Page 10 of Romeo vs Romeo

I didn’t move. I stared at him and the inviting shape of his lips. Thinking about it opened up some abysmal hollowness in my stomach. “You hate me,” I said.

Roman licked his lips and leaned against the bar, bending his arm and resting his elbow on the smooth counter. “The funny thing about hatred is that it’s not a repelling emotion. Love and hate are attractive forces.”

I blinked.

“Fear and disgust, now those are repelling feelings,” he elaborated, looking into my eyes, and pulled his lower lip between his teeth, biting gently before releasing it. “You don’t disgust me. And I’m definitely not afraid of you.” As he said that, he straightened a little, thrust his chin up, and looked at me with a fire blazing in his gray-green eyes.

I didn’t think I liked this guy. He wore every damning sin like some hippie wearing badges. He laughed in the face of eternal damnation with that coquettish grin that revealed dimples half an inch away from each corner of his lips. He couldn’t even be bothered to pretend he had any decency. He was everything I had never let myself be mistaken for. And yet, this burning thing I felt was not a repelling feeling at all.

Perhaps I hated him.

Perhaps I hated us both.

But if his words had been even remotely correct, then my actions could fit into the delicate logic we built to justify them.

I thrust my left leg forward, setting my beer on the counter with one hand and pressing the other hand against the soft, warm side of his waist. The touch of my skin on his sent an electric shock through me, but it didn’t make me break contact.

In a move so swift and unexpected, I stepped forward, thrusting Roman back against the brick wall. He thumped against it with his back, exhaling in a burst and grinning daringly. The flirtatious twinkle returned to his eyes.

A buzzing, whistling sound flooded my ears. My chest rose and fell with quick breaths.

My right hand returned to his bare flesh. “Is this what you like doing?” I asked in a raspy, tight voice.

Roman shot me a look of pure defiance. “Do you really want to know?” His arms were hanging at his sides, his body unmoving, but his eyes blazed. The amusement on his lips was clear as day.

My other hand went for his wrist. It was as though someone else had taken over the control of my body. It was not my idea to wrap my hand around his wrist and lift his arm above his head. It was not my idea to say, “I know what guys like you want.”

“Oh yeah?” It was a purr, no more and no less. It sent shivers straight down my spine, and when Roman lifted his free armbetween us and placed his hand on my chest, the flow of air in and out of my lungs stopped abruptly. He balled his fist with my T-shirt still in his grip. “Maybe I’ll surprise you.” As he pulled my T-shirt lower, the V neckline revealed the gold chain around my neck and the heavy golden cross resting on my bare skin. Roman’s eyes widened. “Is this what good Catholic boys are like when it gets dark outside?”

My upper lip lifted in a sneer. “Shut up.”

“You shut up,” Roman husked, releasing my T-shirt. His other hand was still trapped, but he didn’t move to free it. Instead, he stared into my eyes, a challenge I didn’t understand, and thrust his free hand down between us.

Air drained out of me the very instant when he cupped my balls. It was like a curtain closed around us and the rest of the bar. Like a cloud of smoke shielded us from curious eyes. I forgot about them all. They fell off the face of the Earth inside my awareness.

My blood redirected its flow, and my cock throbbed hard. A cry hitched inside my strangled throat, so my lips merely parted, and my eyes widened.

Roman held his hand on my balls for a moment that stretched out eternally, and when he dragged his hand up, we both knew what he found there. The corners of his lips ticked upward, his dimples emerging. I hadn’t realized how weak I was for dimples until I was gazing at his.

Sheer fury filled me. My feet burned as if I were already sinking into the bowels of Hell.

“Yeah, you want me,” Roman said, then released my cock from his hold and grabbed my hand off his waist. He dragged it over his abs, the pressure squeezing air out of him, and thrust it down to his cock. He was hard as marble, his loose jeans hooked over the bulge in his underwear.

I gathered my strength and composure for long enough to close my fist partially over his cock, my heart on the verge of breaking out of its cage of ribs, and my lungs burning as I failed to inhale a breath of fresh air.

“My place is across the street,” Roman said, pushing my hand away.

As soon as I released his other hand from my grip and stepped back from him, cold air washed over me. I could hear the beating of my heart in my eardrums. Each throbbing pulse felt like someone squeezed my brain and made my eyes bulge. But the cold sensation that spilled over the front of my body was purely the lack of Roman’s warmth.

“If you want to play, Catholic boy,” Roman teased deviously.

I leaned in, inhaling the warmth of sweetness of his scent, and brought my lips close to his ear. I was shuddering on the inside and barely holding myself together so he wouldn’t notice. “Take me there.”

A huff of laughter left his lips. “Fuck. Me.” It was a murmur that exhibited none of the reluctance or regret that his words implied. He pushed past me and grabbed my wrist, yanking me to follow.

As we marched out of the bar with a singular and clear purpose at the end of our journey, I jerked my hand back from his hold. I wanted him, yet I hated myself for wanting him. And I hated him for being so impossible to resist. He had crawled under my skin with those shameless attempts to talk to me, to flirt with me. His lack of decency and his willingness to act like a damned boy slut should have sent me far away, yet they only made me obsessed with him.

I knew what I wanted to do to him. Even if the merest glimpses of our near future were enough to send my heart into a goddamn drum solo, I knew exactly what I wanted. I knew where I wanted to put my fingers and what to do to his mouth. I couldsee myself tearing that scrappy piece of cloth he called a top and ripping his jeans down his legs.

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