Page 51 of Hits Different

“Parker”, Brandon groans faintly. My hands are pressed against his chest, trying not to melt under the thickness of his muscle. Our lips break apart, and I blink, confused. “We can’t”.

“You expect me to believe that you don’t want this? That you haven’t been thinking about me as much as I’ve been thinking about you?”

“You know that I have”.

“Then tell me to stop and mean it”.

“I can’t”. He takes a hungry step forward and pulls me into another kiss. Our mouths fit together so damn easily. He’s controlling my tongue with his, and my body spreads invitingly from the sheer wattage of his sex appeal.

“I don’t want to. I don’t want you to ever stop”.

My erection is so hard it’s becoming painful. I grind up against him, thrusting our groins together. Our rhythm gets faster and faster as he begins to gasp for air, and my legs begin to shake. Suddenly, I realise what’s happening, what I’m doing.

We’re fucking. With what’s left of our clothes on.

“Fuck”, Brandon gasps, “We’re…”

But it’s too late. Our breathing become ragged and shallow, and overcome with ecstasy, I cry out, as his body spasms uncontrollably. We collapse on top of each other, against the wall, exhausted.

I mutter something unintelligible in his ear. Neither of us move as our chests begin breathing in sync. Rain continues to fall softly outside.

In this distance, a car door slams. An engine roars, heading for the highway. Slowly the real world starts to come back to life.

Upstairs, a light flicks on. We both freeze. A bedroom door opens. Archie calls out sleepily. “Is that you, Di Rossi?”

The silence as Brandon extracts himself from me chills me to the bone. He looks between me, and the sound of Archie’s voice, then lets himself out of the front door, not bothering to close it behind him as he disappears into the night.

Chapter 19

Crossing Lines

Brandon

Parker scoops up his t-shirt and tosses it over his shoulder. He closes the door, not realising I can still see him. I wait, as a light turns on inside his bedroom, and after a few moments—long enough for me to talk myself out of calling him—it turns off.

I make it back to my own bed, exhausted but wide awake. I replay the whole night over and over, searching for answers but only finding more questions.

It’s our last seconds together that runs through my mind loudest of all.

His voice, strangled by anger and bewilderment.Only you can do that to me.

I’ve played this scene before. I should have said something. Or done something to show him that it’s okay. That this doesn’t need to be painful. That we haven’t done anything wrong.

That it doesn’t have to be like last time.

I type a quick message:

I’ve fucked up.

A moment later, Freddie’s name flashes up on my screen. “What’s his name?”

“Why would you just assume this is about a guy?” It sounds like he’s in an airport. It’s only been a couple of weeks, but damn, I’ve missed him. “There are many areas of my life that I could have fucked up”.

“This is true. Like what?”

“My emergency parking strategy could have backfired. Or I could have dropped my phone in a swimming pool. Or exaggerated my charitable deductions on my tax return”.

“Yourtax return? Carter, have you been drinking?”

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