Chapter 11
NOWHERE LEFT TO RUN
JOEY
Provider by Sleep Token
The empty lot behind the recording studio stretches dark and silent. I ease into it, pulse hammering.
The rear door is propped open with a brick, a narrow blade of light cutting through the cold night air.
I slip inside. The sound of my boots echoes softly down the long hallway, each step measured, intentional. I’ve long since stopped pretending I can resist.
He’s leaning against the mixing board, still in his stage clothes—black jeans riding low on his hips, shirt hanging open and damp with sweat.
Streaks of paint cling to the sharp planes of his chest and trail down the ridges of his abdomen, color against heat, as if the stage followed him here and hasn’t let go.
His breath is rough, uneven, chest rising and falling like the music hasn’t quite left his blood.
The mask still covers his face, but it might as well be glass.
I step inside and close it behind me, the soft click swallowed by the intimate space.
I move toward him, each step unhurried, until I’m standing directly in front of him.
Sweat beads along his exposed collarbone, his pulse fluttering beneath the painted skin of his throat.
This close, everything aches with familiarity—the shape of his mouth, the sharp line of his jaw, the contours of his chest beneath the paint.
This is the boy whose mouth I memorized in stolen glances and sleepless hours, tracing the shape of him in my mind long before I had any right to.
There’s nowhere left to run.
Not for him.
Not for me.
I lift my hand, fingers drifting toward the edge of the mask. Cool beneath my touch, smooth as I trace the curve of it. His hand closes around my wrist mid-reach—gentle, steady—but his pulse betrays him beneath my fingertips.
“You don’t have to hide from me,” I whisper.
A tremor moves through him at the sound of my voice. His shoulders drop, his grip loosens, surrender arriving in pieces. He swallows, head tipping in quiet defeat. I lift the mask away, metal and shadow falling aside to reveal the only truth I’ve ever wanted.
Jesse.
My Jesse.
His cheeks are flushed and his damp hair is in unruly waves, clinging to his forehead. And those ocean-blue eyes are enough to drown in, to confess to, to ruin myself for.
I trace the sharp line of his jaw, my fingers moving over territory I’ve memorized from a distance and never dared to touch.
His hands come up to cradle my face, unsteady.
His brow furrows, his lips part without sound, and his gaze drops to my mouth and rises again—a whole conversation happening in the silence between us.
Because this changes everything. My own pulse hammers in confirmation.
He closes the space between us, dropping his forehead to mine. “Joey, I’m sor—”
I silence him by pressing my mouth to his, and he stills before yielding to me.
The moment breaks over us like a sudden storm. His mouth is warm and certain, carrying the promise of dark skies and sleepless nights.
When we part, it’s only by inches. Our breaths mingle. His gaze sweeps over me as if he’s committing every inch to memory, now free to do so. His thumb traces my lower lip, careful, as though the touch itself holds more weight than anything urgent could.
My hands tighten in his shirt, pulling him closer. This kiss is different—no hesitation, no doubt. His fingers slip into my hair, tilting my head as if he’s always known how this was meant to unfold. I shrug the shirt from his shoulders.
He releases me long enough to slip the shirt from his arms, and his mouth finds my throat, lingering at my pulse with heated intent.
Warmth threads outward from the point of contact until I’m nothing but nerve and breath.
His hands frame my face, impossibly gentle. His gaze searches mine, unhurried, waiting—not from uncertainty, but from a care so deliberate my chest aches in response. I answer by drawing him down, letting everything I’ve held in pour into the meeting of our mouths.
He hesitates, fingers hovering over the hem of my shirt. His breath catches—the tremor in his hands telling me he’s holding himself at the edge of what we both crave, terrified of shattering something precious.
I don’t wait. I lift the fabric—an invitation. His gaze follows every movement, and when the shirt slips over my head, his hands are unsteady against my bare skin. I press closer, pressing my certainty into him with the full weight of my body against his.
He murmurs against my skin, the words blurred by closeness, unnecessary to hear, to understand.
Beautiful.
Perfect.
Mine.
He lowers me onto the couch, the weight of him settling between my legs. His mouth finds mine again, unhurried and consuming.
I pull away from the kiss, slipping my bra off with purposeful slowness, exposing my breasts to the cool air.
