Chapter 25
Jamie
“Damn, I have to go,” I say painfully on the Doctor’s lips.
“Then go.”
“You’re holding me back.”
“I’m not doing anything.”
“Don’t play innocent with me.”
The Doctor laughs, completely at ease with me on him.
He seems to have finally relaxed, letting his guard down; he appears to know quite well what he’s doing to me and what he wants.
I also know what I want at this moment, and I believe he does too, since I’m pressing my cock against his.
But I’m anything but relaxed — excited, anxious, on the brink of losing my mind.
“Come on.” He slides his hands away from my face. “Don’t you have practice tomorrow morning?”
“At seven on the dot.”
“Then you really should go to sleep.”
“How the hell am I supposed to sleep after this?”
He’s still laughing, clearly making fun of me.
“You don’t like waiting.”
“Absolutely not.”
“I figured.”
“But I can make an exception.”
I reluctantly let him go. He stands and smooths his jacket, then looks at me and straightens mine, his fingers brushing the fabric before slowly sliding along my chest. I watch his hands on me, my stomach clenching.
“Well then, I’m off.”
I take a deep breath. “Okay.”
“Good night, Captain,” he says, turning back towards his car.
I move quickly and grab his arm.
“When?”
He glances back. “What?”
“When can I see you again?”
His smile brightens. “Call me.”
He gets into his car, drives out of the car park, and onto the road. Only when his car disappears around the corner do I try to regain my mental faculties, but I suspect that until I have the Doctor to myself, I won’t be able to think straight.
I get into my car too and drive for almost half an hour before I finally land home.
I open the door, knock off the alarm, and toss my keys onto the kitchen table.
On the way to my room, I slip off my shoes and shrug out of my jacket, leaving it slung over the armchair.
I drag my shirt over my head and let myself fall back on the bed with it still in my hand.
And then I do it.
I do it like some kid with his first crush. I can’t seem to stop myself.
I breathe. Once. Twice. Three times.
That’s when I catch it.
His scent.
My shirt is steeped in it; I am too. It’s everywhere — on my skin, in my hair, in the air I’m dragging into my lungs — and I don’t know if I like it or if it frightens the life out of me.
I lie there, my shirt clutched tight in my hands.
He’s still on me.
I breathe with my nose pressed against the fabric, as if it were a mask attached to an oxygen tank — the only thing keeping me alive in a hostile place where the air is so thin it burns my lungs.
So, lying on my bed, alone in my empty house, with my T-shirt as a shield, I feel strong enough to face all the monsters locked in my wardrobe, all the dragons hiding under my bed, and all the ghosts that rattle their chains every night and disturb my dreams.
I feel as if I’m holding Captain America’s shield, like nothing could touch me, as if I were safe from any possible attack or wound.
I’m not stupid. I know it’s not about a bloody T-shirt or a nice perfume.
I know what makes me feel truly invincible. I know where all this power comes from. I feel it in my hands — a force that, if you don’t know how to use or control it, can explode in your face and destroy you and everything around you.