60. Lolly #3
I slide into the driver’s seat and pull my phone out to check the live feed of Mom. She’s still soundly sleeping where I left her, nothing out of place. Relief hits me as I place my phone on the console and head back to the house.
She’s still sleeping when I sneak in the door from the garage, so I quietly head upstairs for a quick shower.
I throw my clothes in the hamper and turn the hot water on. I want it scalding, hot enough to burn. I need to feel something other than this incessant longing in my belly and my relentless, throbbing dick.
“Fuck,” I grumble as I step under the falling water.
I try my best to ignore my hard-on. Focusing on to-do lists, groceries, and commissions, but nothing sticks.
Snapshots of bathroom kisses and pushing him up against the wall of his old dorm room flash through my mind. Memories of the night he gave himself to me. My nerdy, sexy, glasses-wearing introvert with the most beautiful smile. The grumpy guy that hates mornings and uses two towels.
Vivid images of his pale skin and plump, pouty lips taunt me, unyielding in their barrage. I realize I’m fighting a losing battle, trying to ignore what both my mind and body insist deserves my undivided attention.
I smirk, shaking my head, and then grab myself with a firm, unforgiving grip as I allow my thoughts to wander. I let myself fall headfirst into thoughts of Bailey and that beautiful mouth.
His shy smile.
His tentative gaze glancing up at me through long lashes dotted with beads of water. His hooded eyes at half-mast until he gags and peers up at me shyly.
“Mmm, fuck, baby boy,” I moan as I stroke my thumb over the sensitive spot under the head. “There’s so much I never got to do with you.”
I fist the base firmly and then slowly make my way back up, leg muscles tensing as my pleasure builds. I swing my arm out to steady myself against the shower wall as I continue to increase my pace.
I imagine the sounds his beautiful throat would make. Imagine hot tears flowing down his flushed cheeks, mixing with the shower water as he chokes on me, loving the taste of my precum.
“Fuck, Bailey,” I groan with a shuddering breath. My balls tighten, heat pooling low in my core.
I’m so damn close. A familiar sensation blooms at the base of my spine and I fucking revel in it.
In him.
In us.
I can’t stop. My hand moves with furious purpose, all thoughts lost to him. To this. I’m still utterly fucking captivated by him.
“Shit,” I choke out. My release comes hard and fast. A spray of cum shoots across the shower wall and floor. I have to taste him again. I need to feel him, touch him, consume him in all the ways he’s consuming me.
As I make my way back downstairs, I have the incessant, nagging need to know more about his life now. It pounds at the back of my skull with persistence.
I’d like to let this thing between us grow organically, but the obsessive side of me wants to streamline the process. I should examine why I told him he could call me Lolly after all this time, but I push that aside for another day.
Surely he still has social media. I just need to know if he’s seeing anyone.
Definitely not stalking. Just… inquiring.
I stop midway down the hall, a sense of uneasiness clawing its way up my throat.
My chest tightens as I’m suddenly back in the cemetery holding him, so fragile in my arms—my tears falling against his pale cheeks as I beg him to breathe.
Beg him to live as I fight off memories of Lani, of Mom and Dad and blood and smoke and screaming.
I squeeze my eyes tight, count to ten and then back down to zero as I concentrate on five things. Something I can see, something I can touch, something I can smell, something I can hear, and something I can taste.
I grab a sucker from my pocket and pop it in my mouth.
Strawberry. I can taste strawberries, I can smell the cleaning solution Corina likes to use, I can hear my pulse pounding in my ears, and I can feel the hardwood floors underneath my feet.
I can see my mom. She’s safe. I’m safe. We are safe. I am home.
Deep breaths, Lolly.
Leaning against the wall, I realize that an old photograph of my mom and me is resting under my temple. I carefully push myself upright, straighten the frame, and convince my right foot to take a step forward, then my left, until I make it to the sofa where I quietly lower myself, exhaling slowly.
I encourage my body to relax, attempting to uncoil years of pulled-taught wreckage. I reach a shaking hand over to the antique Pembroke table and open the drawer. The pills rattle in the bottle, a subtle reminder that I, too, am unbound. Untethered.
But, I’m not what I’ve survived, I am who I became despite those things. I swallow, shivering as the bitter coating stings the back of my throat. I stretch an arm behind my head and force my eyes closed, knowing that whatever reprieve I find will be short-lived.
It’s always worse at night. The old familiar song of my demons is inevitably more deafening in the dark.
As I begin to drift to sleep, thoughts of that beguiling smile underneath those brilliant freckles resurfacing—I wonder if perhaps there is still someone out there, after all, whose light can vanquish my darkness.