9. Damon
Damon
I wake with a start, my chest heaving like I just ran for my fucking life. The sheets are tangled around my legs, and there’s a sticky, uncomfortable heat on my abs. My head drops back onto the pillow as reality slams into me like a fucking baseball to the face.
What. The. Actual. Fuck?
The dream hits me in flashes—Roman pinned under me, his eyes wide with something that isn’t anger for once. My hands gripping his wrists and holding him down as he twisted and writhed beneath me. His lips, swollen and red as he gasped my name.
“Damon,” he breathed, his voice completely wrecked. It wasn’t just a dream of control or anger, no—it was something filthy.
I’d been fucking him. My hands were all over his chest, down his stomach, and gripping his sides hard enough to bruise as I ground into him. The dream had been so vivid I could feel the heat of his body, the taut lines of his muscles as they flexed under me.
Then there was his fucking mouth on mine: hot, wet and desperate. He’d kissed me back like he hated me for it, but couldn’t stop. His pierced tongue tangled with mine like I’d broken something in him, and he wanted me to keep breaking him until there was nothing left.
I groan and press the heels of my palms to my eyes. My cock twitches again, still half hard, despite the evidence of my release cooling on my stomach.
Because of Roman fucking Bishop. I had a fucking wet dream about the person I hate. Jesus Christ, am I thirteen or something?
I shift uncomfortably, but it’s no use. The images are still there—Roman arching against me, his skin flushed and slick with sweat, the sounds of his filthy moans in my ear. The way his voice cracked when he—
“Fuck,” I mutter and sit up, dragging a hand through my hair. My throat feels tight with shame and a lingering desire I have no idea what to do with.
This isn’t happening. Roman is the last person I’d willingly touch in that way. He’s a walking reminder of everything I hate and everything I’ve lost. My little brother is dead because of him, and now I’m…
I shake my head and get to my feet, grabbing the pack of cigarettes on my nightstand while pulling the wet boxers off. My fingers tremble as I light one, the flame briefly illuminating the mess of my room.
I take a drag, the nicotine hitting me but it doesn’t do shit about the images still seared into my brain. I exhale sharply, smoke curling around me as I try to shake the lingering heat pooling in my gut.
This doesn’t mean anything. It was just a dream—a fucked-up dream born out of too much booze, sleepless nights, and a fucking mistake in an alley.
I take another drag, but even as the smoke fills my lungs, I know I’m lying to myself.
The next morning, I’m still rattled. The cigarettes didn’t help, the cold shower didn’t help. Nothing fucking helps.
I drag myself to class with my music turned up loud in my ears. The art building is quiet this early, just the way I like it. Most people don’t bother showing up until the last minute, but I’m already busy setting up my supplies because I need an outlet right now.
The canvas in front of me stares back, blank and mocking. My hands itch to start; to take the chaos in my mind and turn it into something tangible, something I can control. But every time I close my eyes, all I see is Roman.
His fucking mouth, the heat in his eyes, and the warmth of his body under me in that dream. The way he moaned my name like he hated it. My grip tightens on my paintbrush and before I realize it, I’m slashing red across the canvas in angry, uneven strokes.
This doesn’t mean anything.
I repeat the words like a mantra, hoping they’ll drown out the images. The swipe of red turns into jagged lines of black, the bristles scraping across the canvas as I pour out everything inside of me.
It doesn’t mean anything.
It doesn’t mean anything.
It doesn’t mean anything.
“Fuck,” I mutter and step back, staring at the disaster I’ve created.
The painting is a tangled mess of color and chaos. It’s angry and messy and so goddamn fucking raw that I can barely stand to look at it. The colors bleed together, jagged and uneven, but all I can see is him.
I grab a rag and wipe my hands, pacing the length of the studio as I push thoughts of him from my mind. He’s just a guy. A guy I hate… A guy I should hate. He’s not supposed to get under my skin like this.
But he is. He’s under my skin, in my dreams, in my fucking bloodstream and I don’t know how to burn him out. I grab the paintbrush again, as if slashing more colors across the canvas will help me make sense of the mess in my mind.
By the time I leave the studio, my hands are stained red and black, and my gray shirt speckled with the same flecks. My head feels clearer, but only slightly. I try to focus on the usual shit going on in my day, like how much I hate crowded hallways, the smell of burnt coffee, and the way everyone talks so loud like they’re desperate to be heard, but none of it sticks.
Because whenever I turn a corner or walk into a building, I see him.
It’s like the universe is fucking with me. One second I see him across the quad with his black hoodie pulled up and walking like he’s avoiding everything. The next, he’s leaning against the wall in the media building, smirking and talking to Killian.
And then there’s the worst one—seeing him in a coffee shop near the art department. He’s sitting at the table with his laptop pulled open and his brow furrowed in concentration. His fingers drum absentmindedly against the tabletop, and for a split second, I imagine taking his wrist and pinning it to the table.
I shake off the thought so violently, I nearly drop my coffee.
“Get your shit together,” I mutter under my breath, ducking out of the coffee shop before he can look up and see me.
This doesn’t mean anything.
Except it does.