Cameron
WALKING INTO MY HOUSE after working all day and then participating in a rigorous basketball practice has me on edge.
If Mom is home tonight, I’m afraid I won’t have the energy to play the role I meant to: the certified butler.
This most likely means that if she is home, my evening will result in a hard slap and some demeaning words. But so is life, and I’m fucking tired.
Especially with this damn birthday party hanging over my head. Tomorrow, I’ll be faced with Atticus Chastain—the man I hurt, the one I was falling so quickly in love with. The one who made it impossibly clear that I wasn’t worth the time we spent together.
Who made me feel like shit. Like I am nothing.
But good fortune is smiling on me today, because as I enter the living room, the house is silent. Mom isn’t home.
Which means I get to eat dinner, shower, and lie in bed in peace. For once.
I make a grilled cheese and pair it with a handful of off-brand potato chips. Eating alone had never really bothered me until that fall, the one in which I had someone to eat with multiple times a week.
In that little house in the middle of town, at Checkers, on the docks when the weather wasn’t so bad. And he always packed such delicious food: thinly sliced meats and cheese, salmon, Caesar salad. If we were in the mood for something, Atticus bought it or made it himself.
Now, I stand against the counter in my dingy kitchen and inhale a partially burnt grilled cheese in silence.
And then I shower in silence, too, remembering the way Atticus began following me into that overly clean bathroom shortly after I started sleeping over, and took it upon himself to wash me.
He’d run his large hands over my skin like I was a prize, like I was something to shape and mold.
And sometimes—well, about half the time—he’d bend me over, slam my hands against the tile wall, and stretch me open in a glorious flash of pain and pleasure. Preparing me for him, just as he always did.
He may be demanding and controlling, but he always insisted on never hurting me. Even when I begged him just to shove it in, Atticus would shake his head and smile, telling me to be a good boy and wait.
I did. I always followed orders.
Up until I didn’t, when I undermined him and made him feel as worthless as he soon after made me feel.
So, I get out of the shower, doing my best to run from the memories. But as I lie in bed, I can’t seem to hide. Not when I know that tomorrow I’ll be faced with his presence again.
I’ll spend the entire night smiling blankly and keeping a very close eye on Cassie. Some part of me hopes Atticus will stay in his bedroom just to avoid us. That way, Cas won’t get the chance to weasel her way under his skin.
But it’s his brother’s birthday, so I doubt he’ll do that.
What will I do when I see him? Will we speak? Will it shatter me when he turns his nose up and glares in my direction?
Probably. I’ll be leaving Chastain Castle in shambles, barely able to keep hold of my sanity.
I miss him. I miss the simplicity of being with him, of how mind-numbingly happy it made me. How he protected me from myself and the outside world.
And as I lay in bed, mourning the loss of what I definitely thought was worth my time, the fear that he’ll hate me even more for showing up settles deep into my soul.
If I could message him, if I wasn’t blocked, I’d ask for permission. But I can’t, and I told Julian I’d come. I have to go, if only to keep my eye on Cassie.
I groan in the silent room, terrified of what cocktail of punishment tomorrow will bring.
I should ask Cas what her intentions are. If she says she’s only going to meet Atlas officially, or to apologize to Julian, maybe I can skip going… maybe I can relax.
Snatching my phone from the nightstand, I press her contact and dial her number.
“Hey, Cam,” she greets brightly.
“Hey, sorry to bother you at night.”
“No biggie, I wasn’t sleeping. I’m picking out my outfit for tomorrow,” she tells me. “What do you think? Slutty red dress or jean mini skirt?”
I have a feeling she is not going just to apologize.
“Um, Cas, what… why are you going?” I ask hesitantly.
“What do you mean? I was invited.”
“I know.” I sigh. “It’s just… what’s the plan? Are you going to apologize to Julian?”
Hope blossoms in my chest as I wait for her to respond, to say yes.
“Cam,” she answers softly. “I am going to apologize. But not to Julian.”
“So, to… to…” I can’t seem to get his name out.
“Yeah, to Atticus. I need him to know it was a misunderstanding, that I wasn’t badmouthing him.” Cassie sounds breathless, desperate.
“Why are you so insistent on gaining his approval?” I demand, suddenly irritated. It’s not like they were lovers… he was just her friend, and only barely.
Only because of me.
Cassie huffs, saying, “You know I like him. That I’ve always liked him. I mean, I haven’t even dated since that day.”
