No, I’m always in control. I like to be the one fucking.
I’d never give anyone so much power over me.
I need to end this, put a stop to it.
But instead of doing what I should, I say, “Roll over.”
He does as I ask, and I’m on him, pulling those pants down, pulling out his cock, and stroking him.
He makes the most delicious noises when he’s turned on. Whimpering, moaning, and whispering my name. It’s addictive.
He’s a habit I need to break.
“We shouldn’t be doing this,” I tell him, my hand twisting up and over his wet cockhead.
“Fuck that. Why stop when this feels so good?” he replies, panting.
He’s lasting longer than before, and my cock is straining against my pajama pants. This whole weekend has been torture. I should pull myself out and find relief, too. The two of us together.
But I won’t. I have more self-control than that. I always have control around Caleb…most of the time.
He’s chanting my name now, and I feel like a god. It’s disconcerting the way he feeds my ego.
I run my free hand over his sculpted abdomen, feeling the muscles tighten under my touch. I tell myself that all this muscle is uncivilized, but I can’t deny how much I like it.
I want to spend the rest of the night mapping the ridges and grooves of his body.
He’s a work of art.
Caleb’s hands twist in the sheets, his hips arching up into my touch, and then he’s gasping, his cum pulsing against my fingers. His eyes screw shut, his soft moans a delicious melody.
“Holy shit. How is this still so damn good?” he asks me when his eyelids flutter open.
I rub my fingers together, feeling his release between them, and then force myself off the bed. It’s that, or I’ll do something I shouldn’t. This arrangement, whatever it is, is already too precarious.
I need to end this.
I will, as soon as we get back to the apartment. I’ll tell Caleb that this cannot happen anymore.
And then, in a matter of months, I’ll never see him again.
I should feel relieved I have a plan, but when I slide back into bed with Caleb, and he scoots over to me, wrapping himself around me, I feel…
Melancholy.
CHAPTER SEVEN
ATVs were not meant for civilized society, I’m sure of it. But then again, are Caleb and his family civilized? I’m not sure they are.
“You good, man?” Caleb asks, his voice carrying over the awful hum of the machine we’re on. The only good thing about this is that I’m wrapped around him, my thighs pressed against his, my arms wrapped around his waist.
He guides us down the steep hill, and I squeeze my eyes shut, holding my breath. I can’t think about dying.
Not here. Not with him.
It’s almost funny, in a cruel way. I used to romanticize the idea of my own end, imagining how the blood would seep from my veins as I laid my head down one final time. But right now? I don’t want to die.
I want to live.
