Chapter Twelve #2
It’s hard to reconcile my feelings when I’m constantly overwhelmed by his presence. I don’t even have the opportunity to disappear and gather my thoughts, not with his scent all around me.
I’m not listening to music today; I don’t need it.
My mind is doing just fine entertaining me.
Coming to a stop, I look down at my watch and realize it’s almost 5:45 a.m., and I’m nowhere near Ripley’s anymore.
I ran down a trail I found the other day which happens to run alongside the plot of land where the B it felt too intimate, too close. But now, with the water splashing around me and his voice in my head, I can’t help myself.
I grab Ripley’s shower gel and squirt a good bit into my hand.
Gripping my length, I slowly work myself from base to tip, running my finger through the precum.
With his smell engulfing me, I imagine it’s his hand, that he’s in the shower with me, breathing just as heavily as I am, waiting for me to take over like I always do.
I squeeze my eyes shut so the fantasy isn’t ruined. I want to live in this moment as long as I can. Pretend we’re okay again, how we used to be. I imagine calling him a pretty boy and telling him to get on his knees for me. Covering him in my release so he knows who he belongs to.
Fuck.
Stroking faster now, my other hand gently massaging my heavy balls, I lean my forehead on the cold tile of the shower, barely able to hold myself up as I climb toward my climax.
“Fuuuuck, East, harder,” I croak out, too high on the moment to consider he may hear me.
Moaning, I’m seconds away from painting the walls, reaching the crescendo. In my mind, his gorgeous green eyes bore into mine as he takes my cock to the back of his throat, sending me over the edge.
Hot spurts of cum cover my hand, and I’m panting. I needed this release. I’m not even thinking about how long I’ve been in here or how fucked my schedule will be.
Peeling my eyes open, I take a deep breath, hating myself for crippling us in the way I have. As reality crashes back in, I rinse the mess I made, washing up promptly to get back on track.
Drying off, I avoid the mirror, unable to look myself in the eye. I get dressed as fast as possible, needing to exit the scene of the crime.
Padding to my room, I grab my wallet from the bed table and read the note Ripley left for me once more.
Right on time, the coffee machine in the kitchen gurgles to life as I make my way downstairs, knowing I need to get started on my breakfast. The notepad and pen he used is still sitting on the table.
Pulling it closer to the edge, I jot a note back.
Thanks for the coffee.
—West
It may not be as heartfelt as Ripley’s, but hopefully he can read beyond the simple words. Pushing down the feelings surging to the surface, I open the fridge for my eggs and the cabinet for the pan.
Mindlessly, I assemble my egg white omelet before sitting down at the table to eat. I’ve never been one to feel lonely, but as I’m sitting at Ripley’s dining room table, eating my breakfast alone, I realize I wish he was out here with me.