“Get off me!Get the fuck away!”Spit flies, and rain streaks my face, salt from my tears.My body folds in on itself, wild and shaking, trapped in a nightmare with no exit.
The crowd recoils, their revulsion giving me space to crawl, to shove, to claw my way through legs and umbrellas.
Dragging myself upright, I wheeze, shove out of the shadows, and break into a run.Across the gangway and aboard the yacht, I don’t stop, desperate for the lock of the door and the distance that will put the mainland behind me.
Fading in and out of a mouth-breathing meltdown, I steer into the Sound.My hands shake on the wheel, but I don’t let go.I can’t.If I stop moving, I’ll implode.
Somehow, I manage to hammer out a message to Dove’s security team, instructing them to bring her home when she’s finished.Straight to the island.Tell her I need her now.
My thumb hovers over that last demand.That’s not fair.She doesn’t need my shit.Delete.Send.Done.
As I reach the island, I remember my family is still in Sitka.No witnesses.It’s for the best.
I don’t remember docking or walking to the guest house.
All I remember is Jag.
His name hits like a fist.Jag, the asshole.Jag, the fever-burned sex god, stretched out beneath me.I can’t stop replaying it.Trying to line it up in my head.Line it up with Denver’s hands on me, the way he pinned me and hurt me.And today,Jesus Christ, me on top of Jag, my body betraying me, straddling him like I was the predator.Like I was Denver.
Bile scorches my throat.
Jag didn’t touch me.Didn’t force me.He kept his word.He fucking let me.And that’s worse.That’s what’s killing me.Because it wasn’t him.It was me.My body, my hunger, my sickness clawing to the surface like it never left.
Who’s the villain now?
My chest constricts, breath cutting short, eyes going blurry.I stumble into my bedroom and drop face down on the mattress.My brain slams against the same wall over and over, sparks flying in the cracks.
I gave him a hand job.I made him come.Made us both come.Then I licked up our seed like a depraved, unhinged animal.
And I want to do it again.
“No.”I gnash my teeth.“No, fuck you.That’s not me.”
But it is.I’m fucking hard just thinking about it.Hard and grinding my aching dick against the mattress.
Frantically, I hump the bed, overcome by the warzone in my head as graphic images explode in every direction.Jag’s body beneath me, Denver’s groan in my ear, Jag’s cock in my hand, Denver’s rotpiece in my ass, and my eight-year-old sobs threaded through it all.
I can’t want a man that way.I didn’t want it with Denver.But what if I did?What if all I’m meant to be is another man’s fuck boy?What if I let myself believe it?
I’ll break.I’ll break so hard there won’t be anything left to patch.
Doesn’t stop me from pushing my skull into the mattress and muffling my roar as I free my erection and squeeze it.Fighting the breakdown.Fighting the urge to jerk.Fighting the impossible need to fuck my fist like a beast with teeth.
I kept it leashed for so long.Kept it hidden where it belonged.And just like that, one orgasm with a man on a creaky cot, and I can’t stop the sudden, rapid, uncontrolled release of impounded sexual hunger.
The dam has broken, and there’s no going back.
I can’t kill this gnawing, bottomless need for sex.For intimacy.For deranged rutting in every body hole.I crave it.I fucking need it.In the name of Freddie Mercury, I.Want.To.Fuck.
But not with these feelings.Not these sucking, unrelenting, painful godsdamn memories.
I want to fuck like a regular guy.
I want to fuck Jag and Dove.
You’re a horny bitch.That’s all this is.Nothing new there.
Yeah.Just horny.
