Love.
What the hell am I supposed to do with being in love?
Hell if I know.
I don’t even care, not at this moment. I’ll care later, I know. The bill I’m racking up right now will come due, and I know it.
Right now, all I care about is sating the furious, frantic, throat-clogging, heart-stopping, core-shivering desperation I’m feeling for everything that is Will Auden—specifically, Will Auden’s body.
More specifically yet, his cock. The big beautiful organ standing hard in the V of his open jeans. I wrap one hand around it, exhaling in pure unadulterated delight.
“I’ve been dreaming about this,” I whisper.
“You have no idea,” he rumbles. “Haven’t slept for shit, because every moment of sleep is nothing but visions of you.”
“Same here,” I whisper. “I fought it for so long, trying not to think about you, trying to pretend I’m not crazy aroused by the mere thought of you, but I couldn’t. When I finally gave in and tried to touch myself while thinking about you, I couldn’t reach climax. Because thinking about you, fantasizing about you—it wasn’t enough. It couldn’t be. Nothing will ever make me come again.” I have to look at him, have to meet his eyes as I force the admission out. “Nothing except you.” I slide my greedy fist down his length. “Except this.”
His eyes close, seemingly against his will. “God, Brooklyn.”
“That’s what scares the absolute shit out me, Will.” I rest my forehead against his bare, panting chest. “One of the many things that scares me stupid—that I’m suddenly and entirely dependent on you for something so simple and so necessary as an orgasm.”
“Necessary, huh?”
I laugh breathlessly. “You don’t even know, Will.” I rub my thumb over the tip, and he shudders. “I need so many orgasms.”
“How many?”
“Per day?”
He laughs, eyes opening, but when he meets my eyes, he realizes I’m not kidding. “Wait, you’re serious?”
I bite my lip and nod. “I don’t have sex every day, because who the hell has time for that? And I don’t even masturbate every single day.”
“You don’t?”
I shake my head. “No, I tend to go a few days until things have built up to a problem, and then I’ll just—two, three times in a day, sometimes more, if I haven’t had actual sex recently.”
“Don’t talk about having sex with other guys while you’re touching me.”
“The problem was always that no one could ever hold my interest longer than a few hours,” I say. “No one ever has. That’s why being so—soobsessed, it feels like, with you over the past few months has been so freaking impossible to handle.”
“That I understand entirely.”
“You know what’s weird?” I say, still slowly and somewhat distractedly stroking him.
“What?”
“How we tend to have more conversation while engaged in sexual activity than not.”
He laughs, a strained huff. “Yeah, I noticed.”
“Why is that, do you think?”
He shrugs. “Maybe because when we’re not doing anything, we’re too tensed up to think straight. And then when we are doing things, we’re loosened up enough to actually talk, but we’re still trying to distract ourselves from thinking about how…how intense things are, or are going to be, or…” he trails off.
I pause, my hand wrapped around the base of his erection. “So you think I’m making conversation to distract myself? For what? To avoid something?”
He nods. “Something like that.”
