The Sensible One (boyxboy) ✓

Chapter Eighteen

[A/N] Just a quick note to remind everyone I write these chapters in advance for my patreon. So I'm writing four chapters ahead for them. This is to remind people in case they're hoping I'll take their suggestions into account for the next chapter that's already been written.

I still felt sensitive, like an uncontrollable kid. I felt the places Lowell grabbed, kissed and pressed his fingers into, like little bruises they still hurt but in an intolerably good way, a way that made my heart rate spike. One thing I was learning quickly was that one; he had a habit of leaving marks, everywhere, and two; every single mark he left behind reminded me of the memory of how it got there, breath of the memory on the back of my head each time I touched one of the marks or saw it peaking out from under my cuff, and suddenly my cock was erect before I could distract myself, take a breath or look away.

I was practically buzzing the entire time, working with as much focus as usual but occasionally pausing to groan inwardly that I wasn't crazy enough to stay home and ask him to stay with me, stay with me in my bed. I wanted to climb onto his lap, wanted to run my hands all over him, then bury myself against his side... then get fucked into the mattress by him until my brain failed to function correctly.

He was addictive. This nineteen year old teenager, which is what he was. I was pathetic, all I could think was how much every touch burned me up inside.

I sighed as the stack of files facing down on my desk grew beside me, almost overshadowing the mug of tea Jo had set beside me while I was busy gluing my eyes to the laptop. It was a mug with a helpful map of America on it, including all it's states labelled, in case I pop over there during my tea break I suppose, and on the other side the picture of a bird of prey which I would assume was an eagle but really looked more like buzzard if I wasn't mistaken.

I sipped at it blankly while my phone vibrated for what must have been the third time this morning. That might not sound like a lot to other people who were accustomed to receiving calls all the time. I'd just witnessed Angie take two calls at once while she dug into a massive baked potato being slaughtered with a plastic spork in it's Styrofoam coffin.

For me, one call was strange, and it was usually from a close friend like Jeff or Norman, he did like to talk. But this call was coming from an unknown number, and I don't accept those, I would have blocked the number but I wasn't sure how to do that and was a little too embarrassed to ask how.

My phone started vibrating a fourth time and Michael, who was passing by and otherwise had an office to himself for the most part, glanced in and looked at me and I looked back at him as he leaned against the doorframe in his patterned tweed jacket with a mug of coffee in his hand an his dark brown hair slicked back.

"You not going to pick that up?"

I blinked, then looked at the phone. "Oh, I don't know who it is." I replied.

"Yeah?" He stared for a moment like he was trying to understand. "Normally people pick up the phone and find out."

"I..." I opened my phone, still no name, just the number. I set it back down. "It's work hours."

I scrunched up his eyebrows and laughed quickly. "I suppose it is. Trying not to turn into Angie is that it?" He asked. "Afraid you'll end up making potato soup at your desk for lunch if you get into the habit of taking calls?"

I scoffed, leaned over to see if she was still eating and was in time to see her look up and glare with a mouth full of potato. I cringed. "I mean..."