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Chapter Nineteen

Gabriel

I hardly recognize myself as I stare in the mirror after a shower. The post orgasmic high, as Storm put it, didn’t last very long, and I soon started to panic. My mother’s voice was in my head, which made everything really weird. I thought about what I did and how I did it with a man, and the panic grew out of control. I started having another panic attack, which is insane. I never have them so close together. Two in the same week is unheard of for me, but here we are.

Storm tried to help, I’ll give him that, but seeing him was triggering. I told him I was fine and needed a shower, but I could tell by the look on his face that he didn’t believe me. Still, he left me alone. I showered in cold water, and that put the panic attack at bay, but I still feel it lingering under my skin. Like the smallest thing will bring it back to the surface and eat me alive. Panic attacks suck.

Since I’m so on edge, I’m procrastinating leaving the bathroom, in fear of seeing Storm and being triggered right back into it.

All my life I avoided sex, held on to my virginity, and didn’t touch myself because that’s what I was told to do. I was taught it was something for marriage, for my wife, and only for the purpose of creating our future children. It wasn’t something used for pleasure—it was almost clinical. Makes sense coming from a doctor and a doctor’s wife.

But why did I hold on to that for so long? Why did I listen to my parents well after I had to? There is no doubt in my mind I’m the only one of my brothers who did. So why? Why did I torture myself for so long? Why did I put myself down whenever I would get hard or wake up with a mess in my pants? I don’t like the thought of it being all over me or having to change my sheets out of order, but everything else? It’s not hurting anyone. It feels amazing. Why have I been living my life like this?

Touching myself like that, though it was awkward, felt good once I quieted the nagging voice in my head. Like really good. And something about the way he watched me, male or not, made it even more intense. When I closed my eyes, it was okay, but when I saw him staring at me like he wanted to devour me? It is what made me have an orgasm. There was something in the look in his eyes that was so… primal.

I refuse to go back and forth over my sexuality. Yes, it weirds me out that Storm is a guy, only because I thought I was straight, but I guess that’s just what I was told—the way I was raised. I won’t sit here and stress over giving myself a label. I hate labels. And it’s not that I hate that Storm is a guy, it’s just confusing because it’s different from what I always thought. My sexuality isn’t the issue here, though. In fact, there shouldn’t be an issue at all—because I really want to do that again, and that’s all that should matter.

Getting my bearings, I take a deep breath and pull the door open. The moment I step out, Storm is there. It’s relieving as much as it is anxiety-inducing. But there is no panic attack.

“Can we talk?”

“I’d really rather not,” I say, ducking my head and moving toward my room.

“Please? I feel awful about what just happened.” I pause. Why does he feel awful? “I feel like I forced you into that, and I don’t like it.”

“You didn’t force me,” I say as I turn to face him.

“Are you sure? Because you’ve been upset for days, and I feel like I took advantage of you.”

I let out a heavy breath before saying, “I admit I was vulnerable after the fight with my parents, but I made a conscious choice. You didn’t force me.”

“Are you sure?” He rubs the back of his neck.

“Very.”

He nods, blowing out a breath. “Okay, cool. Thanks. I, uh… feel a little better.”

“Glad I could help.”

I give him a small smile before I turn back to my room, taking another step when he says, “What did you fight with your parents about?”

He’s being weird now. Normally I’m the weird one, but this isn’t normal for him. Something is up. What is it? Is it what happened with us? Is he going to be all weird and clingy now? Is that what guys talk about when they talk about stage five clingers? I don’t really know what that is, but I’ve heard the term a few times.

What I really want is to go to bed. I’m tired and need space to think. Though I wasn’t lying when I said he didn’t force me, I still need to process what happened because I haven’t been able to do that yet. I want to do it in the quiet and comfortability of my own room.

“They’re having an anniversary dinner, and I haven’t found a date yet.”

His brows pull together. “That’s what had you freaking out on Sunday?”

