Wrath: A Sinful Secrets Romance, page 25
“No. The hospital?”
He nods. Then he frowns around the shower. “I don’t like it in here.”
I wrap my hand around the back of his neck. He feels cooler.
“Let’s get out.”
In the bed, he lies on his back, wide eyes clinging to me. I give him more to drink and push a pillow behind him so he can drink it without spilling. Then I take his temp: 99.8.
“I feel better,” he says, blinking up at me. He gives me a wan smile, which is so unconvincing that it makes me laugh.
I shake my head. “Stay right here. I’ve got an idea.”
“Are you gonna call?” he rasps as I turn toward his bedroom door.
When I look over my shoulder, he looks scared, which makes my throat tight. “No, angel. I’m just going down to get some ice packs.”
“Okay,” he says.
“Okay.” I cross the distance between us and kiss his forehead. “I’ll be right back.”
He nods.
He’s more stoic when I get back. I put five towel-wrapped ice packs under his arms, against his neck, over the inside of his wrist, and the last one between his legs.
“Fuckk,” he says, giving a shut-eyed laugh. “Fuckin’ cold on my junk.”
“I think it will cool you down more.”
He shuts his eyes. “It’s okay,” he whispers.
But he cups his balls and lifts them off the towel that’s around the ice pack. I open his drawer and grab an undershirt. Then I put it below his balls. When I’m done, he’s laughing, closing a hand around his semi.
“The fuck,” he murmurs, holding my eyes with his heavy-lidded ones.
“If you think I’m gonna get you off when we’re trying to cool you down…” I make a tsk sound, shaking my head, even as I’m grinning at him.
“I know,” he says, his eyes now shut. “I feel cold now,” he whispers.
“Look what I got you.” I hold his Propel bottle out, showing him the hard, pink plastic straw I swiped from the cutlery drawer downstairs. It swirls into a heart shape at the top. “Can you drink some of it?”
He does.
I set the Propel down, and for the longest moment, he just looks up into my eyes.
“I’m sorry,” he says. His voice is tight. I think he looks embarrassed.
“Don’t be sorry.” I sit on the bed and then I lie on my side, facing him. I can’t help scooting closer. Scooting close enough to kiss his cheek. It’s cooler now—less feverish.
“I fucked up,” he murmurs.
“How so?” With my fingertips, I brush his hair off of his forehead.
“Last night.”
“What happened last night?”
“Nightmare,” he says, lifting his tired eyes open. “I wanted Xanax, but I grabbed the wrong bottle,” he whispers. “Under the bed.”
Fuck, he’s falling asleep, and I want to shake him awake.
“What bottle?” I ask, trying to keep my tone light.
“Another one,” he rasps. His eyes drag open again. “Causes heat intolerance.” The words are mostly just mouthed.
His eyes shut. “So it was my fault,” he says, his voice lower.
“Ez?” I trace his brow with my fingertip, holding my breath for a long moment. “Did you get the pills you mentioned at a hospital?”
He doesn’t move—not even to breathe. Then his eyes find mine. His face is so still. “Yes.”
My heart squeezes painfully, an army of feelings galloping through my chest, pressing upward at my tight throat. I scoot closer, lay my check against his shoulder. I kiss his jaw, below his ear.
“Okay.” I nod.
Eighteen
Josh
I can’t keep from hugging him up. After a minute, I put an arm over his chest, and Ezra moves an ice pack from below his arm, putting his left arm around me. Within seconds, it seems, he’s asleep.
I slip carefully out of bed and down to the floor, peeking under his mattress for…I don’t know. The box spring cover’s hanging loose, like someone ripped it in a spot—which stands out because this bed is new. I lie on my back, shimmying under the box spring, and reach my hand in through the ripped cover.
I’m so stunned to feel a little bottle that I knock it over—which makes eight prescription bottles rain down on my face. I can’t breathe as I look at each one.
