“Don’t,” I warn, but instead of staying where I am, I find my body moving toward him again, dragged closer by a gravitational force I’m powerless to resist. “Don’t you dare touch me.”
He presses his lips together, stifling a whimper, and nods, taking hold of the tip of the tie of my pants while taking care not to touch my body, and pulls at it gently. I tied it tightly in my earlier stupor so it doesn’t come undone without some convincing, but he doesn’t give up. He works it, pulling carefully but hard, still not touching my skin, until, at last, the thing keeping us apart unravels.
For all he’s done, for all the misery he’s caused me, he has the decency to respect what I’ve asked of him. He doesn’t touch me. He sinks to his knees at my feet, fully dressed but undone, looking up at me with stars in his eyes as he inches my pants over my hips slowly. I buck and writhe, blinking frantically in an attempt to wake up.
If this is a dream, I need to wake up.
Now.
I need to wake up now because it will kill me to wake up later and find that it didn’t happen.
It’s no dream, though, because when the throbbing heat of my cock is exposed, he inhales like he’s been holding his breath, mouth open, eyes wild, and I feel the air he expels like a soft caress on my naked balls.
That doesn’t happen in dreams. Believe me, I know. I’ve dreamed dreams like this more times than I can count. I know how they start and how they end. He holds his right hand out near his head, palm open in surrender, as if that’smeant to set me at ease. The left drifts toward my cock, clenching into a fist that he digs his teeth into when it gets too close to me.
“Please, Jude,” he whines against his knuckles. I can’t tell if it’s the sound he makes, or the way he looks up at me, or maybe it’s the fact I wasn’t lying. I am in pain. I’m so hard, there’s a high, whirring sound in my ears and my heart is beating like it means to harm me. Either way, my hand clamps around my dick without a single thought in my head, and I jack it like a man possessed. Pleasure and pain engulf me. Visions of Romeo then and Romeo now taunt me. Laughing and lapping at me until I’m leaking. Long strokes, short strokes, then quick frenzied tugs that make my eyes roll back in my head. Romeo doesn’t blink. He doesn’t move other than to let both hands fall to his thighs and open his mouth, showing me the soft, pink wetness inside. I almost black out from the sight of Romeo. My Romeo. My lover, my enemy, my life, on his knees at my feet.
There’s a pause in pleasure, a full second or more when everything falls silent, when all that’s left is a quiet certainty. An unshakable inevitability. A promise of gratification that can’t be undone. It’s already been written. There’s a beat, and then my orgasm rips through the walls and the floor. Through me and through time.
Despite the force and brutality, I have time to decide, to weigh my options. Do I aim for the floor, or do I blast my seed all over Romeo’s perfect face?
To my surprise, I go with neither.
Instead, I grab him by the hair and fuck hard and deep into his open mouth, unloading a lifetime of heartbreak and resentment, choking him on the pain that’s defined my adult life.
He doesn’t falter. He swallows everything I give him and, for good measure, wipes the last drops off his lips with his thumb, then raises it to his lips and licks what’s there too.
And to think I thought I was a mess before last night. Comparatively, I had my shit together big time. Back then, I was just a heartbroken fool. Now, I’m a man who messaged his sister thirty-four times and the guy managing the renovation at our house nine times last night. Each message grew more desperate and more unhinged, urging him to grout the family bathroom upstairs and turn the water back on so I can move back into my housetomorrow or the next day. Added to that, I jerked off to Romeo on his knees so many times I still feel a little drunk this morning.
I am very hungover, though, so I don’t think I am drunk-drunk, just cum-drunk, which, when you think about it, is way worse, given that I’m now also a cheater. An adulterer.
Wait. Am I the adulterer, or is Romeo?
Or is it one of those works-both-ways kinds of things?
Fuck. I don’t know.
Maybe I should call Lexi and ask her? Seems like the kind of thing she’d know.
But no. Obviously not. No, I’m not going to call her. I can’t. After the messages I sent her last night, I might have to drown my SIM card and torch my phone. Might have to change my name legally and leave the country all together.
“Jude!” Selby calls brightly. She’s mixing pancake batter with fervor and her mood is that of a person impervious to hangovers. “Morning! How did you sleep?” Before I can answer, she gives Romeo a knowing smile and cocks a brow at my sleep shorts. “See, I told you he wouldn’t like the pants.”
The pants in question are currently covered in so much semen I’ve rolled them into a ball and shoved them into the bottom of my luggage because I’m not sure what else to dowith them. I don’t think there’s a wash cycle in the US that can bring them back from what they've been through.
Romeo gives me a look. A smile with his eyes, not his lips. “Oh, he likes them just fine.”
My hand shakes so much as they bicker that coffee runs down the side of my mug. After breakfast, I offer to clean up. “And thanks again for having me,” I say to Selby, guilt stabbing at my side so hard my eyes water. “Really, it’s, uh, a lot, and I-I appreciate it.”
“Oh, it’s nothing.” She waves me off and looks in Romeo’s direction. “It’s been nice to see that one with a smile on his face for once.”
I keep my eyes firmly down to avoid looking at “that one” and say, “I’m going to get out of your hair today, you know, give you guys a little time to yourselves.”
My attempt not to look at Romeo has failed. He’s watching me with an intensity that could cut glass. His eyes are hooded and dark. Unreadable except to tell me I’m playing with fire.
“Yeah?” he says, taking care to keep his tone light. “What are you going to get up to?”
Asshole!
