Page 23 of Only the Small Bones
He gave no indication that my concern meant anything to him, but his gaze did lower to the tumbler I held.
“It’s just a little something to help me relax.” I managed not to sound ashamed or defensive—both of which I felt to my core.
He returned his midnight eyes to mine, and it took me clenching every muscle in my body to not squirm under his intense scrutiny. Slowly, he closed the book in his hand and set it to the side, doing the same with the others on his lap before unfolding his crossed legs and dropping his bare feet to the floor. He did this while peering into me, and again I couldn’t help taking notice of his beauty.
Ryan did everything with so much passion. From the way he wrote, as though the blank page offended him, to the way he ate. Even down to the way he sometimes seemed to hate me. His scowls contained enough heat to singe the hairs off my body from across the room.
That passion gave him a sensual quality I was positive he wasn’t aware of. The more fire he displayed, the more fascinating he became. I was beginning to find myself captivated by him, and he hadn’t even spoken a word to me yet.
Speaking of which, I wanted to hear his voice more than I wanted my next breath. I had to know if his tone matched the soft appearance of his skin, and the delicacy of his cheek bones, or the exoticism of his beauty mark. I shouldn’t have been wondering about any of that, but I couldn’t help myself.
Ryan reached out, removing the tumbler from my hand, careful not to touch my fingers. He waited a few seconds—as if giving me time to object—before taking a tentative sip.
I couldn’t have objected if I wanted to. Like him, I couldn’t find my voice. He swallowed, his cheeks glowing red from the burn.
“It’s rum and coke,” I breathed, heart beating a staccato rhythm. “More rum than coke.”
Other than the sweet color spreading over him, he hadn’t flinched or winced. Perhaps being intoxicated wasn’t new to him.
He took a more generous sip before handing it back to me and licking his lips. Something deep within me clenched, and I felt an overwhelming need to apologize for it.
I needed to clear the lump forming in my throat, but that reaction would’ve exposed how he’d affected me. “I ah… I’ll let you get back to what you were doing.” My feet didn’t get the message, because I hadn’t moved.
Ryan went back to his book, flipping to the dog-eared page he’d left off at.
“The Pain and the Great One,”I read, angling my head to make out the title. “I used to love that as a kid. I never had a sibling, but I’m pretty sure if I had, I would’ve been The Pain.” It was one of the new books I’d ordered for him. I’d left them somewhere easy for him to find rather than making an announcement about it. I had a feeling he would’ve avoided them out of spite if I had.
I’d been about to leave, but then he turned the book around, pointing to a word. “Ordinary,” I said, taking a chance he wanted me to sound it out for him. “It means—”
Ryan slammed the book shut. I took it as him saying he hadn’t asked me what it meant. When he was sure I understood the rules, he opened the book again, turning to a new page and pointing to a different word.
“Pokey,” I said and stopped. This time, though, he kept his finger on the word long after. “It means slow, carefree, in a sense. Not at all moved by the demands of time.”
He looked at the word, rubbing his finger over it as if he wanted the letters to seep into his skin, never to be forgottenagain. We went through this a few more times, and I got good at knowing when to elaborate, and when to simply tell him how to sound out the word.
He picked up another book by the same author, and we continued on. I didn’t dare smile, or show my amusement in any way for fear he’d do something to shut down my blip of happiness. Like maybe burn my library to the ground. In many ways he didn’t trust me, and when it came to my rare declarations of joy, I didn’t trust him either. Joy was such a fragile thing, and he’d already proven he had the power to rob me of it at will.
After a while he yawned, stacking all the books together and placing them back on the shelf. He glanced back at me like maybe he wanted to say something, but then his eyes filled with that familiar rage again. He left without so much as a wave goodbye. I stood there wondering about his anger, wondering if I should take it personal. No, it wasn’t about me, I told myself. He’d be angry with anyone after what he must have survived. I was just lucky enough to be in his vicinity when he needed a punching bag.
I showered for the third time that day, shaving at the sink afterward, making a mental note to make an appointment with my barber. The mixed texture of my hair was starting to stick up straight in some places and coil in others.
Crawling into my enormous, empty bed, reminded me of my loneliness. If I wanted to, I could have called Xavier over, snuck him in while Ryan slept, and made love to him all night. My body craved that connection with someone, even if my heart would keep its distance throughout the whole ordeal. It had been too long, and I was starting to feel the effects of deprivation. I couldn’t bring myself to do that to Xavier, though. Things were messy enough between us as it was.
Spitting into my palm, I reached into my briefs and withdrew my cock, already hot and hard. I bit down on my cheek to stifle my moans as I worked my shaft, moving closer to the crown. Swiping up the precum with my thumb, I envisioned a tight warm body on top of me, taking me to the hilt and whispering my name. The loneliness swelled further, until my skin felt like it might burst.
Needing this to be over with, I bent my legs and spread them wide to slip a finger from my free hand into my opening, stopping at the first knuckle and coming instantly. I couldn’t even manage to get up to clean myself off. I pulled the sheet over me, letting the cotton absorb my cum.
I fell asleep with my teeth buried into my pillow, a precaution to keep from howling the name that haunted me every night now. It would always remain my dirty little secret.
The next morning, I awoke to a sheet of paper at my door. I hurried from the bed to snatch it up. It was a sketch. The most beautiful piece of artwork I’d ever seen.
It depicted a man facing the horizon, the sun exaggerated in the distance. Simple, yet no detail had been spared. Not his curls, his straight nose, nor the scowl he perpetually wore. He’d managed to capture it all, even in profile.
I backed up, falling onto the bed once the backs of my knees met the mattress. Too many things floated through my mind at once.
Ryan’s an artist.
What does this mean?
