I move my hand faster, teeth clenched as I consider how good it would feel to have Wren’s lips around my cock. All sharp eyes and attitude looking up at me.
I try to remind myself I’m not supposed to want this.
But I can’t stop. I want their mouth on my neck. My fingers in their hair. I want to push them up against a wall and find out what kind of sounds they make when they come.
Would they want me back?
Jesus, it feels too good. My balls ache, itching for a release. I can barely keep my hips still to stop the goddamn bed from creaking.
I squeeze my cock as visions of Wren walking into my room, letting go of their towel, and dropping to their knees in front of me flood my consciousness. Images of me, holding onto that thick lush hair as I fuck their throat.
And it’s when they look up at me, eyes watering, that I come, biting my lips together to stop from making a sound. There’s a thin wall between our rooms, and the last thing I need is for Wren to know I’m jerking off to thoughts of them.
But Jesus fucking Christ.
My back arches off the bed, pleasure flooding through me in one sharp, unforgiving wave.
For a moment, all I can do is lie there, my chest rising and falling as I try to get my breath back under control. I stroke out the final shudders and let myself revel in the pleasure of a fast orgasm.
And I allow myself one last thought of Wren as I bring myself back down. It’s of the two of us, holding each other as we sleep.
And it’s a perfect image, even if guilt will tumble in soon enough.
6
WREN
After an unexpectedly calm night with Catfish, I hoped that I would sleep better than I had in a long while. I went to bed with the faintest feeling of ease. But I wake with the world sitting on my chest again. Thoughts running riot as my heart races.
And nothing will be solved if I continue to lie in bed, staring at the ceiling.
The floor is cool as I step out of bed and pad to the kitchen. Remembering what Niro said, I force a glass of water down my throat before I go about making some coffee. But as I grab the mug from the cupboard, it slips through my shaking hands and drops to the ground.
I’m not sure whether it’s the lack of sleep, or too much coffee, or a rawness that starts in my gut that causes it to fall. But the whole thing plays in slow motion as I watch it explode into a million pieces as it hits the ground.
And the shocking thing about PTSD is, I can’t even take in the beauty of the explosion before waves of fear engulf me.
Getting beaten for breaking a glass.
Getting locked in my room for forgetting to flush the toilet.
Being forced to eat the fish that had made me sick the night before for lunch.
I press myself up against the counter and hunch over, automatically trying to make myself small. Make myself disappear.
But the shards of mug that cover the kitchen floor will give me away.
I drop to my knees and begin trying to scoop the pieces up with my bare hands, ignoring the way they dig into my knees.
The sooner I can get rid of the evidence, the less chance there is that I’ll find myself in trouble?—
“Wren. Stop.” Catfish’s voice cuts through the waves of noise and fear.
I realize my breath is coming sharply. Too fast for my level of exertion. I place my hand on my chest, take a deep breath. Then another one.
It takes a moment, but when I look up, I see Catfish, barefoot, wearing a pair of hastily pulled on jeans that are still open at the waist, the zipper only half pulled up, so I can see the top edge of a thick thatch of pubic hair.
As my gaze roams up his body, I take in the sharp shadows of his abs and the uniqueness of his ink. There’s a lot of fine-line work. A raven or crow maybe, sitting on a branch; around it is what looks like a circular chart with dots and solid lines.
