Page 13 of Brushed and Buried
The thing was, back then, I’d heard the comments. The casual cruelty that followed guys like Adrian around like a shadow.
“Theater fags,” Jake Patterson used to sneer in the locker room, loud enough for everyone to hear. “Probably all queers.”
Tommy Wilkins would laugh, nodding along. “Good thing we got real sports. Keeps us straight.”
Back then, it didn’t bother me much. I was eighteen, stupid, and I thought I could handle their shit. I thought their words couldn’t touch me. But now I understand what thosecomments really meant, the cost of being seen, of being caught wanting the wrong thing.
I drag both hands down my face, pressing hard against my eyes until sparks flare. It doesn’t erase him.
The memories will not quit. Adrian, as he was tonight, sprawled out and flushed, sweat slicking his skin, his voice breaking loose in those raw, unrestrained sounds that ignite something primal in me. The way his eyes tried to find mine after I touched him, like he never expected me of all people. And worse than that, the way the others stared, caught in something they were not meant to see, as if they glimpsed the truth I have buried for years.
My body betrays me before I can fight it, blood surging hot, my cock thick and straining against my pants. Anger rises sharp in my chest as I swear under my breath, pressing my palm down hard against the ache as if pressure alone can choke it out. But the more I fight it, the more relentless it becomes, until the heat is unbearable and my hand moves on instinct, shoving the pants down, wrapping tight around myself, stroking with a punishing pace.
This is not for pleasure; it is for control, a way to burn him out of me and scrape him from the inside of my skull so I can prove I do not need him. Every pull becomes an act of defiance, a denial and a prayer that by sheer force I can grind his face, his voice, and the feel of him out of my body. I tell myself it’s fury, that it’s disgust, a kind of retribution for how he reduces me tothis, to nothing but nerve endings and weakness, a man who can only think with his cock. But my body does not care. Every shudder of it tunes only to him and to the memory I cannot erase.
The memories come like a flood I cannot outrun. Adrian laughing backstage, paint smeared across his cheek, sawdust in his hair, always too close. And tonight, Christ, Adrian arching under my hand, flushed and shameless, his voice breaking open when he comes because of me. That sound claws at me, digs under my skin, leaves me raw.
And then the worst thought hits me, the one I have been running from all night.
Maybe I like watching. Him. With them.
The idea makes me sick, but I can’t deny the way my cock hardened when I saw him like that. I can’t pretend I didn’t feel a vicious satisfaction when I was the one to push him over the edge, to make him come apart while they watched. It was like I’d claimed something, a marked territory.
Christ, what is wrong with me?
My strokes turn vicious, rough and punishing, my fist dragging hard over my cock, every pull a curse I cannot spit loud enough. My breath tears out ragged, hips jerking into my hand as if I hate myself for how much I need it.
“Fuck…fuck,” I mutter, broken and helpless, as my whole body winds tighter, every muscle straining as if I am trying to hold back a freight train. I grit my teeth so hard my skull hurts, jacking myself faster and harder, knuckles white around my cock. Heat builds low, brutal and unbearable, until it snaps. Violent and merciless, my orgasm slams through me like a blindside hit.
I double forward, a guttural groan tearing out of me as I spill hot and messy across my stomach, my fist still pumping even as my cock jerks in my grip, cum slicking my hand, sliding between my fingers. I cannot stop and let go, not until I wring every last drop out, not until the overstimulation bites so hard it feels like punishment.
When it finally breaks, I sag back against the mattress. My hand trembles, my cock still twitching, aching even in the aftermath.
And then the shame hits, heavy and choking, worse than any tackle or loss. It’s the shame of giving in, of needing it, of showing with every movement that Adrian Callahan still owns me. I curse softly and press the back of my arm to my stomach, as if I could erase it, erase him, but it’s too late. He’s already under my skin, inside my head, and in the mess cooling across me.
I wipe myself clean with the hem of my discarded shirt and toss it aside. My hand shakes when I drag it through my hair. I hate that it feels good, that it’s better because of him, that his voice still echoes in my head and won’t fade.
I swear I’ll tear it down brick by brick until nothing tempts me. I won’t let Adrian crack me open again.
I shove my face into the pillow as if I can smother the thought out of me. But sleep never comes.
5
Adrian
The sun is high and merciless, but not cruel. It’s the kind of heat that presses against your skin without suffocating, softened by the lazy ocean breeze. The late morning light blazes down with that perfect intensity that makes mimosas taste better and conversation flow easier. Sand stings between my toes when I kick off my flip-flops and follow the trail of tanned bodies heading toward the rented cabanas.
I managed to stumble back into the room I share with Holly sometime last night, half-expecting her to pounce on me for every filthy detail of how I made it through a night surrounded by gorgeous, half-drunk men. Instead, she was already asleep and only mumbled something into her pillow before rolling over on her bed, which I decided to count as mercy.
My phone buzzes under the pillow; no doubt it’s my artist manager Matheo checking in again, chasing updates, and reminding me about the gallery deadline. I let it go unanswered.This time, I refuse to feel the pressure, not here, not today, and not in a place this beautiful.
Now, with the late morning sun blazing down and the beach calling, my stomach twists. I’m not sure I want to face them all again. After all the teasing, grinding, and the way I let myself blur into the act, I feel like an intruder in their little circle. And with Vince in this same beach resort, silent and impossible to ignore, the idea of sliding back into their orbit feels dangerous.
Still, if there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s faking it. Today, I fake it until I believe it myself.
By the time I catch up, the full cast has assembled. Groomsmen, bridesmaids, a scattering of towels, coolers stuffed with drinks, and the unmistakable aura of people still buzzing from the previous night’s chaos. The late morning crowd is in full swing, the perfect time for lazy lounging.
Vince isn’t there yet. Part of me wonders how he’ll react after last night, and the thought makes my stomach tighten. I should be glad he hasn’t come down yet, but the waiting only makes me restless.
