Bruises • Luke Hemmings a.u

Eight.

Chapter Eight.

I wipe the remnants of the tears from my face. My cheeks itchy with dried cries.

I was so close to him. I wish I could be that close to him forever. It feels so natural to love him. And though I know it's wrong, and I know I probably need therapy for being in love with the man who is in love with my diseased mother, my feelings for him feel so normal. So natural, and I have no idea how to stop them.

God, what I wouldn't give to just stop them. To stop the fantasises and the wishful thinking about him. To stop comparing every other man to him. To not try and finds parts of hun in other people.

This man drives me insane.

I stand from the cold tile of his en suit and turn to look at myself in his grand mirror that sits above his marble bathroom counter.

My eyes are red and puffy, and I look like I haven't slept in days. My lip is swollen from Calum's out burst, but it's nothing that a couple days won't heal. I push my hair back with both hands, and bend until my elbows meet the counter, my forehead resting in my palms.

What am I doing?

I try to think rationally.

I feel like he was about to kiss me. Was he going to kiss me?

If we hadn't been interrupted by that ever-annoying work call of his, would I have been in his arms? Would his tongue have met mine until he could no longer take it, making him guide me towards his bed?

Between my legs throb at the thought, and I have to clench my thighs tightly together to ease the ache that yearns for him. Always yearning for him. 

It never stops. It's so fucked yo and so unhealthy, yet I never have it in me to care enough. Why don't I care?

Standing up straight, I realise where I am. Luke isn't here, and I'm alone in his bathroom, his bedroom just behind the bathroom door.

My feet follow my thoughts, and I walk into his dark bedroom, and my eyes instantly meet focus on his large bed, his black iron headboard teasing me with what could be, if the circumstances were different.

Is he the type of man that would tie me up and put me in all sorts of positions? God, I can't help but imagine my wrists being tied to it while he does ungodly things to my body.

Luke isn't here, and the realisation that I have never been in this room since he made it his own hits me.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I decide to take the opportunity to explore his space, delving into his privacy, desperate to learn more about the man that consumes my every thought.

My fingers follow the cold metal of his bed frame, and a million dirty thoughts fill my head, my imagination running wild with thoughts of Luke on top of me, the heat of his skin pressing against mine.

Next come his pillows. The Egyptian cotton is so soft, I would love to wake up with my head on his pillows, with him cuddled up to me. His body wrapped around mine. I pick up the pillow and I can't help but take a sniff.

The scent is fresh and minty and just him. Hugging the pillow close to my chest, I walk toward the huge chest of black drawers, opening the top draw, the mechanism so smooth as it glides open with my gentle pull.

Socks and boxer briefs meet my gaze, to which I quickly close the drawer. That's a little too invasive, I think to myself.

The next drawer however, contains old band shirts, on top of the neatly folded pile sits the shirt I wore the night he was drunk, when his hands glided across the sensitive skin of my upper thighs. Between my legs tingles at the mere thought of the memory.