Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Thirteen
Xander
I love dancing. It’s the single greatest thing I’ve ever experienced in my life. Fuck art, fuck dying, fuck everything except spending the rest of my life plastered against Derek.
I drift inside after Seven has picked me up and head straight to my room. I don’t want to see anyone or talk to anyone or do anything except keep reliving that moment over.
I’ll wrap it around me and live there forever.
Derek’s eyes are my weakness. Every time I look into them, I’m convinced he sees me. They’re sweet and welcoming and fill me with so many messy nerves it’s like I’m going to vibrate out of my skin.
Why can’t he want me the same way I want him? Why can’t he feel this same body-prickling need? All I could think about with his hands on me was him ducking his head to bring our lips together, and even imagining that has such violent butterflies taking off in my stomach that I worry I’m going to throw up.
But it eases, and when I step inside my room, I lock my door.
This isn’t something I do often. Despite what I tell my roommates, I’m not constantly horny. Sometimes listening to them go at it will be enough to get me there, especially if I pick up murmured, loving words, but my dick is always triggered by something. Some one . Spontaneous horniness is rare.
I’m hard now though.
Dancing up close, getting the hint of a slightly citrusy cologne, watching those sweet eyes watch me, it short-circuited my brain. I barely made it through the end of the dance hour.
And now … now Derek and I have a date with my fantasies.
I pushed my luck today, and he one hundred percent let me get away with it. He should never have let that happen because I know me. With every little inch he gives me, I’ll go after two more. I’m greedy when it comes to what I want, and I’ve never wanted anyone the way I want Derek.
I don’t think I’ve ever wanted anyone at all.
I strip my shirt over my head and toss it to the floor, then my shorts and underwear go next. Even with how turned on I am, there’s an edge of sadness to it too. I’m desperately lonely, and I wonder if, one day, I’ll ever get to do this with another person. If I’ll ever feel hands on me and a cock against my cock and not feel anxious or used or like it’s all going to slip away.
Maybe one day, I’ll feel wanted.
Until then, I can only imagine what it will be like.
My gaze snags on my reflection in the huge mirror I have set against the opposite wall. I see myself too much, and none of it is worth looking at. I’m too thin. Too short. My dick is nothing special .
Better stick to those memories, Z. There’s no way a man like Derek could ever want all this .
My eyes squeeze tight, and I fight against the voice. The voice that sounds too much like Seven’s, saying words he’d never say. I rock on my feet, that dark impulse trying to get me to stay put while I fight against it. My dick is flagging, but I want this. I want so badly to remember Derek and how he felt and have this split moment in time where I enjoy myself and nothing else.
I take a weak step forward, then another. Just focus on moving until my knees hit my bed and I collapse down onto it.
“And you’re a much better painter than dancer.”
“Teach me.”
That moment swims back to life in my memories. The way I’d wanted to know what Derek’s stubble would feel like. How safe it was in his hands. How I’d counted the colors in his eyes and knew I’d never be able to paint them all.
I slide my hand down and wrap it loosely around my dick. It’s thickening again, and relief washes over me. I didn’t lose it.
The memory of me and Derek dancing switches from the room full of people to the middle of my bedroom. His hand moves from my waist and slides down, down until it settles on my lower back. He pulls me closer, firmer against him, and I chance a quick stroke over my cock. It’s nowhere near enough, but fuck , it feels good.
I sink into the memory, morphing it and twisting it to be everything my dreams are made of. Derek’s hands dipping under my shirt, pressing it up over my head. I shiver at how his hands would feel on me. Soft? Scratchy? I can’t decide, but it doesn’t matter either way as long as it’s Derek. I remove his shirt next, exposing that body I drooled over at the club. The body I never would have been able to imagine myself.
The memory makes me shivery. What would it have felt like if we’d danced then? Pressed together. Overheated bodies with no space between them. His chest hair tickling my skin, our sweat slick together, hot, heavy breaths by my ear.
A soft sigh falls from my lips as I scramble for the lube in my bedside table and finally give in to the urges. My hand slips up and down my shaft, bringing out the deep kind of ache that only Derek can give me. I’ve tried too many times, with so many men, and no one gets me hard the way he does.
Maybe I should get myself tested for impotence?
But there’s none of that going on now. The angry vein along the underside of my dick is stark against my pale skin, and what feels like all the blood in my body is pooling in my reddened tip.
It’s not often I get to experience being this worked up, and I love the addictive, overwhelming desperation. The way my brain empties of everything except images that make me feel good. Wanted. Needed.