“But you weren’t even involved with him like that,” I mumble. “He was seeing someone. And it’s been years.”
I’m being hypocritical, I know. I just can’t help it. Cassie acts like she has a claim on Atticus, like there was something more there.
“Cameron,” she interjects harshly. “Why are you… You’re not interested in him, are you?”
“W-what?” I spit out in shock.
How the fuck? What did I say that alluded to that?
“Don’t sound so terrified. I’m just asking. I mean, you’re pretty weird about him—whenever he’s brought up, you get squirmy, and you seem very against me being with him. So if you don’t like me, there really is only—”
“Maybe I like you, then,” I interrupt.
She laughs. “Get real. We’ve been best friends for so long that if you truly did, and you’ve held out this long, you’d deserve a medal.”
“It’s not like that,” I whisper. “I just… we were close. Atticus and I.”
I don’t tell her in what way we were close, but it seems to placate her either way.
“Well, as his friend, you’d want him with someone nice, right? You know I’m nice. You should want him with someone you trust.”
She’s right. But unbeknownst to her, I am that person.
“Alright,” is all I say, because I can’t very well admit my feelings to her.
Not when it’ll end in a full-blown jealousy match. And whether I blame her partially for what happened, and whether she gets him or not, she is my best friend. I love her.
“I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah? Have a good night.” And with that, Cassie hangs up.
I guess she became just as tired of this conversation as I was getting.
There’s nothing I can do now but show up and try to prevent the inevitable. Their happily ever after.
As I roll to my side, finally drifting off to sleep in the heat of my bedroom, I eye the shadow in my window.
It’s here more often than not, and I really should figure out which tree is making a human-shaped silhouette appear outside of my bedroom.
With that, I slip into a torturous, pleasurable dream.
A memory.
THE FRONT DOOR SLAMS shut, footsteps sounding against the kitchen floor until he enters the living room.
“Hello, sweetheart,” Atticus calls out, grinning at me where I sit on the couch.
“Hey, how was your midterm?” My hands sit clasped in my lap as I stare at him, my mind already conjuring up all of the ways he might touch me tonight.
“Easy, of course,” he answers, cocky as ever. “What are you doing, watching a blank TV?”
His eyes flicker between me and the dark screen.
“No… I was waiting for you,” I admit.
I also didn’t want to pick the show we’d watch when he arrived. What if I get it wrong? What if he hates it?
“Such a sweet boy,” he replies smoothly. “Waiting for me so beautifully.”
I flush down to my toes, dropping my gaze to my hands. “I’m not beautiful. I’m not a girl.”
“And men can’t be beautiful?” he pushes, suddenly appearing before me.
“I don’t know.” It comes out as a murmur, an embarrassed plea for him to drop this line of conversation.
“Well, I know. And I can tell you that you are most definitely beautiful. And sexy, and so very compelling. You believe me, don’t you? You trust me?” He’s forcing me to say it, to agree that I’m all of those outrageous things.
Atticus knows that I would never say I don’t trust him.
“Yes,” I whisper, “I trust you.”
Atticus drops to his knees in front of me, catching my eye. “Then can I show you? Can I touch your hard, hot body and remind you of just how beautiful you are?”
He’s asking me a question, but it’s not one I struggle with. He already knows what my answer will be and how easy it is to push it out.
“Y-yes.”
His warm, calloused fingers run up and over my cheek, pulling a shudder from my body.
“Mhm, that’s right,” he mutters. “Tremble for me, sweetheart. Let me see how easily just the tips of my fingers tear you apart.”
“Please,” I find myself begging, though I can’t find it within myself to feel embarrassed, not when I know how much he loves the sound. “Touch me.”
“I am touching you,” he insists, smirking.
“More. Touch me more,” I breathe out.
And he does. Atticus brushes his lips over my jaw, his opposite hand running gently over my hardened nipples.
“Like this, baby?” he purrs. I nod, unable to form words as his hot breath fans my face. “Hands behind your back. If you’re good, I’ll make you come.”
Shoving my hands behind myself, resting them over the small of my back, I prepare myself for the pleasure he deals. And he wastes no time.
Pushing my back against the cushions, Atticus settles between my spread legs.
“Such a pretty baby,” he coos. “Always so obedient.”
He doesn’t hesitate, urging me to lift my hips so that he can grab my basketball shorts and my briefs and pull them down, freeing me.
I’m embarrassingly hard and wet, angrily pulsing in anticipation. My body is flushed, and as he drags his hands up the sensitive skin of my upper thighs, I practically whine.