The chill hits immediately—a shiver of anticipation racing through me.
His gaze drops, dark and intent, drinking me in as his thumb brushes across my nipple.
My body responds instantly, skin tightening, the need coiling deep within me, sharp and urgent.
Every second, every shared breath only sharpens the hunger, the space between us stretched taut with desire.
My breath stutters, every fiber of me begging for his mouth.
His hair tumbles into his eyes as he leans down, lips tracing a path down my throat, over my chest, stopping shy of where I ache for him.
The restraint is agonizing, delicious, and I shudder beneath him, the tension held together by nothing but his control.
When his mouth finally closes over my nipple, the tension shatters.
I arch into him, a broken sound escaping me, my fingers tangling in his hair as he moves with devastating intent.
Each touch, each stroke is calculated, designed to unravel me, and soon I’m a wreck beneath him.
There’s no chance of surviving this untouched—he’s already made sure of it.
His hands settle on the waistband of my jeans, fingers curling into the denim.
He pauses, eyes locking with mine, the question silent and clear.
I lift my hips in answer, and he peels the fabric down my legs.
His touch trails up my thighs, leaving goosebumps in its wake.
When his thumbs hook into the sides of my panties, I lift toward him, eager, wanting nothing left between us.
I let my thighs fall apart for him as his mouth traces the inside of my thigh, so achingly slow the anticipation borders on painful.
Each breath pulls me deeper into this moment, leaving me suspended, every nerve straining toward where he hasn’t touched yet.
His movements are measured, savoring the tension he’s building, and I can barely hold on.
I shift beneath him, a shudder running through me, my breath stuttering as his touch teases.
“It’s okay. I want this.” He can’t stop now. I couldn’t take it.
He pushes my legs further apart, and his breath brushes against me, making every inch of my skin sensitive, electrified.
I’m already unraveling, every part of me responding to him.
The first stroke of his tongue sends a broken sound spilling from my throat.
His hands grip my hips, firm and unyielding, anchoring me in place.
He doesn’t rush. He listens to every hitch of my breath, every involuntary movement, the way my body tightens and gives at the same time. When I start to spiral, when the sensation climbs too fast, his grip steadies me.
I tangle my fingers in his hair, my whole body quaking, the pressure building until it’s too much, until I might come apart before I’m ready.
He hums against my skin. “You’re making such a mess for me.”
The words hit low and deep, my breath breaking completely as heat floods through me. I arch helplessly, a soft, fractured sound spilling out of me, and he doesn’t pull away, doesn’t let go even when I try to escape because it’s too much.
His mouth, his hands, the steady unraveling of my body—the way he attunes himself to every sound I make, listening with every part of him. Nothing else exists.
When I shatter, it surges through me—sudden and relentless—leaving me quaking beneath him, his name the only sound I can form. He holds me steady, hands unyielding and grounding, as the tremors pulse through me, until the storm fades and I can breathe once more.
He makes his way up my body, mouth finding mine. The kiss is deep and grounding, our bodies tangled together.
“Jesse,” I say into his hair.
My hands reach for his belt, urgent, as I grind into him. Even though I’ve come apart, I want him inside me so badly it’s a physical ache.
His hand captures my wrist, stopping my movements. “We can’t,” he says, his voice strained. “I don’t have a condom.” He drops his head to my chest, breathing hard, fingers digging into the leather cushions beside my head.
“It’s okay, I’m on the pill.” This is Jesse—the boy I’ve known my entire life. I trust him.
When he shakes his head and leans away, I can’t pretend it doesn’t sting, but I want him in a way that defies logic, pushes past hurt, and reaches for something reckless and undeniable.
He makes me want things I shouldn’t. Imagine things I’ve never dared before. With my whole body on fire, I guide his hand to my breasts, pushing them together. His thumbs brush over my nipples and I sigh. “Then I want you to fuck me here.”
His hands stop moving but stay covering my breasts as he stares down at me, long dark lashes partially covering his ocean-blue eyes. “Please,” I beg.
Jesse flashes a wicked grin, the kind I’ve never seen on him before, and my stomach tightens. “You’re cute, Joey,” he says.
I tilt my head. “Why is that cute?”
“Thinking you need to beg when there’s nothing I wouldn’t give you.” His voice is husky, eyelids heavy with resolve.