Amitriptyline. Clonazepam. Zolpidem. Lamictal. My throat stings and my eyes blur as I line them back up like I found them on one of the box spring boards.
When I stand up, I take a few slow breaths and wipe my damp eyes, feeling shocked and so damn devastated. I check his temp again, finding that it’s 98.9, and then go down for dinner.
I don’t want Mom and Carl coming up and finding him all heat exhausted, so I tell them I think he’s feeling sick, but that he told me he’d be down for dinner later. Carl seems concerned, as does my mom. I wonder as I eat if they know what he told me.
Was he in a regular hospital, or a psychiatric one? Were those all mental health meds? I wish I had photographed them. My stomach feels all tight and heavy, like I swallowed a small, lead weight.
“You’re not eating much,” Mom remarks. She reaches out and touches my forehead. “No fever at least.”
“We had a hot practice,” I offer.
“Maybe that’s what happened to Ezra. The bank clock said it hit 102 today. Do you think he got too hot?”
I shrug. “Maybe. He seemed okay when I saw him.”
God, I’m such a liar.
I hustle back upstairs and find him curled on his side, all the ice packs off him, his nape warm, his mouth moving on silent words. And then he’s moaning. Recoiling from something, and I’m on the bed, he’s in my arms. My lips are on his forehead, and his tired eyes come open.
“Miller?” he rasps.
“Hey there, angel.”
I’m holding him pretty tight. He feels limp and heavy up against me.
“How’s it going?” I kiss his forehead.
“You shouldn’t kiss me,” he groans.
“Why not?”
“Just because.”
“Because why, angel?”
“I can’t even sleep. Or eat.” I pull him closer. “I’m fucked, Miller. Really fucked up.” I feel goosebumps on his arms, and then his body does this little shudder. “Sorry. I’m not cold.” Ezra’s voice sounds so weak. “I feel better.” His eyelids lift slightly open. “Can we go to your room?” He shuts his eyes, frowning like he dreads my answer.
“Yeah, of course. Let me grab the stuff we have in here and move it. Then I’ll come back and help you up.”
He nods once, and I hurry into my room with an armful of ice packs, the thermometer, and his heart-straw drink. I scoop up a pair of sweaty underwear that I left on the floor by my bed and chuck them at the hamper as I head back toward his room.
When I open the door, I’m surprised to find him standing right there, giving me this strained smile, wincing like the bathroom light hurts his head.
“Hey there, angel.”
“Mills.” He smirks. It’s so soft this time—maybe embarrassed. “Sure you don’t mind?” he says in his quiet Ezra voice.
“If you come to my room?” I wrap an arm around his lower back. “Nah, I want you to. Come on into Millerville.”
He looks like he feels like hell, even though he tries to smile again. When we get into my room, I pull the covers down and he lies on his back. I hesitate before pulling the blankets over him.
“Lemme zap you again.”
He shuts his eyes, and I’m relieved to find his forehead is only 98.7 now.
“That’s good.” I stroke my palm over his head, and he covers my hand with his.
“Thanks, Mills.”
“I’ve got you.”
“Should I go talk to my dad first?”
It takes me a second to realize he’s worrying that if he falls asleep in here, Carl might come and knock on his door.
“What about I deliver a message for you this once? Say that you told me you’re going to sleep. That I think you’re just tired.”
“Okay.” He looks younger with his hair brushed off his forehead. I kiss him again there, tuck him in and give him a small smirk.
He smirks back.
“Rest here, Prince Peach. I’ll BRB.”
I’m smiling to myself at the silly nickname as I walk down the stairs, thinking of Ezra with his peach ball cap and that small, sunlit smile the day I passed him on the road back to school. I find Carl on the couch watching sports and play the Ezra stuff off pretty casually. Then, to give myself a reason to be downstairs, I go grab a drink.
When I get back to my room, I find Ez right where I left him, looking tired but maybe content.
“You look good in my bed,” I whisper. Dammit, but I love the sight. I just can’t help myself. Even with this big, new worry on my mind—about what might have happened to him—I still get hit with endorphins.
