Chapter 12
CHAPTER TWELVE
TATUM
Ihadn’t been able to get the feeling of her face bumping into my bare chest out of my head all day.
Not during the drive to New Mexico. Not when we stopped at two gas stations in between.
Not even when we finally made it to our hotel.
It was on a loop in my brain like a touch-starved, prepubescent teenager, but I guess I was.
No one had ever touched me before, at all, ever.
So even the minutest of things made my heart race in my chest.
The warmth of her skin against mine, her fingers grazing my abdomen as they came up instinctively to brace herself, the tingling that shot down my spine.
I’m wholly addicted to the feeling, I think. It’s etched in my bones, like an itch that I can’t scratch. Except, I can. I have to.
That’s all that echoes in my mind as I press my forehead against the shower wall, letting the steaming hot water cascade down my back and drip down the sides of my face as it soaks my hair. The way she looked up at me as I made sure she was okay after…
Crap.
My hand is reaching down and grabbing my cock before I can talk myself out of it, stroking slowly as the tension leaves my shoulders.
I’ve touched myself before, but it’s never felt like this.
Something is different this time. The thought of Maeve’s hands on me makes molten lava form at the base of my spine, my lips parting as I hold back the pant that wants to leave them.
Bracing my other hand on the wall, my cock throbs as I speed up my strokes, my eyes squeezing shut as I picture it’s her touching me instead.
What her hand would feel like, squeezing me and sliding up and down and up and down…
“Oh–” I gasp faintly, biting down harshly on my bottom lip to keep from letting any more sound out. To avoid letting her hear me in here, palming my cock to the thought of her.
There’s the faintest guilt that bubbles in my stomach for doing this, for getting off to the fresh memory of her barely touching me like the pathetic guy I am, but it’s there as clear as day in my head. I guess that photographic memory does have its downsides.
And then my mind wanders even more, imagining her down on her knees in front of me, peering up at me as she strokes my cock.
Shit.
I’m so close that I can’t help but hold my breath, stroking so fast that my forearm feels like it’s cramping.
What would her mouth feel like? Those perfect, full lips wrapped around me—
“Fuuuck,” I hiss, spilling ropes of cum onto the wall before me and all over my hand as I pump out every last drop.
My entire body sags as my breath comes out in quiet pants, and I push away from the wall to clean myself off, washing the evidence down the drain and hoping my guilt goes with it. The itch is gone, but now all that I’m left with is this gross feeling like I’ve just done something wrong. Did I?
Was that awful of me?
I try to shake away those thoughts as I turn off the water, stepping out of the shower and wrapping myself in a towel before approaching the fogged-up mirror.
As I swipe my hand across the glass, I stare at my reflection.
Dilated pupils, flushed cheeks, brown eyes that I swear look a few shades lighter. My whole face looks lighter.
So why do I feel so…wrong?
The question keeps running through my mind as if I don’t already know the answer.
How could I possibly have a healthy outlook on sex and relationships when I’ve only ever seen my mother with awful, abusive men my whole childhood?
Of course I’m going to feel wrong about it; she made me feel wrong about everything I ever did as a child.
I’m predisposed to feel like I’m doing everything the wrong way at all times.
When I’m finally finished getting dressed for bed and sliding my glasses back on the bridge of my nose, I walk out of the bathroom, but I freeze when my eyes fall on Maeve standing next to the bed in her bra and pajama pants. She must’ve been changing and I—
I turn around quickly.
“O-Oh, God,” I stutter. “I’m sorry.”
Now I’m never going to get that image out of my head.
She’s perfect, literally…perfect. She very obviously works out, based on the toned muscles of her stomach, and the small swell of her breasts in that black bra has my cheeks heating.
There were so many tattoos, a lot more than I could’ve imagined, but they’re a blur because I turned away so fast.
She laughs softly, interrupting my thoughts. “It’s okay, Tate.”
Scratching my neck nervously, I struggle with words.
“You can turn around.”
Even with her permission, I feel hesitant to do so, but I inhale as steadily as I can before I twist back around. She dons a baggy, long-sleeved tee now, but I still have to duck my head to hide my reddened cheeks as I go over to my own bed.
“Sorry. I should’ve, uh…”
“Tate. It’s okay. It’s just a bra…” She trails off, her smile fading. “God, I’m sorry. I should’ve just waited until you were out of the bathroom. I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable.”
“N-No, I’m okay. It’s okay.”
She looks skeptical, but she shrugs it off as she climbs underneath the covers in her bed, peering over at me before she says, “Okay.”
“Okay,” I repeat back to her.
As we get settled into bed, flicking the lights off and leaving the TV on the true crime channel, I put my glasses on the nightstand, chancing one last look over at Maeve, only to see her staring at me already.
I’m shaky, propped up on my elbow, frozen mid-air from setting my glasses down, and as her dark eyes watch me for a moment, I fear my cheeks might never recover from the blush that’s inevitably staining them.
“Goodnight, Tate,” she finally says, her voice raspy.
I blink a few times. “Goodnight, Maeve.”
Her eyes avert back to the TV, freeing me as I plop down onto the pillows, staring up at the ceiling.
I should’ve taken a cold shower.