Of course, she knew I was there the second she walked into the room. She’s as attuned to my presence as I am to hers. Still,we acted as though the other didn’t exist. She a dancer; me a spectator.
The promise I made to her that day in my car didn’t solely apply to Grayson and Logan. It was to keepeveryoneaway. Anyone who would dare hurt her.
Grayson. Her boss. Whoever thinks she can be taken advantage of because she's sweet, kind, and caring.
Fuck no.
She’s been through enough.
We’veput her through enough.
Call it penance or remorse or an inability to stay away from her.
She’s under my skin, in my veins, stamped on my brain. I told her I’d leave her alone, and I have, though I’m not sure I could stay away even if I tried. I’m the last thing she needs. The worst thing for her. I’m carrying just as much baggage as she is. The only difference is, she’s processed hers. That’s not to say she doesn’t struggle, but she’s faced it… whereas I’m still running. Still burying it in distractions.
Riley and I… our traumas recognize each other, but where she fought and conquered her demons, I allowed mine to swallow me whole. To carve out my insides and turn me into a hollow, mechanical shell.
So, I’ll hide out of sight and obsess from afar. I’ll keep my distance, like I said, like Ishould. I’ll fight every overwhelming urge to put myself in her orbit. To hear her sultry voice. To bask in the warmth of her smile. To feel the smoothness of her skin beneath mine.
Meanwhile, I’ll commit everything about her to memory so I can lift it out in the quiet solitude of my room and examine; turn it over until I know her better than I know myself.
It’s to images of her coy smile and sparkling skin beneath the stage lights, combined with the fierce fire I saw burningin her eyes earlier today in the dance studio, that I push my hand beneath the waistband of my jeans and palm my growing erection.
It’s been five years since I was inside a woman. Since I felt that slick heat spasming around my shaft. The gush of wetness triggering my own explosion of pleasure.
I’ve barely missed it. Made do with my fist and blowjobs from whatever girl was pawing over me at some post-game celebration. With utter hatred burning through my veins, it was easy to maintain. To suppress the yearning. To distance myself from that desire.
I’d almost convinced myself I didn’t miss it.
And then, like an unexpected spark in the darkness, she walked into my life. Literally crashed right into it, igniting a long-dormant ember within me and tugging at the edges of my restraint until all I can see is her.
I didn’t want to become obsessed, except when she cut me down with her sharp words that night at The Depot, I had no choice.
Every moment since has been a battle. Clash after clash in a war I’m slowly losing. Every brush of her skin, every inhale of her strawberry shampoo, a battering ram to my palpable urge, leaving me torn between the instinct to lean in and savor the intoxicating taste of her desire and remaining firmly behind the walls of ice that has shielded me for so long.
Those walls around me have been melting without provocation—shehas melted them with every unguarded smile. With every lingering look, I feel like I’m someone worthy of her time and attention. Someone worth getting to know. Deserving of the time it would take to get through my defenses.
The only thing that has kept me at bay was telling myself she was exactly like Melissa. That she’d ruin me just as badly, if not worse. Even if, deep in my gut, I started to doubt that.
Now, that argument has been shattered. Obliterated into pieces, and only my own thin slither of restraint stands in the way of driving myself so deep inside of her that there would be no question left in her mind that she belongs to me.
My sigh is more of a groan as I squeeze my engorged cock. Hurriedly undoing the button, I yank my jeans and boxers down enough to pull out my dick, hissing as I feel every single one of those five years of celibacy. The heavy ache of my need grates with the wrongness of it all. Yet, I can’t bring myself to feel bad as I remember how fucking fantastic it felt to have Riley’s lips wrapped around my cock, my shaft buried deep in her throat.
Precum beads at my tip as I stroke myself to the memory of her on her knees, eyes shining with tears as she stared up at me, lust brimming in those endless hazel hues. I recall how it felt, hopped up on lust and driven by how fucking tempting she’d been on stage. I’d been obsessed. Consumed. Bewitched. My blood had been alight with the need to have her, and nothing would quench the craving. She’d been nervous, so small and fragile looking as I’d stroked my thumb over her cheek, but she’d wanted it as much as I did.
My breathing deepens as I inch closer, fisting myself with fervor while I pretend it’s her mouth instead.
The intensity had been building between us for weeks. Since Thanksgiving, when she’d come all over my fingers like a goddamn goddess. Before then, even. The delicate dance of push and pull has been escalating with every night spent in that club—the world a far-off concept hazy in the glare of her magnetism.
Remembering the sway of her hips, how she’d lean in so only a whisper of air remained between us, driving me right to the edge of my restraint, that tingling need at the base of my spine becomes a pulsating pressure, my hand jerking feverishly as my breath catches.
Yanking up my top in the nick of time, hot cum splashes onto my abs, and I moan in pleasure as I sink into my chair, mellow and wrung out. Still, my urge for her presses against my skin, an ever-present longing to be near her. To touch. To have. To devour.
In a bid to stop myself from chasing after her—the exact opposite of what I’msupposedto be doing—I clean myself up and move to my desk, dropping into the chair and flicking on the desk lamp.
I stare down at the sketch pad open in front of me to a picture of Riley. It’s become a habit—drawing her. I have at least ten sketches of her face, each one with a different expression: The jubilant glee from that day in the play park, the defiant glare at us from her first night here, her sultry eyes and pouty lips when she’s staring at me from across the room at Lux.
I’m acutely aware of the delicate balance I’m treading and just how tempted I am to say fuck it. The problem is, Riley is more than just a desire. She’s become a mirror reflecting the facets of my own suffering and pain, forcing me to confront what I’m not yet ready to face. And by opening myself up to her, I’m acknowledging everything I’ve been running from. The second I allow myself to become entirely consumed by her, there will be no more hiding behind bruised knuckles and split skin. No shirking in the darkness. I’ll have to finally step into the light, and as someone who prospers in the shadows, I don’t know how to survive any other way.