Our bodies are slick and glistening with sweat, his breaths heavy against my ear. Every part of me tingles, making me feel high. Higher than any drug I’ve ever taken before. I’m floating, losing myself in him. Caspian is all-consuming. The way he looks at you, the way he touches you, it’s impossible to not get lost in him. It’s easy to forget everything around us when he owns my body as well as he does.
Fingers still intertwined, he squeezes my hand, his movements becoming jerkier by the second. “I’m about to come.” Those four words leave his lips as a breathy, needy moan. Nothing more than a whisper of pleasure and rapture. It sends tingles rushing down my spine, ricocheting through my body like a firecracker.
And it’s all I need to get there too. Before I know what’s happening, my balls tighten against my body, heat spreading throughout my core as my cock erupts, thick spurts of cum dousing the bed as he stills behind me, emptying himself into my body. Turning my head to the side, I bite down on his forearm, the one still connected with mine, as I cry out.
As soon as we come down, my body becomes boneless, melting into his arms, not wanting to move at all. Caspian presses soft, hot kisses against my shoulder and up my neck, his fingers still linked with mine. My throat tightens as the severity of my feelings hit me like a Mack truck all at once. Here, lying in his arms, his spent cock still inside me, the evidence of my release in front of us, I can’t deny how much I care for him. How much I never want to stop whatever this is. How terrifying it is to know this will have an expiration date.
It's enough to evoke a panic attack, but I somehow manage to keep my cool. Probably because he wraps his arm around my waist and holds my body close to his. The false sense of security calms my nerves for now. But I know it won’t last forever.
CHAPTERTWENTY-THREE
Caspian
The sun is blinding where it’s pouring in through the open curtains. It’s early, but not too early. After we fucked last night, we ended up ordering food and watching a movie before passing out. I didn’t bother going back to my own room either. It felt too good to sleep next to Rowan. To sleep with him curled up in my arms.
It’s frightening how good it feels to have him next to me.
Something’s changed, shifted. That’s become abundantly clear, especially after yesterday. The way he cared enough to notice I wasn’t doing okay and went out of his way to do something about it, to try to help me feel better, hasn’t left my mind. It meant even more to me, too, because he didn’t try to force me to talk about it. I hate talking. No one has ever put that much effort into an attempt at cheering me up.
It doesn’t automatically make me better, and it doesn’t mean I’m no longer going to have low, dark days, but it means a lot to me. More than I care to admit.
Rowan got up a few minutes ago to shower, so we can head down to get breakfast soon. I’m not a huge morning eater, definitely not the way Rowan is, but my stomach is growling something fierce.
Climbing out of bed, I remember all my clothes are still in his bathroom, where he took them off me yesterday before he bathed me. Maybe he has some sweats that may fit me. I cross the room, pulling open his top drawer. It’s nothing but boxers and t-shirts. Pushing that one shut, I pull open the second drawer, which has his pants, but it also has something else. Something that I should one hundred percent ignore—a journal. One very similar to the one I was given by Dr. Weaver.
Quickly, I grab a pair of loose-fitting sweats, pulling them on. They barely fit. Against my better judgement, simply because I can’t fucking help myself, I grab the leather-bound journal, bringing it over to the bed, sitting down on the edge. Listening intently for the sound of running water, I can tell he’s still in the shower. I’ve never been good at minding my own business. I’m a snooper, through and through. My heart pounds in my chest as I flip open the journal. I know I have at least a few minutes, if that, to look through this and put it back before he catches me.
After a few lines of reading, it becomes clear that what he writes in this is different from what I write in mine. Where mine has become a place for a dump of random thoughts and feelings, his almost feels like an essay… or a diary.
My eyes scan the first page, my stomach lodged in my throat as I do.
I met Caspian early on here. He intrigues me. Of course, I knew who he was prior to coming here. I mean, who doesn’t know who Caspian Gray is? Everything about him interests me, and I’m dying to know more about him.
He punched me once. It was an accident because I snuck up on him—his words, not mine—and he didn’t hear me coming. He mostly acts like I’m annoying and he wants nothing to do with me, but I hope that’s not true.
I don’t bother finishing the page. Flipping through, I see other pages filled with similar content. He outlines times we’ve hung out, what we’ve done.In great fucking detail.Pages and fucking pages detailing things we’ve done—both sexually and not—the stuff we’ve talked about. The shit I’ve opened up to him about. His theories for why I’m the way I am.
Everything.
Everything we’ve shared since being on this fucking island is outlined in here, presumably for him to share during his therapy sessions with Dr. Fucking Nosy.
The blood is roaring in my ears so loud; I miss the bathroom door opening.
Rowan clears his throat. “Um, what the fuck are you doing?”
My head snaps up, gaze connecting with his, ignoring the way he’s standing before me in nothing but a towel. “What the fuck is this?” I growl, pushing to my feet.
“It’s not yours,” he says in place of an answer, crossing his arms over his water-glistened chest. “Do you always rummage through people’s shit?” He’s getting defensive.
“I was looking for a pair of pants to wear since mine were still in the bathroom.”
“And you what? Decided it was a good idea to read what isn’t yours?”
“Don’t you even fucking try to shift this around on me.” I hold up the journal between us. “Care to fucking explain this shit?”
“Uh, no.” He tries to grab it from me, but I don’t let him. “It’s not any of your business.”
“It is my fucking business when you’re writing about me,” I growl, my voice getting louder than it should. “What am I, just a fucking experiment to you? See how close you can get to me and how much shit I can confide in you, so you can run and tell the fucking therapist?”
