Page 26 of Twisted Needs

That’s the part that scares me. It isn’t just attraction anymore. Attraction would be easier to dismiss. Easier to laugh off. But this feels compulsive, like my attention keeps finding him before I even realize I’m searching for him. It’s becoming impossible to pretend this is some crossed wire in my brain. We aren’t back in D.C. where I can convince myself I’m just overprotective because he relies on me too much. He’s home right now. Luca’s here. Emelie’s here. His entire world is here.

So why the hell do I still feel this pull toward him?

Why am I disappointed every time he disappears upstairs?

“Goodnight,” Anders says softly, kissing Emelie’s cheek again. “Maman.”

“Love you, mon fils.”

He doesn’t say it back, but the look he gives her says enough.

A few minutes later I push away from the table, deciding it’s time to call it a night when Emelie disappears upstairs and never returns.

“I should probably head to bed too.”

“Tubing tomorrow,” Luca reminds me, drumming on the table.

And immediately my brain betrays me again. All that flashes across my eyes is Anders with wet hair slicked back from his face. Sunburnt shoulders. Those stupid coral swim trunks Luca keeps making fun of because they make him look “homeless.”

Jesus Christ. Something is deeply wrong with me.

By the time I make it to bed, my skin feels too tight. A cold shower doesn’t help. Neither does standing in front of the bathroom mirror afterward trying to shame myself back into sanity.

The problem is that I know exactly what this is now. This isn’t some passing thought anymore. I would absolutely fuck him if I could. The realization sits in my stomach like something rotten.

He’s barely twenty.

Luca trusts me.

Anders trusts me.

I keep telling myself that tomorrow this will pass. I’m drunk, overly tired, and stuck in a house full of domestic intimacy that’s making me lose my goddamn mind.

That’s all this is.

I head back to the kitchen for water, mostly because I need something cold enough to shock me into the right headspace. But then I see the kitchen light is still on.

When I finally step inside, Anders is standing at the counter.

“Are you okay?” he asks immediately, turning his head to me.

“Yeah,” I lie automatically. “Fine, sweetheart.”

“That sounded fake.”

I clear my throat and move toward the sink. “I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not.”

The certainty in his voice pisses me off, because he isn’t wrong. I’m upset. The offseason isn’t long enough. I haven’t had sex in months. My body has all of these aches and pains that are a constant reminder that I’m no longer living in my prime. And Anders has been avoiding me since the moment I got here for no goddamn reason.

Fuck me.

Anders opens one of the upper cabinets and grabs two mugs, setting them down on the counter. “Tea?”

“Yeah.”

He slides the box toward me across the counter while I fill the kettle with water. Chamomile. Mint. Lavender. Any flavor of tea I could possibly imagine. I grab one without really reading it. Blackberry Sage it looks like.