t fuck. Not all the way.
I know it’s getting bad when we stop talking about how our days went, or sharing little stories, or doing anything other than falling into mutual physical need the moment I show up at his door. Julian stops asking where I’ve been. Logan keeps his phone on silent while I’m in his hotel, too.
We’re hiding. From the rest of the world, and from things within ourselves.
