Page 21 of This Might Hurt

ANDREW

The popping of gravel wakes me up. I’m drenched in sweat like a second skin, slippery behind my knees and elbows.

My half-unbuttoned dress shirt clings to my damp chest as I struggle out of the duvet that I pulled over my head when I stumbled upstairs after the party.

According to the clock on the dresser that reads three forty a.m., I barely slept for an hour.

I roll onto my back, panting as my body tries to cool off, and watch my gauzy curtains stir in the humid breeze through the window.

Long beams of yellow light from car headlights slide back and forth on the wall, accompanied by crunching and revving engines.

The event staff must still be clearing away tables and chairs from the lawn.

I barely drank any alcohol, but I can’t remember anything that happened at the party besides hours of listening to rambling toasts, sitting as far as I could get from Daxton while still technically being considered next to him.

He mostly ignored me except to briefly touch my arm or thigh when we were supposed to look happy.

I kept staring down at his hands—powerful and peremptory, with dark hair on the back—and trying to get used to them.

My heart wouldn’t stop fighting to escape like a bird in a trap.

And it crawled back to him. Toward the only light I’ve seen in so long.

The pieces of that conversation come back gradually—his voice in my ear and the night air electric around me.

The texture of a piece of paper in my hand proving that I’m not completely tamed.

The rush of adrenaline and arousal so tightly joined I could never pick them apart.

I think right then I would have done anything he said, no matter how appalling, and I think he knew it.

I’ve made a really big fucking mistake. Pulling in a deep breath, I fight with my dry tongue until it starts to work. “I’m going to get the note out of his car. I’m sorry.”

Need surges down my spine at the soft, intoxicating laugh next to my ear. “Why would you do that?”

I turn my head slowly to take in Jude’s taut, naked body stretched out next to me.

I can only see one wild amber eye past the blankets, half of a grin that feels almost cruel.

I’ve forgotten absolutely nothing about him, from the ridges of his bones to the way his skin looks tan along his limbs and shoulders, then paler and more delicate around his hips and thighs.

One lazy folded knee blocks my view of his cock.

“Because I never would have done it if you hadn’t made me,” I say hoarsely, unable to pry my eyes off him.

“Oh, no.” He pushes himself onto one elbow and grins down at me, his cropped blond hair all tousled. “You did every bit of this yourself, and it turned you on.”

A shameful groan slips out of me. My dick is aching so painfully it spreads all the way up into my belly and down my thighs. Our eyes meet and hold. “Then why did you say I was good?” I whisper.

His mocking, tender smile widens. He pushes the duvet down gently to expose my hard cock jutting up, twitching with my unsteady breaths and leaking a sticky trail of precum onto the hem of my shirt. “Because you like to do bad things while I tell you you’re good.”

“Please,” I breathe, watching his long fingers play with the edge of the comforter. If he touched me now, if he said it, I would come instantly.

Then I jolt awake for real and roll onto my side, coughing and gasping. The room spins and I have to hold my breath to keep from vomiting the canapes I stuffed myself with last night as an excuse not to look at anyone.

When I glance around, trying to understand what happened, I realize it's five o’clock rather than three, the darkness replaced by a yellow-pink glow. My bed is undisturbed by any body besides my own.

But when I shift my hips, I suck in a breath at the drag of wet silk and a faint, unmistakable scent.

“Fuck.” Peeling back the waistband of my underwear, I slip two fingers inside.

It’s a fucking mess, cum cooling and drying on my belly, all down my softening shaft, matted in my pubic hair.

I wipe my hand off on my thigh, muttering expletives at myself, then stumble upright and limp into the bathroom.

A burst of cold water from the rain shower head soothes my tense, sweaty body as I scrub myself until the skin between my hips is flushed red.

I orgasm so rarely that I don’t even have the muscle memory of cleaning myself afterward.

Besides some fumbling explorations during my time at Columbia and the occasional appointment with my hand, like a maintenance check on a car, I’ve never felt safe enough in this house to even think about sex.

My body is irrelevant to me; it doesn’t protect me from pain, it doesn’t win me respect.

