Chapter 9A
Grey
No. Not here. Not in his bed.
That’s too far. You’ve already done much worse. You broke into his apartment. You’re wearing his clothes. You’re lying in his sheets. What's one more thing?
I unbutton my pants. Push them down. My hand closes around myself, and I gasp. I’m already hard. Have been since I smelled his pillow. Since I put on his jacket and saw myself in his mirror.
This is what I wanted. This is why I came.
To be here. To be close. To be inside him in the only way I’m allowed.
I stroke myself slowly at first. Torturously slow.
Because I want this to last. I want to memorize every second.
Want to burn this moment into my memory so I can replay it later, in the dark, when I’m alone and desperate for him.
His jacket is wrapped around me. His scent is everywhere, on the pillow, on the sheets, on the fabric pressed against my skin. I imagine it's his hands on me. His fingers wrapped around my cock. His thumb swiping over the head, spreading the pre-cum that’s already leaking.
Cain.
The name comes out broken and fragile as I move my hand faster.
What would he do? How would he touch me? Would he be gentle or rough? Would he take his time, or would he devour me?
I imagine his mouth. His teeth. His tongue.
God.
My hips buck into my hand.
Cain.
I’m close. So close.
I imagine him whispering in my ear. Telling me I’m his, that he’s been watching me too and that he wants this as much as I do.
Come for me, Grey.
Come for me.
Come...
I come. Hard. Uncontrollably. My whole body arches off the bed.
The sound that escapes my throat isn’t human, it’s something primal, something that’s been caged for months and just broke free.
My release spills over my hand, over his sheets, over his jacket.
I lie there, panting. My body is trembling.
My mind is blank. My heart is pounding so hard I can hear it in my ears.
What did I just do?
I came in his bed. In his jacket. In his sheets. He’s going to know. He’s going to know someone was here. He’s going to…
I don't care.
I want him to know. I want him to come home and smell me and wonder who was here. I want him to think about me the way I think about him. I want him to have to choose to keep me or get rid of me.
I don’t clean up. Not completely. I strip off his jacket.
Hang it back in the closet. Adjust the sleeves so they hang exactly the way they did before.
I spray his cologne in the air to blur my scent with his.
I leave the sheets in the mess they are in.
A stain on his sheets. A damp spot on his pillow.
I leave my sweat. My smell. The evidence of what I did here.
He’ll notice. Or he won’t. Either way, I’ll know that I was here. That I touched him. That I took something he can’t get back. And if he decides that’s too much, if he decides I’m too much, he can leave.
People always do.