“You’re weeping for me,” Atticus says, observing me closely. “Already so deliciously excited.”
He’s right. Always so fucking right.
I’m beyond excited, having waited two days for this. I’ve spent every time I’m not with him touching myself, dreaming of this exact moment. The moment when my brain shuts off and all that’s left is him.
On repeat in my mind is Atticus, Atticus, Atticus.
And as if he can read my desperation from my panting breath alone, delving into my psyche and finding exactly what I need, he leans down and swallows me whole.
“S-shit!” I shout, the feeling of his hot, wet mouth overwhelming me.
Atticus groans, the vibrations sending little spikes of pleasure through my skin, before he tongues my slit, tasting me at the source.
I fucking love it. I love how he seems just as desperate as I am; dying for just a taste, a singular shared moment, a forever I’m not ready to ask for.
His tongue is like magic, massaging into my hard length and shoving me deeper and deeper between his lips.
He’s feeding himself, taking what he wants from me as I writhe and moan above him. And it’s fucking intoxicating.
“You’re divine,” Atticus mutters against the head of my dick. “So fucking delicious.”
Atticus rarely ever curses. I think I can count on my fingers alone the times I’ve heard it. But every once in a while, when he’s so clearly overwhelmed with the things he’s doing to me, or I’m doing to him, he’ll spit one out.
As if he can’t stand it. As if the lust and emotion building inside of him are so great, so all-consuming, that he can’t help but lessen himself morally and curse aloud.
I’m doing this to him. I’m fraying his notorious control, one gasp, one plea at a time.
“Atticus,” I moan, ignoring the urge to buck into him. He’s told me to be good, and I intend to listen.
From his knees, Atticus raises a hand and rolls my balls against his palm, taking me higher still. His mouth is sucking me with a vengeance, and I scratch at my own skin from where my hands are still safely tucked behind my back.
“Please,” I beg, my body tightening with each passing moment. “I need to come.”
Atticus makes a sound of approval, telling me yes, I can.
And that’s really all it takes. With the visual of his big hazel eyes staring up at me, his brown hair matting with sweat, and his lips stretching around me so obscenely, I was never going to last long.
Not when I’m so infatuated with him. Not when I’ve wanted him from such an early age.
“Yes, yes!” I cry, unloading his mouth in several heady bursts.
Atticus must really like me, must really enjoy the time we spend together, because he groans almost as loudly as I sob, drinking down my release with no hesitation.
He gulps and gulps, throat working and eyes watering.
As I finally come down, sagging against the back of the couch, I sigh. Sated and pleased.
Atticus pops off of me, gifting me a few extra licks of his hot tongue to make sure I’m clean.
“Was that good, sweetheart?” he asks, nuzzling my thigh.
“Yeah,” I breathe.
“Good. As a thank you, I’ll be taking your ass.” He says it with so much finality, so confidently, that another wave of pleasure hits me, making me shake. “Up. I want you to ride me on this couch.”
I’m scrambling to listen to him, and as he stretches me with his fingers, using his own arousal as lube, I rest my head on his shoulder and think of how lucky I am.
That at the end of a hard day, I have someone so beautiful, so demanding waiting for me.
“You’re so handsome,” I whisper, unable to hold in the emotion I’m feeling.
Atticus’s hand stutters before it pulls away completely. I hear him spit into his palm, and a moment later, his head is pressed to my hole.
“Yeah? Am I so handsome, sweetheart?” he teases, his hands tugging my hips until I begin to sink onto him.
“Ugh, yes,” I grunt. “S-so handsome.”
He hums in approval, his palms running up my chest now that I’m seated fully. “Then show me how much you want me. Fuck my cock, baby.”
I ride him. I ride him for so long that my legs shake and burn and my eyes drip tears of pleasure.
All the while, Atticus stares up at me, his gaze full of admiration and possession.
“Say you’re mine, Cam,” he commands, hips snapping up as he gets closer and closer to a ledge I’m peaking for the second time in far too short a span.
“I’m yours,” I choke out, feeling his cockhead rub that spot inside of me that makes me fly.
“Again,” he groans.
“I’m yours, Atticus.”
And as he explodes inside of me with a shout, once again marking my body as his own, I want to sob.
Not because of the pleasure—though that does play a part—but because he wants to own me. Atticus Chastain wants me as badly as I want him.
And I fear if I ever lose this, if he is ever taken from my greedy hands, everything around me will fall apart.