Chapter 13 #2
“That’s it. Shit, Marcus.” I hold my breath, pounding my fist against the wall, trying to stave off the orgasm, but it explodes through my body anyway.
I give his hair a hard tug and pull my cock from his mouth just as I come, my release splashing across his lips and cheeks, catching in his stubble, marking him while I unload for what feels like forever.
Marcus laps up my mess eagerly, licking his lips like I’m dessert. He slides my leg from his shoulder and rises to his full height. Looking down at me, he clutches my face and kisses me fervently.
And as I melt into his touch with the taste of my salty cum on his lips, I have the sinking feeling that we can never come back from this.
“Marion, I have no idea what to do now. I was doing so good resisting him and not taking your advice. We were letting professionalism win. There was a line. And now I can’t even see it anymore because it’s somewhere back on the beach where I let my boss—client, whatever—dry hump me like a horny mermaid. ”
Marion snorts a laugh over the phone. “Technically, you haven’t taken my advice. I told you to fuck him.”
“Well, I should fuck him now. I’ve already done everything else,” I grumble. But the thought of being so intimate with Marcus ramps up my heart rate again.
It’s about seven in the morning, and I slept terribly for the rest of the night, tossing and turning while I overanalyzed everything that happened.
Marcus left the bathroom to change into new boxers, and by the time I had dried off, bandaged up my foot, and changed, he’d already passed out on the couch.
It was fine. Not like I was expecting a cuddle fest.
When I realized that I couldn’t make coffee without waking the bear, so to speak, I snuck out to walk to my favorite coffee shop and opted to call Marion because I was already jittery with nerves and regret.
I blow out a breath as I walk down Hemlock Street, trying to let the sea air calm me, but it’s doing a pisspoor job.
“J, stop freaking out. Wasn’t the reason you didn’t want to start anything with Marcus is that he’d freak out?”
“Yeah? So?”
“So, pot, meet kettle.”
“Look, smartass, this is a different freak out. And who’s to say that he’s not going to wake up and realize that his supposedly straight ass just had a dick in his mouth.”
“He gave you a blow job too?” she shrieks, and I hold the phone away from my ear with a grimace.
“Oh, did I not mention that part?”
“Uh, no!”
“Yeah, there was this incident in the shower when we got back. No biggie, really.”
“Except you took his blowie virginity, so that actually is a biggie. You’re right. He’s definitely going to freak out.”
“Fuck. Fine,” I huff. “Whatever. I think you’ve lost focus. We were talking about my freakout.” I reach Insomnia Coffee and linger on the street, not wanting to share my conversation with the baristas.
Marion sighs. “I think you need a little perspective. How does being with Marcus make you feel?”
I hesitate, a lie on the tip of my tongue. “I really like it,” I say finally. Truthfully.
“How many other people have made you feel that way?”
“None.”
“Then, I think you need to give yourself some grace.”
I think about the reverence I saw in his eyes last night and the way he touched me like he was cherishing something precious. It made me feel . . . wanted. It also made me realize that the fallout if I let him in could be catastrophic to my heart.
“What if he doesn’t want me?” I ask, a lump in my throat.
“J, if he doesn’t want you, he doesn’t deserve you.”
I blink the moisture from my eyes as I stare up at the sky. “I think I’m going to end it.” A blue patch breaks through the gray clouds, and I close my eyes as sunlight warms my face. “I need to go.”
“Sure, call me later.”
“I will.”
I hang up, buy my coffee, and start the walk back to the beach house. I opt to take the beach instead of going through town, but quickly realize that I can’t take my shoes off because of my injured foot. At least it doesn’t hurt much this morning.
I trudge down to the packed sand and walk south toward Haystack Rock, sipping my coffee. With no marine fog this morning, the view of the famous rock is clear, marked by brown ridges and green algae. Clusters of seagulls circle the top, squawking raucously as they skim along the ocean breeze.
Even though the beach is mostly deserted, there are a few people flying kites, walking dogs, and taking morning runs. They all seem so at ease, so I try to channel their energy as I reconsider what Marion told me.
I didn’t plan on this. None of this was planned.
Marcus wasn’t supposed to be at the pub yesterday morning.
He wasn’t supposed to come with me.
He wasn’t supposed to stay with me—alone—at the beach house.
And he certainly wasn’t supposed to follow me out onto the beach in the middle of the night looking all cute and worried but also rugged and sexy.
Seriously. How does he accomplish both looks simultaneously?
But whether I intended for all this to happen or not, it did, and now I have to decide what to do from here: Do I act like an adult and keep it professional like I know I should?
Or do I see where it goes and risk getting my heart broken?
The odds of the latter are pretty high, considering that Marcus is still in the closet and also the most stubborn man on the planet.
I walk up the steps to the house, toe off my runners, and open the sliding-glass door as quietly as possible in case Marcus is still sleeping, but I don’t see him when I enter.
I walk quickly down the hall into the bedroom, pausing when I hear the shower. I sit on the bed with shaking hands. “Get a grip, Jeremy. You haven’t even talked to him yet.”
I hate the way my emotions clog my throat, threatening to escape. Disappointment, sadness, rejection.
He’s going to leave me too.
I press my hands to my mouth, trying to physically stop the sob that’s crawling up my throat as hot, heavy tears burn my eyes. “Why are you crying? Why do you always have to cry?”
My feelings are turbulent and heavy. They’re filling up my chest and overtaking my lungs, and I just need to relieve the pressure. I stand and stomp over the bed, reaching for the nightstand drawer. I find the little black box and open it, staring at the small silver razor blade inside.
My brain knows that I’m overreacting—logically, I shouldn’t feel like this—but sometimes everything just feels so big, and I’m so small. It’s why I haven’t had many relationships. Why I’m always alone.
I’m a lot.
You’re too much.
I run my finger over the cool metal.
Just one quick cut might make it feel better.
My heart thuds as I stare at it, still caressing it like some sort of psycho.
“No.”
I close the box and put it back in the drawer. I take a shaky breath and slide my finger below my waistband, pressing the raised skin firmly. The pressure in my lungs lessens.
“I can do this,” I mutter. “I’m okay.”
I repeat the words, and once I actually believe them, I walk to the closet to get dressed. My meeting with Flash is in thirty minutes, and I can’t fuck it up.