Chapter 8 #2
When Beyonce turns into Kato’s Turn the Lights Off, Wes’ tongue is halfway down the woman’s throat, his hands kneading her ass.
My buzz turns into a nauseating churning sensation as the Kamikazes live up to their name.
I need to get out of here before I do something stupid like throw up on the dancefloor or pry Wes away from that woman.
I quickly mumble my goodbyes to Hua Jing and Layla, then storm through the bar, bumping into people.
I don’t go back to the table, rushing toward the front door.
The cool night air hits my flushed skin, and I gulp in mouthfuls of air, pushing back the nausea. I tip my head back as I close my eyes, focusing on my breath. My legs feel like Jell-O. It was a mistake coming out tonight. No matter where I go, he’s there. I can’t seem to escape him.
When I trust my legs, I start walking home, slowly feeling the sobering effect of the cool night air. I drop by the convenience store on the way, grabbing a Gatorade from the fridge.
“Ahhh, Mr. Gatorade,” the same kid greets me. “How’s it going?”
“Great, just great,” I mumble.
“The offer still stands.” He smiles, and for a second, my brain goes blank. Then he nods at the bottle. “Two for one.”
“Oh yeah? Sure, why the hell not?” I’ll probably need it tomorrow anyway. I pay in cash and quickly leave.
When I reach my building, I tuck both bottles under one arm, then fumble with my keys. For condos this expensive, they sure skimped out on the lights. When I miss the keyhole on the lobby door for the third time and drop one bottle on the ground, I’m about to lose it. “Motherfucker,” I hiss.
“Need help with that?” The familiar deep voice wraps around me. Wes. Just what I need. I spin around, my face way too close to his.
“No! I don’t need anything from you.”
“Whoa!” Wes laughs, holding up his hands. “Relax.”
“You relax.” I bend to grab the Gatorade, but putting my head down is a bad idea, and I momentarily lose my balance. When I start swaying, Wes grips my arm.
“You okay, man?” There’s an edge of worry in his voice, which makes me even more infuriated.
I bat his hand away, then stand straight. “Don’t touch me.”
He instantly lets go and narrows his eyes. “Oh, so you can fucking touch me without my consent, but I can’t? You’re such an asshole. I was just trying to help.”
“You didn’t seem to mind,” I mumble, regret filling my chest. I did touch him without his consent.
“What was that?”
“Nothing.” I turn my back on him. This time, I manage to unlock the door and hurry inside.
I head for the elevator, Wes trailing a few steps behind me.
I feel him everywhere, my body so in tune with his.
Tonight has left me more confused than ever.
What the fuck is it about him? Inside the elevator, I press his floor, then mine.
I lean against the wall, trying to look anywhere but at him.
Why is he even here and not with that chick?
“I thought you got lucky.” The words spill from my mouth before I can stop them.
Some of the anger disappears from his face as he tips his chin at me. “What? You stalking me now?”
I huff. “Don’t flatter yourself. I don’t give a shit about you.”
“Yeah? You could’ve fooled me.” And there’s that smile again, teasing and inviting. As much as I hate it, my dick seems to love it, because before I know it, I’m on him, crowding him against the wall, the bottles of Gatorade crashing to the floor.
His eyes grow wide, and a small gasp falls from his lips.
I fist his shirt, my gaze dipping to his lips, just when he licks them.
I’m so fucked. I slam my mouth against his, and he moans against me, planting his hands against my chest. The simple touch does things to me I haven’t felt in a long time.
Lust. Pure need. Like I want something just for me.
I push myself closer, grinding my hips against his crotch.
He’s hard. I thrust my tongue into his mouth, tasting beer and mint.
He welcomes me inside, kissing me back, tongue and all.
His hands slide from my chest, down my ribs, and to my stomach.
With eager fingers, he pulls up my shirt, his touch cool against my flushed skin.
“Fuck,” I groan into his mouth, and he pushes his eager hips forward. I feel the evidence of his want against my thigh, which spurs me on. “You want this so bad, don’t you, pretty boy?”
“Uh-huh,” he groans. I expected him to deny it.
“Need to feel you.” He breathes against my neck as he starts fumbling with my pants.
My mind spins at his directness. It’s such a fucking turn-on.
I’m leaking into my jeans. I reach out and slam my hand against the stop button.
We jolt to a stop before I kiss him again, my hands blindly seeking the zipper of his jeans, undoing them.
“Fuck yes,” he whimpers against me. His warm palm wraps around my length.
His touch is tentative, but when I grab his dick and start stroking him, he grabs me tighter.
He fucks into my hand, his dick hot and heavy.
Stickiness leaks from his slit, and I smear it around his cockhead, then fist him harder.
His thrusts soon become irregular, his moans deeper, guttural.
He rests his head against my shoulder, his hand sliding up and down my cock in unskilled movements.
It’s sloppy and messy and oh so fucking perfect.
The scent of our arousal fills the small space, and everything disappears in a haze of lust and alcohol.
There’s only now, and how fucking amazing Wes feels against me.
His thrusts grow frantic, and he starts shaking against me.
“I’m gonna come,” he rasps. A second later, he spills in my hand, his cum hot and sticky.
I quickly follow him, slumping against him, as my body convulses through the aftermath of my climax.
I can’t remember the last time I came this hard, if ever.
“Shit,” he pants. “That was…”
“Yeah.” My walls are down, no resistance left in me. I ease away from him, then tuck myself away, leaving my pants open. I feel strangely… light.
Wes eyes his sticky hand, then wipes it against his briefs and tucks himself away, too.
He avoids my gaze, and I start the elevator again.
We don’t speak, and when we reach Wes’ floor, he stumbles from the elevator the second the doors open.
He turns around, looking ruffled and confused.
His cheeks are flushed, his eyes swimming with post-orgasmic high.
He looks like he wants to say something.
When the doors are about to close, his hand flies out and stops them.
“I don’t know what this is,” he says. His honesty does something to me.
“I don’t know what this is either,” I admit.
He brushes his hand along his face, then smiles. “I wouldn’t mind more, though.”
Fuck. Me. I don’t know what I was expecting, but it sure as hell wasn’t this.
“Okay,” I just say, and Wes gives me a curt nod, removing his hand from the doors.
“Goodnight, Jett.”
The doors slide closed, and it’s there, right on my tongue, the Wilson, but after what he just admitted to me, I can’t bring myself to say it. I swallow, then nod back. “Goodnight, Wes.”