Landon #2
I’m not unsure; I’m lying.
“Liar.”
I flinch at the word, almost a little convinced he’s reading my mind. “What do you mean?”
“I mean,” Nate continues, tilting his head at me as he talks, “that you’re not sad about Julian. In fact, I think you hardly feel anything at all.”
Motherfucker. What, has he been reading my diary? Not that I actually keep one; I’m just irritated he can read me this well.
“You’re full of shit,” I snap, attempting to hide the shock and the fear from my face. “You don’t know me.”
“You’re right,” Nate agrees. “I don’t know you. But I think I’m starting to understand you a bit better, even if I don’t want to. What is it, hm? What’s truly bothering you?”
“Like you care. You just admitted that you don’t even want to comprehend my emotions, so why are you prying?”
“Emotions,” Nate repeats. “What emotions? What are you feeling?”
He’s so fucking confusing. Does he want to know or not? Why do I want to tell him?
“Nothing,” I respond, but it’s too quick, too desperate. “I’m just upset that Julian—”
“No,” he sneers. “You’re not upset about Julian. Stop fucking lying to me.”
“I don’t owe you the truth!” I shout, taking a step back and toward the door.
Maybe this was a bad idea. How did I think for a moment that he wouldn’t try to dismantle me? Maybe this was his plan all along. While I was planning to seduce and destroy him, Nate was slowly bringing me to my knees to exploit me emotionally.
I fear that if this is a race to see who can break the other first, Nate might just be winning.
“So what am I doing here then?” he questions angrily, standing from the bed.
“Did you just want to fuck? Is that it? Do you want me to pin you down and shove into you until you’re sobbing, or do you crave riding my cock until I’m the one in shambles?
Tell me, Landon, if I’m not here to help you, what am I here for? ”
“Stop talking,” I demand, taking another step back as he suddenly advances. “You don’t know what you’re—”
“Then tell me,” he insists.
“I don’t know what to say!” I’ve snapped. He’s officially crashed through the walls I’ve built like an angry bulldozer, one that seems to be capable of reaching deep inside of me and turning my entire soul inside out. “I don’t know what is wrong with me!”
Nate hesitates for just a moment, as if he, too, can sense that I’m crumbling. Then he continues to stalk toward me, all dominance and calm demeanor.
“There isn’t anything wrong with you, Landon,” he says, and it’s not gentle or caring in tone, but it is sincere.
“That’s what I’ve made you believe,” I whisper, my eyes straying from his. “But there is. I promise you, there is.”
“Explain it to me then,” he commands. “Tell me what’s wrong with you. You said it yourself, right? No one can truly care about you if they don’t know you. So tell me.”
Nate says it as if he wants to care about me. Like he’s fighting this desire to be close the same way I am. And that, in and of itself, is enough for me to crack open fully.
“There is nothing to tell,” I say quietly. “They can’t find it. They don’t know why I’m this way.”
“What way?” he pushes, now only a foot or two in front of me.
“Sad? Miserable? Constantly drowning in a darkness so consuming I can hardly find my way out?” I laugh, but it’s bitter and defeated.
A part of me believes that this very well may be the last time I see Nate. He won’t want to deal with me anymore.
“Some people think I just want attention,” I continue. “Some think I’m holding a terrible secret that’s slowly killing me. But they’re both wrong; I’m full of misery for no fucking reason. I’m just… broken.”
I can’t look at him. I refuse to acknowledge the judgment that is no doubt in those honey eyes, or the subtle tilt of his frown.
As I stare at the floor, the plush carpet is suddenly covered by sock-clad feet, and I can feel Nate’s presence so close to me. Why he isn’t running or calling me names and sending me away is a mystery.
“You’re not broken,” he finally says, and his tone this time is soft. It’s gentle and sweet and understanding. “You have a chemical imbalance in your brain.”
His pointer finger presses softly against my forehead, and my eyes well up with tears, suddenly overcome with the need to sob. To be seen. To be understood, even as I don’t get it myself.
“You’re just wired differently,” he goes on. “You’re playing life on hard mode. It’s unfortunate, and it’s hard to explain to others, but it doesn’t make you bad. It doesn’t make you incapable of accepting care or affection.”
“But…” My voice is shaky, distant even to my own ears as I stare at his socks. “But how do I explain to people that I’m so tired, so mentally drained for no reason at all? How do I… how do I make people proud of me?”
“You could try taking medicine. And if that isn’t your cup of tea, then you surround yourself with people who are willing to take the bad days with you.”
