Chapter 6 ~ Bellamy #2
Me: You wound me
Minho: Good
Me: Aren't I an angel, baby?
Minho: More like a forked-tongue devil
I chuckle.
Me: I guess a forked-tongue devil is better for feasting on your ass and balls, my beautiful angel
I am sure that is going to be the nail in my coffin when the last thing I expect to happen, but thank God, because having to re-read my texts before I send them was getting taxing.
Minho is calling me.
Shit.
I don't think I have ever answered the phone so quickly in my life until this very moment, and I clear my throat before speaking.
“Still mad about your book?” I ask.
I hear shuffling around before Minho scoffs. “Still breathing, or can I finally call time of death?”
Ouch.
“Fortunately for you, I haven’t kicked the bucket just yet.”
“I think you mean unfortunately.”
I find myself smiling—truly smiling more than I ever have in my whole damn life just from hearing his voice again in the span of a few days, which most, even I, would and should find ridiculous.
Because Minho could be infuriating sometimes, okay, all the time, yet somehow texting and now being on the phone with him doesn’t entirely feel like we are truly arguing. It’s faster, easier, like taking a breath of fresh air.
It’s fun, like a game I won’t get bored with, and that’s dangerous because yes, there are factors about wanting my step-brother that should make me rethink this, but fuck it all to hell. I wanted him before shit got complicated. And who doesn’t like a little mess in their lives?
Okay, maybe Minho, but I will change that.
“Did you know you blush every time I flirt with you?” The question is simple and meant to change the gloomy subject of my early and untimely demise, which he likes to bring up constantly.
I guess Minho in all black at my funeral could be hot, but I want to see him naked first and definitely need a picture of him wearing nothing but my jersey as my lock screen. I won’t settle for anything less than those two things now that we have texted and are now calling.
I guess tonight's a two-for-one special.
Minho laughs, but it comes out dry like sandpaper rubbing against wood. “No, I don't.”
“Babe, you literally turned pink in the bookstore the other day.”
“I was annoyed having to breathe the same air as you.”
“Cute.”
“I’m blocking you now,” he seethes through the phone. “And don’t bother stalking me on Instagram; I will block you there, too.”
“No, you won’t.”
“Watch me,” he snarls, and my toes curl.
Fuck, I’m not one to bottom, but damn me, I would let Minho fuck me six ways to heaven if it meant hearing him snarl in my ear at least once.
I would die a happy man.
But I can’t let him fold me that easily, shit.
“As much as I would love to watch you block me... I would much rather see you do something else for me,” I say, being as vague as possible so his intelligent mind can come up with as many conclusions as it needs.
I only need him to think one thing.
“I swear, I was not watching you for the fun of it.”
Bingo.
I bite my lip, feeling heat creep up my chest because I know he was watching. I saw him, the way his eyes stayed glued to the scene before him, on the guy's head as it bobbed between my thighs.
Minho just stood there, and I would kill to know if he got hard seeing me getting my dick sucked before his brain caught up and told him to run when I spotted him.
Unless Minho fucking Seong-Walker, the perfect student, son and little control freak, just ran from there because he truly had been shocked to see me there.
That would be disappointing.
I clear my throat, all while pushing that thought down. “That’s funny because from where I stood, you looked like you were memorising the entire thing. Were you picturing yourself on your knees for me?”
My other hand drifts to my stomach until my fingers graze the waistband of my sweatpants.
I am still half-hard just from texting and from hearing his voice now.
It’s fucking crazy how just knowing he is the one on the other end of this conversation, most likely turning red and cursing under his breath, turns me on.
“Delete my number.” When he speaks, the three words settle on my skin like a venom-laced kiss. “I am being serious with you, Bellamy; lose it.”
I fucking love the way he says my name, the weight he puts on it, the utter disdain in his tone, the history there. The fact that we could share the same last name if I wanted to be a Walker for the sole reason of being his—it drives me insane.
I sit up a little, adjust my pillows behind me and reply, “Or what? Will you run away again? You tried that, and it doesn’t seem to have worked, seeing as you are back.”
I can almost make out the heavy breathing from the other end of the call. The deathly silence on his end even feels like a held breath before a raging storm.
“What do you want, Bell?”
There it is, the question I have been waiting for and the bonus of him using my nickname; it sends a fluttering sensation throughout my body.
I could say anything, like how I want his attention or a reaction to every depraved word I want to whisper in his ear while I kiss him or take his cock into my mouth for the first time, because yeah, I have dreamed of doing that, and now I need to do that.
There are so many things I could say and not enough hours in this one night, like how I want to watch him lose his mind over how good we could be together.
But those aren’t the full truths of what I want to say; the truth is scarier to utter out loud, it sits heavy in my gut like an anchor pulling me down.
I am sorry for what I did last year. I should apologise, and I should have just said I wanted him. I shouldn’t have crossed the line I did, and for that I am fucking sorry.
I don't know why it's so hard to say that to him.
I want to break through every wall he’s built between us and find everything that lies buried behind it—I need to make him feel something so big he can’t hide from how I feel and want him to feel for me.
I need to tell him how I want to ruin him in the same way he’s ruined me by existing, being untouchable, the one person who doesn't fall for the act I play for everyone else.
I am just not ready to say any of that out loud yet.
So messing with him until he is ready to say he feels something other than loathing for me and my presence will have to happen first.
“I want to know if you’ve ever thought about it,” I ask after a while of silence between us.
I wait for what feels like forever for him to say something. I can definitely hear him breathing harder than before, and my hand finds its way fully into my waistband now, palm flat against my stomach, my fingers brushing the trail of hair below my navel.
“What is it exactly you want me to have been thinking about, because when it comes to you, murder or humiliation comes to mind.”
The way he listed those two things with such a serious and flat tone sends me into a fit of laughter. I shouldn’t laugh when he says he thinks of murdering me, but God, it is hilarious how many times he has said that to me.
It's his thing, and I do not judge.
I’d take a knife for him if he is the one twisting it. Okay, kinky and dark, I know. I think I’ve been listening to the audiobook of Our Dark Devotions too late at night.
I smile despite myself. “I was thinking more down the lines of my mouth on your skin or what it would feel like if I took you out on a date or—”
“Not happening.”
“Okay, well, that is just rude. I didn’t even get to the best part.”
I hear him sigh, and I wonder if he is massaging his temples. “Why are you bothering me?”
“Why’d you call?” I shoot back.
“My fingers grew tired, you idiot.” He argues. “Why did you text me in the first place? What are you after? You took my book, and I am sure you are up to something that will put me in a straitjacket, so what? The. Fuck. Do. You. Want?”
Good questions. And can I just say, I would love to be the reason he ends up in a crazy house. It would be perfect for him.
But I consider answering his questions honestly or as honestly as I can get without putting myself out there again. Because Minho, you make funny faces when I approach you. You make everything more interesting, and you're impossible to—
I cut myself off from that train of thought and instead say, “I was bored and anerign you seemed entertainment enough.”
“Get a hobby, Jesus.”
I laugh. “I have hockey.”
I can almost see Minho rolling his eyes from the pause of silence that settles between us. “A useful hobby would do you nicely.”
“Does annoying you count?”
“You are such an asshole; I swear you make it too easy to hate you.”