And he’s so utterly unabashed in what he wants.
His chest thunders with a deep, deep groan, pulling me from my thoughts. “I’m close,” he cries. “I’m so fucking close.”
The desperation in his tone, the raspy, gravelly edge to it, has my balls tightening, drawing up, as pressure and molten heat build at the base of my spine, spreading, multiplying, until I can’t take it anymore. The velvety, hot feel of his channel as it clenches and contracts while he lifts higher and higher toward release is staggering.
I want his cum. Want to watch him unravel. Run my fingers through the sticky mess. Bring them to my lips—taste him on them. “Give it to me,” I growl, the sound of those four words foreign to my ears as I double down my efforts. “Come for me, princess.”
As if that request—my demand—is his trigger, I watch as he falls apart, thick ropes coating his stomach and the sheets below us. He cries out, voice hoarse, knuckles blanching as he thrusts his fingers in his hair, fisting and tugging. He’s ripping at the seams, but so am I. Just as I envisioned, I trace the pads of my fingers along the mess he made on himself, bringing them up to my lips. I suck them into my mouth, the salty, tangy flavor of him setting off an inferno in my body until I’m spilling deep inside of him with next to no warning.
I collapse on top of him, sweat slick all over our bodies, my muscles tired.
Before the high of the orgasm even has a chance to wear off, though, regret’s already settling in, burying itself deep into my marrow because there’s no fucking way I’ll be able to stay away now after getting a taste ofthis, feeling him with no barriers, and the very last thing I need is more time around him and his witchery of getting beneath my walls.
I’m set for ruin. And Rowan will be my destruction.
JOURNAL ENTRY NO. 2
I still don’t think this shit works, but here I am again, doing it anyway.
This place is fucking with my head, I think.
Or… maybe it’s not so much this place as it is one specific person. Him. Fuck, I guess if I’m being forced to write in this fucking thing, I may as well be real about it. Rowan fucking Davies… I wonder what his middle name is.
…but why do I care?
I don’t.
It’s infuriating. He’s infuriating. The way I react to him is fucking infuriating.
We fucked, Rowan and I. Am I even allowed to say that in this thing? Who fucking knows, but it happened. We had sex, and I hate how much I enjoyed it. And I hate how much space the memory has taken up inside my mind. I practically ran out of his room afterward like my tail was on fire because being near him was too much. Such a dick move. One I normally wouldn’t think twice about, but with him, I can’t help but replay it and how it probably made him feel ten times over.
I’m a drummer in a very famous rock band… casual sex is nothing new to me, but the bodies underneath me are always long forgotten by the time the bed sheets cool. What is it about Rowan that makes him any different?
And I know if I were in Dr. Weaver’s office, she’d analyze me, trying to figure out why I’m this way. What if it’s just how I am? These therapists seem to think everything is cause and effect. If you do xyz, it’s because you were exposed to abc as a child. What if I’m just not someone who enjoys getting close to others? What if I was just born with this wall around my heart? What if it has nothing to do with my mentally ill mother and my drug addicted father, or the heroin loving, needle sticking aunt who was left to take care of me when my dad died, and my mom went AWOL, who had no fucking business taking care of and raising a teenager? What if it’s in my DNA, period? No childhood trauma to explain it away.
What if, had I grown up with healthy, present parents, I would’ve turned out the exact same fucking way?
Nature versus nurture, right? Maybe this cold, closed-off side of me is all nature. Why do we have to explain away every single little fucking thing until we’re blue in the face?
I became a fucking stalker today. That’s what this fucking place has turned me into.
Earlier, I was minding my own fucking business, trying to read and keep my mind off fucking Rowan and the memory of us rolling around in his sheets, when there he was, like I made him appear out of thin air with my rampant thoughts. But was he alone?
Fuck no.
He was with Blow job Josiah. Apparently, his best fucking friend. The dweeb he is.
Rowan is so fucking friendly all the time. Flirty and energetic and frustratingly chipper.
They were walking into the trails… the same ones he and I walked through to get to the waterfall or the cliffs.
My body started moving before my brain could even catch up. I shoved my book into my back pocket and took off behind them. He told me he’s given the stupid fuck a blow job before, and part of me thinks he’s lying. This was my chance to investigate and find out if he really was hooking up with the staff.
They were walking close… but not arms-brushing-together type close.
I don’t fucking know why I followed them. I don’t know why I care.
I don’t. I shouldn’t.