Strong fingers grip my chin, forcing my head to tilt back and my eyes to meet his. Nate looks so sincere, so honed in on me in this moment, that the tears actually do slip free.
“Nobody wants to spend time with someone like me. They only like the facade, the happy-go-lucky rich boy.”
Nate tilts his head again, his eyes drilling into mine. “Someone will. Someone out there will want to stomach your burdens with you.”
Him. I want him to stomach my burdens, to lift them from my shoulders and pull me from the murky depths of my own sorrow just as he does every time he touches me.
But I can’t ask him for that. I can’t push our fragile circumstance any more than I have. It might have him running for real, and I wouldn’t be able to take that.
“Touch me,” I command gently. “It goes away… it stops when you touch me.”
For a moment, I fear he won’t understand. I’ll have to explain that he expels the darkness with a single brush of his skin. But then his eyes widen slightly, and he takes a stuttering breath.
“Just me?” he asks.
“Just you,” I whisper.
And suddenly Nate’s mouth is on mine. Normally, when we kiss, it’s bruising and desperate and filthy. Like we both know that we only have so much time, and we want to fit in every dirty thought we’ve had in the days since we last connected.
But this time, it’s soft. It’s calming and claiming and almost as if he’s trying to soothe me with each flick of his tongue, each suck of his lips.
And it fucking works. I melt into him, allowing him to guide and maneuver me instead of doing what I normally do, fighting him for dominance.
It appears I don’t want that today. Today, I just want to feel him. To let him make it all disappear.
Nate’s hands run up my back, his fingers digging into the muscles there and kneading, his body flush to mine as he kisses me so deeply, I fear he’ll be able to taste the misery inside of me.
And as he pulls away just enough to speak, he walks us backward, his panting breath hitting my lips.
“Not broken,” he murmurs. “Definitely not broken.”
Whether he’s trying to reassure me of the fact once again or commenting on how hard my dick is where it’s pressed against his leg, I don’t really care.
I’m not broken.
“Nate,” I breathe out, my hands gripping his biceps as he guides us. “Don’t stop.”
Don’t stop touching me. Keep working your beautiful magic until I’m nothing but light and joy and all of the sweet things in between.
“Want me to give it to you, sweet Lanny? Want me to show you?”
I don’t care what he’s talking about, what he’s referencing, as I say, “Yes.”
I’ll take whatever it is that he deems fit.
But I should have known. After spending last weekend at his little house, I should have known he meant the stars.
They illuminate the air around us, grazing my skin and igniting something inside of me that feels so fucking good, it borders on sorrow.
“Oh, f-fuck,” I groan, taking in the little lights as he spins me, laying me on the bed.
“You like them that much?” he asks, skillfully using his fingers to unbutton my jeans and yank them down. “Do you enjoy glowing for me?”
“Please.” I’m panting, heaving out large breaths as I try to collect myself.
But Nate is making this task impossible. He’s touching me so reverently, so softly, that as he pulls my briefs down, taking my shoes and everything else with them, I can’t even think.
There is no way I can hide from him now. Not when he’s like this. Not while I want him this way.
“Please, what, babydoll?” he purrs, yanking my shirt over my head until I’m completely exposed and he’s most definitely not. “Please make you come? Please kiss you? Or do you want more of my gift, more of my soul?”
That. I want more of that.
But instead of speaking, I moan, completely enraptured with him. How could I ever have thought I could break this man? Why would I damage something so valuable to me?
“You’re shaking,” Nate observes, his fingertips running smoothly over my chest. “It normally takes me a minute to get you here. Are you that excited, or is all of that pent-up agony trying to force its way out?”
“Stop… stop teasing,” I manage to say, but outside of that, I’m kind of in shambles. He’s right on both accounts, and I don’t know how to tell him that.
Nate watches me for a moment, dropping his fingers to run lightly over my leaking dick. I shudder, trying to hold eye contact with him as if my life depends on it.
But then he sheds his clothes in a few quick, graceful movements that have me trapped in a daze before dropping his body onto mine.
As he rubs our erections together, he whispers in my ear, “Tell me what to do, baby. I know you want to. I know that no matter how lost you feel, you still want to fight for control.”
“Like my gift? You want me to, ugh, fuck, you want me to coerce you?” There is so much shock and pleasure in my voice—so completely confused that he’d request this.
I can’t really debate the meaning, though, not with his slick length rubbing against mine like a deadly promise.
“Yeah. Use that manipulative little trick of yours and tell me what you want.”