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Boyd
Ishould let her go.
Step the fuck away.
Stop staring into her goddamn mesmerizing eyes.
At this rate, it’s already going to take months to scrub her floral scent out from where I think it’s embedded under my fingernails. To erase the feel of her silky, smooth porcelain skin from my fingertips and palms. To forget how perfectly her curves fit against the hard planes of my body, as if melting just for me.
My throat constricts as I stare down at her, my hand still plastered against her plump lips, our bodies damn near sewn together with how close I’m standing. I can’t imagine having her spine pressed into the wood of her bed frame feels particularly good, but she doesn’t move to push me away or try to squirm out from my touch.
That concerns me. In fact, instead of the nerves or confusion I associate with her in my presence, she seems to relax into me, as if my proximity and violent nature somehow bring her comfort.
I scan the contours of her face, trying my damnedest to memorize the delicate angle of her nose and count the freckles dusting her cheeks.
Forty-seven. She has forty-seven visible freckles, each one a unique size and shape compared to the one before, but none present enough to hide the pale skin underneath.
A pang rips across my gut, twisting the organ in knots as I press my hand harder against her, trying to imprint the feel of her saliva on my skin so I can beat off to it later. She mumbles something, and I smirk, shaking my head.
Regardless of how badly I want to be noble, to continue flying under the radar of everyday suspicion, I can’t stop myself. The cruel beast inside of me loves to dole out pain as much as he’s a glutton for it, which is the only reasonable explanation for why I’m fucking touching her again.
In her house, while her brother and father—my best friend and boss—sit downstairs, waiting for me to come back from the bathroom.
The beast is to blame for why I force her to look me in the eyes, my palm moving her head backward, and think about what she’d look like with my spit dripping down her face. It’s why my mind goes from zero to one hundred in seconds, why I’m imagining her sucking my cock one minute and fantasizing about drowning her in my cum the next.
My hand shakes as I drag it away, my tongue thick inside my mouth as I distance myself from her. She blinks, confusion sparkling in her eyes, and it chips away at something pulled taut inside my chest, threatening to unravel me.
“I-I’m... fuck, Fiona.” Expelling a harsh breath, I back up until my knees hit her bed frame and drop to the mattress.
“Are you going through a midlife crisis?”
A short laugh puffs past my lips. “Not quite old enough for that, I’m afraid.”
“Quarter-life crisis, then.” Smoothing her hand over where her sweatshirt’s ridden up, she walks over and plops down on the bed beside me, swinging her legs over the edge of the frame. “You’re the perfect age, give a couple years, for that. Perfect temperament, too.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
She shrugs. “People who have crises tend to be the ones who can’t just accept life as it comes to them, yeah? You’re not exactly known for being easygoing.”
“And you are?”
“God, no.” She giggles, the sound ridiculously soft and feminine and something I feel in my cock. “Which is how I can see it in other people. It’s like we carry the weight of the entire universe on our shoulders.”
I glance around her room, my eyes glazing over all the pink—the walls, the glass perfume bottles on her dresser, the corkboard above her desk covered in pictures and concert tickets and award ribbons. It’s all so youthful and pink, reminding me of the bubblegum she’s always chewing, and not at all reminiscent of the kind of responsibility she claims.
Although, perhaps that’s the point.
There’s a comfort in the innocence, the ability to shed your worries and just exist. Maybe her bedroom is that haven, and maybe I’m just an asshole.
“I shouldn’t have kissed you,” I say after a few beats of silence, trying to fill the awkwardness that’s settled in around us.
Nodding, she raises an eyebrow, as if waiting for more. “Is there an apology buried in there somewhere?”
“No.” I swallow, gripping my thighs. “I don’t make a habit of apologizing, Fiona. Especially not for things I don’t feel bad about.”
“So... you don’t think you should’ve kissed me, but you’re also not sorry you did?” One manicured finger presses into the shallow dimple in her chin. “Yeah, definitely some kind of crisis.”
“You’re young, so I don’t expect you to get it.”
