I need Silas tonight. I can feel this chasm ofneedandwantopening up inside me, and I can already tell that it’s ultimately going to be the source of my destruction.
Please, please, please dear Christ let him have eaten something.
When I wander back, I find him in the kitchen. The plate is already in the trash, so I can’t see what was left. I’m immediately suspicious, but I do my best to knock that thought out of my head. If we turn into a household where I’m combing through the trash to see what he ate and if he’s lying about it, we really are fucked. Nobody needs that.
“Better?” he asks, although I was about to ask him the same thing.
“Mmhmm.”
I slip behind him, wrapping my arms around his stomach and layering myself down his back like a second skin, taking a deep breath of the scent at the base of his neck and relishing in the overwhelming warmth of his body finally being close to mine.
He stiffens as soon as I touch him. It’s happening more and more recently, depending on where I touch him. I hate it. I can’t help the shiver of offense that hits me in return every time, even if I know that’s selfish.
It’s me. It’s me touching him. How could that ever make him feel anything other than wanted and loved?
It’s not like I don’t still think he’s the most mouth-wateringly delicious piece of ass placed on this planet, most likely just for me.
He was always handsome. Cut, classic features. That ridiculous Ken-doll body with all the abs and the other muscles I forget the names of, that we now know came from his dad’s goddamn overtraining and underfeeding.
I got him away from Travis and he literally got hotter day by day. Thick, but without that dehydrated bodybuilder look anymore. Just flesh and muscle, with a healthier glow. And happy, too, so his face fucking shone. Big and bulky and warm and all. Fucking. Mine.
He’s continued to work out obsessively since then, even though he doesn’t have to. That’s fine. Routine helps him feel in control, I get it. And working at the garage has made him pack on even more bulk on top of that, in opposition to how motocross needed him to be lean.
But as soon as he started the damn meds, it went from just muscle, to muscle and fat, and even though the meds made a very obvious difference in his mood, they also made a very obvious difference in his body. More soft over hard.
I, for one, want to drown in him. It’s all just more Silas. He can sit on my face and choke me to death with those fucking thick, hairy thighs, I swear to god.
He hated it from the jump, though. I know it bothers him. I don’t know exactly how much, because he won’t fucking talk about it, but it’s obvious. When he had to buy new clothes, that was a dark spell that took a while to get out of. For a while he worked out so much I knew he was going to hurt himself, but between me fucking begging him, and a few conversations with his therapist, he toned that down.
Still, nothing’s been fixed. I know he feels… something. Something bad. It’s written in how quickly he gets dressed after the shower or these constant tense moments when I touch him. And how much goddamn protein he takes, with very little food.
And I don’t want to make it worse for him, but I also hate having to be careful all the time, and not being able to touch the person I fucking love. Especially when he’s the only one who doesn’t realize how goddamn sexy he is. I’m tempted to tell him, but I’ve tried that before, and I feel like it makes it worse, especially if he’s already on edge.
Instead, I fist my hands so I’m not touching him in quite the same way, then squeeze him tightly so we’re pressed inseparably close. My hips are pushed against his firm round ass—the one that I wish I could have in my hands basically all the time—and I let him feel that I’m already half-hard at the thought of what we could do next.
Silas lets out a slow, shuddery exhale while I lick and nibble my way up his neck to eventually suck his earlobe into my mouth.
“Bed?” I murmur into his ear.
He nods against me, relaxing bit by bit, but still not as much as I would like. I’m gripped by how much I want him, but his tension makes me tense, so there’s an undercurrent to the whole interaction. I’m not sure what it is—fear, anxiety, resentment, something—but it’s lurking there regardless, like an intruder in our home.
I focus on Silas in an attempt to chase the feeling away. I reach down, slipping my fingers under the waistband of his athletic shorts. He’s not wearing any underwear, and I nearly groan at the feeling as my fingers drag through short, coarse hair on the way to his dick. He absolutely knows how to get me every time, and the exhaustion is quickly chased from my body.
I want him. I need him. I need my brain to stop making fucking noise.
“Fuck me, robot boy,” I whisper as I fist his cock just a little too tight and begin to stroke. “Take me upstairs and fuck me until I can’t even remember my own name.”
Silas smirks a little, but turns his head to kiss me through the expression.
“Are you sure? After all that chili?”
There’s a teasing tone to his words that I don’t get to hear that often, so I don’t have it in me to be embarrassed as I smile, getting out my words between short kisses.
“Yeah, that was maybe an oversight on my part. Whoops.” I shrug. “How about ‘suck me until I can’t remember my own name, robot boy’. Does that work? Clearly someone doesn’t want to have ourBrokeback Mountainmoment.”
Now we’re both laughing more than kissing, although still holding each other close, and the mood shifts into something lighter.
“That works, Cade.”
