Chapter Eleven #3
He looks enthralled by my falling apart; my climax is awing him for some reason or another, and he milks me dry. I’m shaking and sensitive as I peel his hand off me, slumping forward to rest my forehead against his.
The sun is setting over the walls of the bedroom, and all that can be heard is our combined panting.
It’s hot in here; the smell of sex is thick.
If I were sober, this would be the part where I freak out—but I don’t have it in me.
In fact, all I want to do is keep him pressed as tightly to my body as possible.
Once our breathing evens out, Skylar offers me a soft chuckle. “We need a fucking shower.”
We’re covered in my come and sweaty from exertion.
I run my fingers up his side. “Does that mean you’ll join me?”
“I guess it does,” he says, and as I lift my head to look at him, he’s grinning so blissfully.
I’m expecting the rest of the evening to be awkward, for us to go back to our game of pretending this means nothing and avoiding it at all costs. But instead, the remainder of the day is peaceful.
We shower rather inefficiently, doing our best not to fall from the alcohol still coursing through us and washing each other clean. And once we’re done, we spend the rest of the night lying on the couch watching Family Guy, with Skylar laid out on top of me.
I repeat to myself that it is wishful thinking to imagine this is a new reality in which being so intimate with him is normal.
We’re still drunk after all, and the sun has yet to fully set.
The next morning is thankfully not accompanied by its usual post-drinking headache. I guess day drinking tends to help with that.
As my eyes crack open, I am alone on the couch, the TV long since powered off. Yet I am given no time to panic as I hear Skylar’s off-key humming drifting into the room from the kitchen like a childhood comfort.
I tilt my head back to look over the bar and find him at the stove. He’s making breakfast, a spoon dangling from his mouth, an open jar of peanut butter resting on the counter beside him.
Somewhere nearby, his phone is playing a shitty country song I am not familiar with at a low volume.
“Morning,” I call over the sound, and his blue eyes peer sideways to meet mine.
“Good morning,” he says around the spoon. “How do you feel?”
I sit up, rolling my shoulders against the tension that comes with sleeping on the couch as a man over six feet tall. “Fine, actually. You?”
He smiles and says, “Fine. French toast?”
Making my way to the bar, I watch as Skylar slides me a plate stacked with French toast and assorted fruit, a bottle of syrup set to the side. He brings me a glass of milk.
“Thanks.”
It’s a comfortable silence as I begin to eat and he continues to cook—a morning that is no different than the thousands of other mornings we’ve spent by each other’s sides.
Only, this time I’m watching him and searching for any visible marks I might have left on his body. I’m dissecting his movements to gauge if he feels as comfortable as I do, or if he’s brimming with unspoken tension.
But Skylar reveals nothing. He drifts around the kitchen just as he always has, and I can get no real read on him. He looks ready for a relaxing day of lounging in his Sinclair sweatshirt and his soft pajama shorts that are sitting far too low on his hips.
And as if he can sense my waiting for the other shoe to drop, he says, “Your dad has called a few times. After the third time, I answered and told him you’d hit him back. He does know it’s only eight thirty in the morning, right?”
Skylar laughs softly, his spoon sitting discarded on the counter, but I can’t enjoy a moment of the sound as my heart beats so hard I can feel it in my toes.
It’s as if Ash’s intuition told him that his adoptive son got his gay on last night and he’s called to crucify me.
“Thanks. I’ll call him now.” I abandon my half-eaten breakfast, find my phone on the coffee table, and take it to Skylar’s room.
I avoid looking at the bed; I avoid re-immersing myself in the pleasure, the guilt, the shameful desire to drag him back down the hall and do it all over again. I fear Ash would hear the dirty thoughts from the tone of my voice, and then I’ll truly be caught.
Shutting the door behind me, I take a deep breath, preparing myself for the potential fallout. The phone only rings twice once I gather the courage to dial.
“Hello?” his deep, stern voice greets me.
“Hey, Dad. Sorry I missed your call; I was asleep. What’s up?”
There is movement on the other line, as if he himself is moving into another room, seeking privacy. I can hear the anxiety in my own voice.
“You’re at Skylar Parish’s?” he asks, and I make an affirmative sound in response. “Good, that’s good. Well, stop messing around. We need you to come home for dinner. The Johnstons are coming over, and they’ve been asking about you. Come early so you can dress appropriately for the occasion.”
“Sure.”
He is silent for a moment before he says, emotionlessly, “See you then.”
And the line goes dead.
Well, that went better than I had anticipated. Mr. Johnston works at the firm with Ash—he’s influential, and the type of man Ash feels the need to impress. The very family the Carmichaels spend so much time and money trying to convince of their worth.
I am to be polite, impressive but not too flashy, and quiet unless prompted. That is my role at a Carmichael dinner party. A trophy son.
I have been conditioned to play the part well.
I find my way back to the common area of Skylar’s apartment, spotting him where he sits next to my half-empty plate, eating his own breakfast. As I approach the bar, he eyes me curiously.
“I have dinner tonight. I need to leave in a few hours,” I tell him, and he shrugs.
“Want to hit the gym first?”
An unknown amount of time spent watching Skylar lie on a bench press, sweaty and red, or grunting under a dumbbell?
“Definitely,” I reply, no hesitation involved.
I guess we are not going to acknowledge what happened between us last night. He probably doesn’t want to rehash the details of him pleading with me to stave off his orgasm, or how he demanded I give him my pleasure. It’s probably for the best.
I’m not sure I’ll be able to handle it—the reality of the situation. What enjoying it so much says about me and what it means for the future I have carved out for myself.
If this mold I have so carefully been shaped into cracks and breaks apart, I don’t think I’ll be able to get up so easily.
And plus, if I start recalling what he felt like, what he sounded like sitting on that bed as he came in my mouth, I don’t know if I’d be able to leave his apartment.
Skylar turns to look at me, those pouty lips tilting up into a smirk as if he lives inside of my head and can hear every little dirty thought I’m having about him.
“Great,” he remarks. “Let’s finish eating and get ready, then.”
I take my seat next to him, but I’ve lost my appetite. Between the memories of last night, the anxiety of going home, and the desire I feel just looking at Skylar, my body feels like a switchboard lit up—I’m on high alert.
And just to torture me, to make matters worse, he keeps pressing the side of his thigh into mine. Ever since his twenty-second birthday, he’s grown quite nicely into his sexuality. I wonder if it was that kiss, that moment with Kelly, that really ignited something in him and made him so insatiable.
Because now he wants to try new things, expand his horizons, and experience new pleasures. And at the end of the day—it doesn’t have to be with me, does it? Skylar is horny and repressed. That is why he wanted me to touch him. Not because he likes me.
And I’ll keep telling myself this, even as it crushes and dismantles me to think about it, to feel it.
Something hot burns inside of me; something ugly that is becoming so uncomfortably familiar with every passing day. That alter ego of mine is screaming to be set free. It’s disgusting.
Skylar is not mine—I’m not allowed to want him—yet I feel the need to burn the world down around him just to prevent the passing breeze from grazing his skin.
I’m pathetic.
I swallow this realization down and reply, “Yeah, let’s do it.”