Chapter 9 #2
My pecs are straining against the shirt. I’ve seen sexy Halloween costumes less slutty than this. My dick is basically sticking out, and I’m not even hard.
It’s so over the top it’s ridiculous.
There’s a knock on the door. “You decent?”
“No,” I call back. “But come in anyway.”
He opens the door and takes one look at me, freezing.
His eyes go wide for half a second before his mouth presses into a thin line.
I narrow my eyes. “Don’t.”
That’s all it takes, and he breaks, a wheezing laugh escaping. His shoulders shake as he turns away like I can’t hear his muffled laughter.
“This is your fault,” I tell him, crossing my arms, which just pushes up my pecs and makes me look somehow even sluttier. The sleeves are cutting off circulation around my biceps. “You’re too short.”
“You asshole—” he starts, glancing back before breaking into laughter again. “You’re the one who’s too tall!”
I laugh at that, because you know what? He’s right. I am too tall. My toes are always dangling off the bed at night, and finding shoes that fit is nearly impossible.
It feels good to laugh with Colten, even if it’s at my expense. I knew coming here was the right choice.
“So, where are we doing this?” I ask, adjusting my arms before I lose feeling in them.
“Doing what?” Colten asks, wiping away a tear from his eye.
“PT, obviously,” I say.
His eyebrows knit together. “Right now? You don’t want to rest?”
I do. I really, really do. But I want to hang out with my best friend more, and I don’t want to ruin the good atmosphere. Colten finds comfort in the familiar, and PT is very familiar to both of us by now.
“I came all this way,” I say instead. “Why else would I travel for three days to see my personal PT?”
He exhales slowly, like he knows exactly what I’m doing and is choosing not to call me on it. “Fine. Come on, Farmboy.”
He leads me to the room that used to be his dad’s office. I remember it vaguely, as the door was almost always locked, but I got a glimpse once or twice. There was a big, heavy desk, too many papers, and an old person smell to it.
Now, it’s an exercise room, with no trace of Colten’s dad to be seen.
There’s equipment everywhere—a treadmill, weights, as well as a whole host of other things I hadn’t seen before in the house. There’s no table, though, so Colten unrolls a yoga mat on an empty part of the ground, next to a large mirror I was sure wasn’t there before.
The sun filters in through the open window, making the room light and airy. I take a deep breath, enjoying it.
“Nice setup,” I say.
He snorts as he waves a hand over the mat. “Don’t think compliments will make me go easy on you.”
I grin and drop onto the mat before stretching out my legs. It’s really, really nice to not be cooped up on a bus or bench anymore.
“Go slow,” he warns, hands hovering near my knee. “Don’t rush it.”
“I never rush anything,” I lie.
He gives me a look.
“Okay, maybe I rush some things…” I admit, grinning sheepishly at him. He sighs, but helps guide me through the usual stretches.
We fall into the familiar rhythm of breathing and pain, like nothing has changed. Like I didn’t spend three days losing my mind because he left.
I still don’t exactly understand why, but he’s acting normal now. Maybe I simply over-reacted? Maybe he just missed his mom, and the space he needed was…space with his mom?
Whatever, we’re together now. It’s fine.
I’m just so happy I didn’t lose him.
“So, how’s it been, being back here?” I ask because even though it’s only been three days, I still miss the sound of my friend’s voice.
He pauses and shifts my leg slightly before saying, “Better. Easier than it was.”
“Yeah?”
“When my dad was here…” He trails off, jaw tightening. “Something always felt off. Like he was lying, even before the actual affair.”
I grimace. “You know, the offer for that gift basket still stands.”
His mouth twitches. “Don’t you dare. I can only imagine what you would send, and we need to keep your record clear to go pro.”
“You can approve it before I send it,” I offer, which makes him snort.
He exhales, then continues, quieter, “I was angry at first with both of them for not fixing it.” His finger gently tapping against my leg. “I thought they should’ve just…made it work.”
“And now?” I probe, curious what’s going through my friend’s mind. He’s rarely in such a sharing mood, after all. I need to take advantage of it.
“Now?” he repeats, hands pushing against my leg and guiding me deeper into the stretch. “My mom’s happier. I didn’t even realize how unhappy she was before.”
I glance toward the door, thinking about the pictures and how much lighter everything feels.
“Yeah, I can see that,” I say softly.
He hesitates before he adds, “I feel guilty sometimes for wanting them to stay together in the beginning.”
I look at him and tilt my head. “Why?”
He shrugs, eyes glued to his hands. “Because I should have known how much more miserable they would’ve been.”
“Colten,” I call out.
