You Stress Me Out (BoyxBoy)

YSMO Chapter Ten

Note: Just to recap: bright screen, italics, sex scenes, corporate office, Hell. Okay good talk, glad we could touch base real quick! Continue!

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Chase is the type to run.

I haven't known him for long really, but even I can tell when someone isn't the staying type. Or rather, I'm more likely than not the most qualified person to pick up on such a thing. That's my problem. I know too much. I think too much. With him, it somehow manages to become the opposite. I don't think enough.

I see him, and I lose my reasoning, my years of knowledge and cultivated caution. It all flies out the window, and I don't know how to stop it. I see him, and I forget everything else, everything I should hold onto. Everything I need to hold onto.

I thought if I slept with him it would change. I'd be able to keep my head above water, and it would end. I'd hold him and my curiosity would go away, vanish even. It'd be like it was never there at all.

Somehow, it isn't like that this time. It's not going to plan. Before, if I wanted something, truly and desperately wanted to have or possess it, then the feelings would fade. I'd get it – whether that be money, cars, people, whatever – and the thrill would be gone, the desire nonexistent. It would all turn dull and lifeless, unexciting.

Something has definitely changed though. I want to keep touching him, but it isn't like before. I don't want to just pin him down and fuck him. I want to press my fingers to his skin and map out every minute detail until I could find my way back to him even without my sight. Without even thinking about it, about what I'm doing, I keep pulling him closer. And each and every time it feels like I'm losing myself. I'm forgetting, and it's terrible and it's great and it is not at all supposed to happen. I want to keep pulling him closer, to drag him right under and keep him there.

He smiles down at me, his unevenly cut bangs curling under his eyebrows, his blue eyes cat-like in their acute awareness, their focus sharp and stunning. He's acting playful, but there's a seriousness lurking beneath that is all too real and final. I can't help but want to delve in further, to be the one asking prying questions. I want to know about his adoptive parents. I want to ask about the redacted statements in his file. I want to ask why he becomes so cold and calculating when in danger. I want to know him, backwards and forwards, even with my eyes closed. And I want him to be the one to tell me.

He hovers his lips above mine, and I realize I'm going to do it again. As many times as he'll let me, I will keep coming back to him.

"Do you love me?"

Chase is the type to run.

"No," I tell him, and he kisses me like it's the answer he was waiting for, the one he wants to hear. I'm not entirely sure if I mean it this time. I have been loved more times and more often than I care to think of, but I am not convinced I have ever loved someone. Hell, I'm not even sure if I can love at this point. With him though, for him, I feel . . . different.

The thought that he wouldn't accept me, would push me away and deny me if I'd answered differently sparks an anger inside me I can't rationalize. My grip on him tightens, my urge to fuck him absolutely brainless flaring in my chest. I kiss him punishingly hard, try to ease the emotions inside me by proving to myself that he's here. I still have him.

Chase makes a soft sound in the back of his throat, his body rocking forward, hips tilted into me. I thrust against him, and he visibly melts, simpering with need, clinging to my shoulders.

Do you love me?

My hands seize onto his thighs, yank him into the upward grind of my hips. I need in. The seething anger in my chest, the desire to monopolize and have him, they're churning inside me, demanding I remind him that he's mine. My fingers hook into his shorts, my body tilting back as he works himself against me on his own. I rub the thin silky fabric between my fingertips. This is what he chose? To block me?