Page 32 of Antidote

A girl.

Malia.

My stomach drops, and I get up to turn off the light. I’m not going back out there tonight, especially not to watch him purposely be all over her just to hurt me. So I guess I’m heading to sleep. Or as close to sleep as possible with the commotion coming from next door.

Even if I can’t see him, he’s still putting on a fucking show for me.

I can hear the way he’s slamming her against the door, probably with her legs wrapped around his waist. Her giggles say a lot, like maybe he doesn’t usually act this way with her. It’s a shame, because goddamn is he hot when he does it. She’s probably melting into a fucking puddle, just like I once had with him.

Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath.

“Take it off, Malia,” Hunter growls. “Let me see those pretty little tits.”

Fuck. You. Hunter.

More commotion.

The bed creaking.

And then a fist slams against the wall.

I can literally imagine his body under me, all lines and hard edges, grabbing onto my hips and rubbing me over his length. The way his eyes sparkled in the darkness when I brushed my finger under the head of his dick—the way his mouth always opened on a gasp when I took him to the back of my throat…

“Yes.” Hunter groans. “Just like that.”

I flinch, tears stinging the back of my eyes. I know he’s doing it on purpose, and I shouldn’t let it bother me, but this shit has my heart splintering into a tiny million pieces. I should hate him as he hates me, but even after this, I can’t.

My little infatuation hasn’t died yet—but I’m determined to change that. I’ll fuck my way through college if that’s what it takes to kill it off. And I know for a fact he hates me enough to not care about what I do.

“You like that, babe?” he asks Malia, and I hear her moan her confirmation, just like I once did with him.

“You like that, baby?” he whispers, tightening his grip around our cocks and brushing his thumb over the little nerve under the head on the upstroke.

I moan and nod at the same time, “F-f-fuck, Hunt.” His mouth opens on a gasp, and his breathing turns ragged. I know he’s about to— “I’m gonna come,” I whimper. “I’m coming.”

I can’t do this.

Turning over in bed, I put my pillow over my head and close my eyes. Then, I cry. Seeing as that’s all I have left to do. And when no more tears flow out, my body shakes with silent sobs anyway.

I wish I was high.

For all of five seconds, I consider going into Oliver’s room before I close the bathroom door behind me. It would be too easy to jerk off in the silence of his room while he sleeps. It would be even easier to come while staring at his pretty face. It would be hot as hell to rub my cum all over his lips and have him wonder what happened in the morning, but I know I can’t give in to those thoughts.

I’m supposed to hate him.

And I do.

So why am I wrapping my fist around my dick and tugging? Why am I imagining his dick in my fist instead? Why am I thinking of his own hand wrapped around my length?

I inhale slowly, trying to get my breathing under control.

The fact that I can’t come with Malia is annoying. I haven’t been able to come with her in months, not even to thoughts of Oliver. She just feels…wrong. Sometimes, I pretend to finish so I don’t have to look at her disappointed face—like it’s all her fault. I know she’s putting herself down over it, yet I just can’t bring myself to tell her the truth. That I’m not into her. That this has all been an act. But I can’t do that because then it would mean sacrificing my image—the one I have worked so hard to uphold.

So I pretend.

I pretend to be the perfect boyfriend. I work hard to take attention off myself by giving it all to her. I ensure she’s satisfied even if I’m not, so she never doubts me. But lately, it’s getting more difficult to hide my reality.

Tonight, she noticed I couldn’t come. I don’t know how she knew, even after I pretended to. I could see it in her eyes. But then she fell asleep, and all I could think about was blaming Oliver. Even though his sobs should’ve been an aphrodisiac, they made me feel like a piece of shit. In the moment, it felt right to rub the whole situation in his face. How I had moved on, how I could be just fine without him. How I could prove I’m into women. Even though I’m so clearly not—but I can live in my delusion. If only for a little longer.

---