I want this feeling to last forever. I’ll never understand how guys with dicks that work properly don’t become sex addicts. If I could get horny like this, every day, I’d never leave my bed.
Dream Derek shoves down my pants, then lifts me into his beefy arms before stalking closer to my bed. He sets me on the edge of it. I imagine him kneeling between my legs, firmly pushing my thighs open, while his kind eyes look deep into mine.
Nerves rattle around deep in my stomach, and my hand moves faster over my shaft. In my mind, Derek dips his head and presses his lips to mine. Soft, sweet, an electrifying ghost of skin on skin.
Then, he bends down and wraps his mouth around my cock.
I don’t get further than that before I shoot. My balls tighten as I throb out ropes of cum onto my stomach and sink into that mind-spinning high where nothing else can touch me.
But the high never lasts. Bit by bit, it slips away, and as I glance down at the mess, as I catch sight of my hip bones and lack of abs, something deep in my chest twists.
I pant as I catch my breath, gaze redirected to the ceiling, reminding myself to appreciate these moments because they sure as hell will never be real.
The few times I see him at the pharmacy, Derek is the same as he’s always been, and I hate it. Now that I’ve seen him without the professional mask on, I want more of that, but he refuses to budge. Just gently inspects me, then softly talks me down.
I want to kick him. Or throw something.
Anything to startle him out of this bland version of who he really is.
It makes me even more grateful for our time together at the nursing home.
I’m way too excited to get to the painting classes that week that I’m snappish and impatient, waiting for Seven to get his shit together to drive me. He’d tried to teach me how to drive once, but the first time I got behind the wheel, this immense responsibility pressed down on me, and I couldn’t even bring myself to turn the car on. What if I fell asleep randomly on a busy highway? Hit ice? Experienced a mechanical failure that sent me careening into a tree?
Not to mention that these days, it feels like if Seven’s not driving me somewhere, I don’t get to spend time with him. I hate having to fight for people’s attention. Hate having to remind them I exist too.
“Back in two hours?” he checks.
I nod and climb out, throat too sticky to answer him. The whole time I’m stomping across the grass to the entrance, I’m torn between trying to be happy for him that he has Molly in his life and angry that he only has time for Molly in his life. Seven was supposed to be the one person who was all mine, and I love him so much that I want him to be happy, but since he started therapy, something’s changed. That person has been messing with his brain.
Seven was perfect exactly how he was, and now he’s becoming a different person. A grown-up person.
And grown-ups have never had time for me.
I need Derek more than ever today. I need his distraction and his time and his attention and his terrible art.
Maybe Carla will help me dance with him again.
Maybe I can convince him to hang out after this, just the two of us.
The nerves are bubbling happily in my gut as I check in and head down to the room. He’s not here yet, which isn’t unusual, but I know it won’t be long. He always shows up before the others so we can sneak a couple of moments together.
Until he doesn’t.
During the whole class, I’m watching the door, waiting, growing slowly more confused as time creeps on. It’s moments like these where I wish I had his number and could check he’s all right, but it’s always felt weird to ask. We’re not technically friends.
I don’t trust myself not to abuse the privilege.
Five minutes before I’m due to wrap things up, he strides straight past the door. My gut almost shoots out of my mouth in excitement, and I dart out into the hall, calling out his name to catch him before he can turn the corner.
He stops but doesn’t turn around.
“Running late today,” I tease.
“Yeah.” He still doesn’t glance back. “I’ve got to get going.”
“I’ll come help.”
“No.” Finally, Derek looks back over his shoulder, and even with the length of the hallway between us, I can tell there’s none of his usual warmth there. “I’ve got this. You focus on your class, and I’ll focus on mine.”
“You …” My throat is closing over. “You don’t want me … to … to …”
Something in his expression shifts, and he paces back toward me. “I’m sorry, but I have to focus on the residents. They’re who I’m here for. Thank you for teaching me that I’m a terrible painter. Now, I’ll leave it for the masters.” He goes to reach for me but stops. “I’m here for you if you need me, but I don’t think it’s a good idea to be friends.”
For maybe the first time in my life, I’m stunned stupid. There are so many things I want to say to him, but I’ve forgotten what words are. The sparky little gremlin wants to rage at him. Wants to swear and stomp and tell him he was a shitty friend anyway, but for the first time ever, there’s something more powerful holding it back. The sadness wraps around my chest and renders me silent.
I stand there, and he stands there, and after a moment of soul-searching eye contact, he swallows thickly and walks away. Like everyone always does.
You’d think I’d be used to it by now.
I’m not.