He looks at me.
“Isn't not wanting things to change normal?” I ask, raising an eyebrow. “You remember how I was when I moved to the big city, right? You told me yourself, it’s because it was all I ever knew.” Then, with a small grin, I add, “Buses are still scary, though.”
His expression shifts, the corner of his lips curling up. It’s small, but real.
“You’re surprisingly emotionally intelligent sometimes,” he mutters, just loud enough for me to hear.
I grin. “Yeah, I get that a lot.”
He shakes his head, but he’s smiling. “You really don’t.”
“Well, I should,” I decide. He snorts, and my stomach does that weird swoopy thing again.
A natural pause fills the space between us, and I feel warm, like things are going to be okay.
Then, because I’m an idiot that doesn’t know when to stop—
“Also, your mom is hotter than ever. Do you think she’d be interested in younger guys?” I ask, grinning.
The change is immediate, like a switch flipping.
His smile disappears, and his hands go still.
“Don’t,” he warns, his voice flat. “That’s not funny, Patrick.”
Oh crap.
“I didn’t mean—” I start, trying to grasp at the crumbling pieces of our peaceful moment. “I was just—”
“It’s fine,” he cuts in, even though it's clearly not.
He turns away, not meeting my eyes as his voice goes distant and professional. “Stretch further.”
I hurt him. I hurt him again by complimenting his mom? Why do I keep messing up?
“I really am sorry…” I tell him, but he ignores me, pretending to focus strictly on my leg, pushing my knee back for a knee-to-chest stretch.
My hands grip the edges of the mat and squeeze it in frustration. He’s doing it again—pulling back and shutting down, like I’m not worth talking it out.
He just leaves me with the guilt, like I don’t get to know what I did wrong, and I don’t deserve the chance to make it better.
It hurts, an almost physical ache that far exceeds any painful stretch he’s put me in.
Fine. If that’s how he wants to play it.
I lean into the stretch halfway before stopping.
“I can’t go any further,” I lie, badly.
“Yes, you can.” He doesn’t even look at me. “If you could only do this much, not even the tiny tots team would take you.”
“Well, I need help,” I tell him, while burning a hole into the side of his head with my eyes.
He still won’t look at me, so I continue, “I’m just so sore from riding buses and sleeping in bus stations for the last three days to find you.”
A pause, then a long, frustrated sigh.
He moves back over, kneeling beside me, with his hands firm against my leg. Professional, efficient, and coolly detached.
“Just relax and breathe into it,” he says, still not looking at me. “If you—”
“I don’t feel it,” I rudely interrupt.
His hands still, his jaw ticking with annoyance. “Patrick.”
“Seriously, it’s not enough,” I say, pushing it.
His face finally snaps toward me with a sharp glare. Good.
“Fine,” he says. His grip tightens. “If you want more—”
He pushes, hard. My breath catches, a sharp, involuntary sound leaving me as he forces my leg deeper into the stretch in a way that burns all the way down to my groin.
“—Then I’ll make you feel it.”
Ahhh. That—that is definitely something. I can really feel it, but not the way I usually do.
He leans over me, one hand braced against the floor, the other keeping my leg in place. He’s close, way too close. I can’t move at all, completely stuck beneath him as my leg starts to shake.
I swallow hard as I watch him, feeling like prey caught by a predator. My body is literally in his hands.
His hair slips forward, brushing against his cheek. His eyes are dark, focused, and controlled in a way that feels like a string being pulled tighter and tighter the more I push him.
“Is that enough, yet?” he asks, voice low. “Do you need more? Or…”
The string is fraying from how tight it’s being pulled, stretched out like my leg.
“Do you want more?” he asks, watching me, his eyes narrowed.
My heart is pounding, my muscles are screaming, and—
Then I notice it, that faint, familiar glow around him.
It’s soft, warm, just like how he makes me feel. And only I can see it. For once, I’m glad of this fact.
“I want more,” I gasp.
His eyes widen before flickering from my mouth to my eyes. I lick my lips.
The string finally snaps.
We’re kissing, but it’s nothing like the first time. That one was soft, maybe even careful.
This kiss? It isn’t careful at all.
It’s all teeth and heat and frustration, spilling out between our mouths, our bodies.
He doesn’t let go of my leg; if anything, he presses me down harder, holding me in place like he wants to make sure I stay right where I am, right under him.
I let him, I don’t fight it. I don’t want to.
His mouth is hot against mine, familiar and new all at once, and I can’t get enough.
I want more. More of this, of him. I’m greedy for it, and I don’t care if it’s the spell or not because I need him like I need to breathe.