Page 63 of Silver Sweet

I keep thinking about him.

And it’s fucking me up at 6 a.m. I cannot sleep.

Fuck it. I jump out of bed, grab my towel hanging on the door, and head to the shower.

Hot water pelts me in the face, and steam fogs the bathroom. I spend countless minutes doing my shower routine. Raking my fingers against my scalp, scrubbing shampoo through my hair, washing my body with soap from my neck to my feet. After I rinse the suds off, I just breathe beneath the water. Letting it pelt my neck and drip off my face.

He’s. In. My. Head.

Fuck.

Fuck.

My hand lowers to my hardening shaft, and I start stroking myself in slow, languid movements.

Not him, I coach myself.Don’t think about him.

I try to visualize favorite actors, favorite musicians. Anyone other than him. Every single time an image fills my mind, I see his emotive blue eyes, carrying fire and angst. Hisfuckingface. Lighting up like he’s about to play with a hundred matches around me.

That smirk. That arrogant,cockysmirk.

In my mind, I growl out, “You think you’re so funny,” as I stalk toward him.

“What are you going to do about it?” Tom goads with a mischievous laugh. “Because I’m not changing?—”

“Shut the fuck up.” I push him against a plaster wall. We’re heavy, hot breath.

Like at his apartment when I had him there, he doesn’t back down. He can’t back down. “Try me,” he taunts.

My hand flies to his mouth. I feel the warmth of his lips, the warmth of his ragged breath. I thread my legs between his, bearing my weight into his lean build. With my other hand, I reach for his zipper.

Tom is glaring likeyou won’t.

I will.

I will undo him. I think about shoving him to his knees and shutting him up with my cock. But I want my hand wrapped around him. So I dive my palm down his elastic waistband and stroke his hard length. Then I fist him.

His humor fades into a rough, bottled groan. His knees shift against me. He struggles to stay on his feet as I squeeze. My lips hit his ear in a deep whisper, “I will be unrelenting. Until you can’t form one fucking word outside ofplease.” I make him feel my erection.

“Fuck,” he moans against my palm. I drop my hand from his mouth to hear him groan out, “Fuck me.”

In the shower, I’m sliding my hand along my length, mimicking what I’d be doing to him. I place a hand against the tiled wall. My breathing deepening.

I cup his skull, bringing his head down to my shoulder so he can rest his forehead there. So that I can feel him spasm against my body. When he comes in my imagination, I spin him around and shove his chest hard against the wall. I yank down his jeans with his boxer-briefs. As soon as I imagine gripping his ass and slipping inside him, I jerk forward and release into the shower.

A knotted groan tries to scrape out of my burning throat. My abs flex, and I milk my arousal with two final strokes. So much cum. Too much. How fucking pent-up had I been?

My chest rises and falls heavily as the adrenaline and dopamine slowly recede. I squeeze my eyes closed and guilt crawls across my skin.

“Fuck,” I curse and slam a fist against the tile wall. Tom admitting he’s masturbated tomedoesn’t help the situation. I should be above this.

I should know better.

I’m aware how bad this could go.

It didn’t even make me tired. Not that I thought it would. Masturbating has never helped me sleep. I also hate that I just proved Tom right. He’s all I can think about. He’s like a poison I drank, and it’s altered my DNA. I don’t know how to rid myself of my new genetic code.

It honestly feels like I belong to The Carraways in body and fucked-up soul—and it’s only been a fuckingweek!