I frown. “Yeah, is that not acceptable?”

He shakes his head. “That’s not what I meant. I could go with you, you know,” he suggests.

“That would be a great idea…” He smiles brightly, as if he’s doing me a favor. “If I want to give both my parents coronaries.” That smile instantly drops into a frown and it almost makes me laugh. Almost .

“I just thought that maybe, you know, you were trying to get back at them or something.”

“What in the world would make you think that?”

I’m irritable now. I need sleep —and space.

“I overheard your conversation on the phone yesterday, and you seemed really mad at them, so I just thought…” He shrugs.

If he heard my conversation, then he heard the exact type of person they expect me to bring, which isn’t someone like Storm. I can see why he would think I wanted to get back at them, though. That conversation wasn’t my proudest moment, but I was venting. When I’m stressed, I’m not the nicest person and prefer the only person to see those parts of me are myself. When that isn’t possible, Marta is an acceptable second. She doesn’t judge me, though she is a fixer and tries to fix my problems too often. Sometimes, I just need to let it out and know someone is listening. It would be even better if they agreed and made me feel better about my thoughts, but that’s probably a big ask.

“You know what they say about people who assume.”

“I do?” he asks.

“It makes an ass out of u and me .” The confusion on his face now is kind of cute, I won’t lie. “You know, because of the spelling of the word?” I add. His grin is slow, but then he’s laughing. “Anything else?” I say. He shakes his head. “Good night then.”

“Night,” he answers, and I go into my room and shut the door.

“I didn’t hate what happened, by the way!” he calls out, and I shake my head as I go to my bed and get under the covers. His words repeat in my head, over and over and over again.

“You’re doing so good.”

It’s annoying that his improper grammar is sexy.

“Just like that.”

“You’re going to come like a good little virgin boy.”

I don’t understand how words can have such an effect on me. His voice, the tone, the way he said them… they repeat in my head, and I can’t sleep. Though it isn’t the words keeping me up, it’s the ache between my legs because I’m hard as a rock and tempted to touch myself, but I don’t have any lubrication in here and I don’t want to chafe.

I think of the last words he said to me before he went to bed.

“I didn’t hate what happened...”

Does that mean he will do it again? Or did he only do it for the money? We didn’t record what happened earlier, meaning it wasn’t for money. But the agreement was that we did it for money. I have no issues with that. I need money and maybe I am feeling a little rebellious toward my parents. They were out of line on Sunday, and the more I think about it, the more I realize how out of line they are all the time. At first, I was angry over what happened, but as usual, felt they were right in what they were saying. After my panic attack and talking to and ranting to Marta a couple of times, I got some clarity. I’m slowly coming to terms with the fact that if I want to be happy, then my parents won’t be. Neither of us has been happy with my life lately. So if they’re going to be miserable anyway, I may as well be happy, right?

Marta doesn’t talk badly about my family or my decision to keep ties with them, though she makes it known how she feels. She’s open about me taking care of myself and explaining that my family isn’t good for my mental health. I already knew this. But they’re family. Is that something you can just give up on? I was always told no; family is everything. But I’m thinking for myself for once in my life, and the more I do that, the more I realize they’re unreasonable. What I did with Storm wasn’t wrong… yet if they knew, they’d never talk to me again.

I hate the way I’m thinking about Storm on his knees in front of me. I’m annoyed by the way my hips thrust against the bed, the bit of friction I’m getting from it is enough to stave off the ache but also teasing me and sort of making it worse.

I need to come again. There is no doubt about it. It’s not that I never knew that was the case before, I just ignored it. Did what I could to make it go away, which most of the time wasn’t difficult because I didn’t know what I was missing. Now? There are too many things from earlier that won’t stop popping up in my head, making my need worse. The whole scene replays in my mind, and that alone is driving me insane.

I need more. I want more.

So I get out of bed and hope like hell that I’m not about to make a fool out of myself twice in one week.