It only serves as a tool, a trophy, a press clipping about the progressive gay billionaire.

But now, wrapped in a cascade of chilly water and total silence, I can’t think of anything except his choked, hoarse whimpers last night.

I almost said something, when I could tell he was close, just to see if my words would push him over the edge.

“You’re fucking wrong,” I tell him now, rubbing shampoo through my pubic hair. “I never wanted this.”

And maybe that lie is my fifth point, the one that means I’m no longer a good person. I don’t know, because he’s not here to tell me.

As I towel off slowly, trying to think about nothing, I hear the unmistakable snarl of an over-tuned engine roaring to life, then fading away down the road.

Daxton’s monstrosity probably scares away every animal within a mile and runs over any that are left.

Hugging the damp towel around my shoulders like a blanket, I stare in the direction of the garage.

My chance to take back the letter was an illusion all along.

I was too busy having fucking wet dreams, and now I have to live in a reality where he’s read the stupid words I scribbled out on my lap in a back hallway.

A reality where I know nothing at all, and any future is possible.

Breakfast doesn’t begin for ninety minutes, so I dress in a slow, methodical haze, like it’s some kind of armor against the world.

I shave with a straight razor, the way my grandfather taught me, and neatly gel the auburn hair falling forward over my forehead.

After some thought, I choose a black dress shirt and tailored black jeans that are a touch too informal for a day of wedding planning and meeting Daxton’s family.

Being slightly, pointlessly rude is the only rebellion I have left.

My Patek fits snugly around my left wrist, and on my right I secure the Italian silver bracelet I got on the only normal vacation my mother and I ever had together.

It was the same trip where she took me to get my ears pierced and fitted with platinum and diamond studs, at a noisy shop in Rome where I couldn’t understand the man when he told me it was going to hurt.

I think they’re absurd, but I’ve never taken them out because afterward we ate ice creams by the Trevi Fountain and she hugged me like she actually meant it for one second.

When I’m satisfied with myself, I pick up my phone and open the unnamed number I called last night.

Get the fuck out of my dreams, I type. You haven’t done a single helpful thing for me.

He’d laugh at that, even though I’m dead serious.

He’s so obnoxious. I don’t erase the words, just close the app and slide my phone into my pocket.

Out my window I can see a hazy blue sky hanging high above the trees, promising another scorching day.

My stomach churns as I drag on a pair of black Chelsea boots and step out into the deserted hall.

For all that the outside of the house looks old-fashioned and earthy, the inside is done entirely in light cream paint and delicate, pale textiles that cradle the light from the windows.

This morning, it feels eerie as I pad to the top of the stairs and rest my shaky hand on the mahogany rail.

The clink of silver on china drifts faintly up the stairs, followed by my mother’s voice, then Colin’s.

Somewhere deeper in the house, I can hear a Scottish brogue that belongs to the distant cousins who flew in last night.

None of the visitors passing through the house this week quite know if they’re here for a wedding, a funeral, or both, but all the options promise enough entertainment to be worth a last-minute trip.

No matter how long I linger, I can’t make out Daxton’s sharp Boston drawl.

A short, full-figured woman in her fifties with a graying bun, sharp cream blouse, and black skirt bustles through the hallway below.

When she catches sight of me, her face creases into a warm, playful smile that reminds me of Jude’s.

“Good morning, Andrew. Breakfast is laid out in the morning room. I asked them to get those vegan orange scones you like.”

Even in my pitiful state, I can’t help grinning back.

“Thanks, Carla.” Now that she’s watching, I have no choice but to force my legs down the staircase.

At the bottom, we shake hands with fake solemnity while we both try not to laugh.

There really isn’t a socially acceptable way for an Innes and his employee to show affection in public, even though she’s known me since I was six months old.

All those things that mothers do in TV shows—making your favorite foods, bringing you little gifts to play with, helping with your homework—this woman did for me whenever she could spare a moment from running our estate.

“It’s good to have you back at Carrick House.” She drops her voice and glances toward the morning room. “Have you seen Mr. Pryce today? I’m supposed to be locating him.”