Chapter 36
Chapter Thirty-Six
SAM
Day Eight
Drinking a whole wine bottle is not something I’d do, but here I am, sat alone at my easel, the last of the wine from the bottle in my wine glass.
The painting of a slim torso before me sways, making it look worse than it already does.
My feet steady me on the floor as I sit on the stool, but I have to grip the edge just to ensure I don’t topple.
I’ve never been one for melancholy, but this is tragic.
Tonight was … strange. There’s no other word for it.
Jesus, Sam, he’s only just got here and you’re acting like a love-drunk puppy.
But maybe that’s exactly why. I’ve been suppressing my desires for so long now. Not allowing myself to feel anything. So, to have Will back is like opening the floodgates.
I just wish he could see what he has in front of him.
Touching Will’s hand, I’d been overwhelmed with the need to pull him to me, to kiss him on those lips that I’d been stealing looks at all night.
Properly this time. Not under some stupid guise of wanting to perfect our act as fake boyfriends.
Just watching him talk, the way he held himself, had my stomach clenching and my nerves bolting. I couldn’t wait to ask him to stay.
Shot down.
I thought maybe he might have sensed the atmosphere that had charged between us all night. He must have detected how I looked at him. A hunger I hadn’t felt in a long time.
But when he’d said no, I realised I’d either drank too much, or the feeling was all in my head. I’m not thinking straight, and definitely not now. I take my wine glass over to the sofa and fall down on it, stretching out my legs.
I could have used some head tonight.
The thought startles me, and I shake it away, trying to think of Will in a more respectable position than between my thighs. Those sweet lips of his parted. His tongue…
My dick stirs and I reach down, placing a hand on it.
Me and my hand, my hand and I. A common occurrence.
I can feel it through the fabric of my clothes, desperate to be released. I reach for my wine instead, trying to ignore it, knowing it will be futile.
Maybe I’m just riled up. Eager to get off. Looking for a summer fling. Maybe the memory of Will has made me feel like I can trust him. If there’s ever going to be someone to have a night of steaming hot sex with, then why not Will?
My dick throbs, pushing against my trousers.
Am I supposed to be this excited over Will? Did I volunteer myself to be his fake boyfriend because I’d hoped for something more? Some psychologist would have a field day with me, I’m sure.
What I feel for Will is temporary. It has to be. He’ll leave soon, promising to keep in touch. I doubt we will. Not properly. Not like I hope.
I sit up, feeling the weight in my trousers. With a stretch and a defeatist attitude, I go to the bedroom, shedding my clothes, indulging in me, myself, and I one more time.