Page 72 of Hot Mess Express
Every squeeze of my dick, an embrace of his possessive arms.
Every wave that courses through me like an electric current, his eyes as they blaze with anger at me.
What’re you running from?His stern voice, one more time.
I collapse back on the couch, spent, hand stuffed in my briefs, staring up at the whirring ceiling fan while catching my breath.
What the hell are you doing to me, Bridger?
17
BRIDGER
I don’t know if I’m getting any sleep tonight.
I turn one way on the couch and every beat of my heart feels like Anthony’s breath on my cheeks again as we kissed.
I turn the other way and I feel his weight on my lap again.
I turn onto my stomach and my steel-hard dick keeps flexing and pushing into the mattress like I’m trying to fuck a hole into it.
I shouldn’t be the answer to that guy’s sexual identity crisis. I’m not just a toy for him to yank and pull on until he’s satisfied and figured out the blaring obvious: that he likes men.
The question is, does he even likeme?
Or is it just that I’m the man who happens to be there?
Aren’t I worth more than that? Don’t I deserve someone who won’t just toss me aside because he’s freaked out?
But every time I think about his sweet blue eyes, picturing the panic that pulses in them every time he looks at me, even when he tries to hide it, I’m reeled right back into his trap.
I care about him.
I relate to his sense of loss in a way I can’t put into words. Like I’ve emotionally been to the rocky bottom he’s calling home right now. And even if it’s wrong to let myself be used, I can’t stand the thought of just leaving him to his own devices, letting the guy freak out and suffer all on his own.
Maybe it’s my sense of duty that has me hesitating every time I tell myselfno morewith that guy. I want to protect him. To make him feel good. To help him find a sense of stability in his life that he’s been lacking for who knows how long. Forever, according to Trey and Cody. Every time he’s on his feet, something sweeps by him in life and knocks him right back down.
He needs something strong to cling to, if just for a while.
Maybe something like me.
Someone dependable. Someone to confide in. Someone who’ll weather the storm of his self-discovery journey, even if it gets messy. I care about Anthony enough to endure him.
I just hope I actuallycanendure it.
Y’know, before I fuck a hole in this couch.
But the more I keep tossing and turning, opening my phone, closing it again, and stuffing my face into the pillow, I also can’t escape the fact that Anthony is sometimes too fucking much. It’s like wrangling in a hurricane, spending time with him. His mood swings. His irritability. He’s a monster one second, then kissing me tenderly on a park bench the next. I can’t keep up.
Who am I kidding, acting like I could be what he needs?
You’re driving me crazy, Anthony, even when you’re not here.
Ten minutes later, I’m upstairs. There’s still light coming from the crack under the guestroom door, so I give it a knock. A grunt from Pete tells me to come in. “Wondered if I could steal your charger,” I say, poking my head in and giving my phone a wiggle.
Pete, lounging on the bed with his own phone, swings his legs around. “Come over here, dude. I’ve been thinking.”
“I just need to charge—”
