AllFreeNovel
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What if he’s come to his senses and realized I’m a freak? What if he regrets sharing a bed with me? Sure, he’s the one who suggested getting off together, but only because I couldn’t keep my mouth shut and stop asking him sex questions like a damn game show host.
All I know is I want to do it again. But I’m unsure if he’ll let me.
Well done, Oliver, you’ve ruined everything. Like always.
5
Whatever had gotten into Wesley seems to leave him after his shower and I don’t bring it up again. He tells me he’s going to check the snow levels outside - where snow blankets the landscape in white, the sun reflecting against the surface like glass - leaving me alone for a while. In that time, I tidy the bedroom and studiously avoid eye contact with the bed.
When Wesley comes back inside his boots are packed with snow. He suggests exploring the cabin and assigns me as his assistant. We take our time opening every door and looking into every corner.
I’m in his sweatshirt, ‘Class of Politics and History’ embroidered underneath the college logo. Wesley wears an old Star Wars shirt that’s way too tight for him. It doesn’t look warm but, every time I brush against him, he’s as hot as he was last night, a living radiator.
We touch a lot, all furtive and shy. Each accidental graze of his hand against mine, each brush of our legs, Wesley grabbing my shoulder to maneuver me out of the way, it all makes my stomach clench pleasantly.
When we’re touching, I forget all my worries about ruining our friendship. That probably isn’t a good thing, but none of that matters when I’m next to him.
Our search isn’t in vain. We find an old, out-of-tune acoustic guitar in the hall closet, hidden behind old brooms and cleaning supplies.
Wesley spends the next hour cleaning it with a soft cloth he found in the kitchen, and I busy myself with my sketchbook. A newly made fire roars in the grate, warming up the tiny living room.
I finish the last sketch on the page and sit back, frowning at it. It’s a portrait of Wesley, bent over the neck of the guitar, the strings tilted to his ears while he tunes it. Neat, white teeth nibble at his bottom lip, and his dark hair flops attractively over his face. It’s good; a still capture of a moment in time I want to remember forever.
But it’s not perfect.
My drawings of Wesley never are. I settle onto the rug to stare at the sketch, sighing contentedly as heat from the fire licks my skin. Behind me, a quiet medley starts playing. Something from the '90s, probably. It’s nice, soft and lilting. Perfect for our slow, snowed-in day.
I close my eyes, sketchbook forgotten for a moment as I listen to Wesley play. I imagine those long fingers of his gliding over each fret, his other hand picking at the strings expertly. How his calluses protect him from the worst of the discomfort. The nibble of his teeth over his lips, how his brow wrinkles when he’s concentrated.
I’m on my feet in seconds, leaving my sketchbook open on the floor beside the hearth. Wesley doesn’t look up as I approach, focused on the music, but his mouth tilts up into a smirk when I place a hand on his shoulder.
“Hello,” he says. His gaze is searing, burning me from the inside out.
“Hi”, I say breathlessly. “You’re so far away.”
Wesley raises an eyebrow. “You’re practically on top of me.”
“From the fire, I mean. I want to taste you where it’s warm.”
Finally, the medley stops, plunging the room into silence. Our breaths linger in the air, heavy and deep. Wesley surges up, arms circling my waist, and he leads us back to my place by the hearth.
“Who am I to decline such a sweet request?” he says.
Then, he kisses me and it’s every bit as mind-melting as the first two times.
We sink to the old, worn rug, my hands scrabbling for purchase on every part of him. He sits with his long legs stretched out towards the flames, and I settle into his lap. I pant against his mouth, trying to deepen the kiss, but Wesley keeps it light and so sweet it makes my heart ache.
He pulls away, letting me breathe, and I collapse against his chest.
“Did you draw these?”
I freeze, my eyes snapping open. Wesley holds my sketchbook and flicks through the pages.
“It’s nothing,” I say, reaching for it. “Just a few doodles. They’re not good, or anything.”
“No, no, let me see. These are amazing, Ollie. I knew you were good at drawing, but I’ve never seen these.”
Yeah, because they’re all of you. This is my sacred Wesley sketchbook and seeing the real man flip through pages and pages of his own face makes me antsy. Why didn’t I close the damn thing and shove it under the couch when I could?