I hop on the bed beside him, reach into my nightstand for a small, white remote.
“Check this.” I turn on the neon light machine Ritchie and Pipsa gave me last Christmas, and for the shape, I choose hearts. For the color, blue. Small, blue hearts stream across my room, dotting the wall. I punch the key for “fade” and choose teal, so the hearts fade from royal blue to pale teal.
“You know what that is?” I ask him softly.
He shakes his head.
“Dream machine. This way if you dream, you dream of me.” I step into the light and strike what I hope is a funny pose.
He smiles, but it looks strained, which makes my chest ache again.
“You want a cool cloth for your forehead?” I ask.
Ez shakes his head.
“You want some space, or you want me up in your bidness?”
“Whatever you want.” He shuts his eyes.
“Well, I only ever want one thing,” I confess, climbing into bed beside him.
I stretch out on my side and brush a soft kiss over his cheek. “I want to make you feel good.” I scoot near him, stopping to tuck my semi up into the waist of my briefs. When he feels me moving in close, he shifts onto his side to face me, and I slide an arm gently around his waist, pulling him so close to my chest that I can’t see his face. I inhale near his hair.
“You always smell so damn good.”
He snorts softly.
“You feel sleepy?”
“I don’t want to,” he says.
“I’m gonna tire you out with random questions. You’re gonna drift off, bored as fuck and thinking about something weird like your favorite month of the year.”
“What?” he murmurs. I can hear a smile in his voice.
I stroke my fingers up his spine and kick off my game. “Justin Bieber or Ed Sheeran?”
“Bieber.” There’s a tiny silence. Then he whispers, “Maybe.” His head is bowed so I can feel his breath on my throat. I can’t see his face, which I guess is his intent.
“I’ll accept this verdict.” I rub my lips over his hair, thinking of a new question. “Beauty or power?”
After a second, he says, “Power. No contest.”
“That’s because you’re beautiful,” I whisper, smiling. “I might be tempted to go with beauty.”
He kisses my chest. “You’re perfection, Millsy.” His lips find my chin. “That little cleft.” His voice sounds hoarse.
“I don’t have a cleft in my chin.”
“Yeah you do.” He leans his forehead against my chest, right under my throat. “And you’re thicc. Love your body,” he murmurs. “Succulent.”
That makes me grin. And leads me to another question. “Aloe vera or cactus?”
“Cactus.”
“Aloe has a purpose, though,” I point out.
“So does cactus.” He yawns. “They do flowers.”
“Do they really?”
“Yeah,” he says. His voice sounds exhausted. “Think they’re yellow.”
“How did I not know that?”
“Look ’em up. I like them.”
“Of course you do. My cactus flower.” My cheeks redden at that dumb endearment, but he scoots closer to me after I say it.
“Motorcycle or unicycle?” he asks in a soft rasp.
“I’m going with uni,” I say. “It seems safer.”
I can hear the smile in his voice when he says, “Doubt it.”
“Broken bone or surgery?” I ask him pointedly, thinking of motorcycles.
“Neither.” There’s a flatness to his voice, reminding me of what he said a little while ago. What a stupid question. It occurs to me that the start of this new weirdness between us—him acting all distant—happened at the hospital the other day.
I want to ask who hurt him. Why, and how? And where can I find the motherfucker? But I don’t let myself. Not now.
“Coke or Dr. Pepper?” I try.
He laughs, a soft huff. “Blue raspberry Icee.”
I think about that day I passed him walking. The way his face looked as he swung that Icee.
“Sunshine or rain?”
“Sun.” He wraps an arm around me. “Tell me something else, Mills. Tell me about you.”
I can tell he’s close to sleep, or maybe feeling bad. His voice is weak and soft. His arm around my back feels heavy.
“I don’t know what to say about me. I’m just…here. Until next year. Then I make my escape,” I whisper, smirking.
“Then?”
“I’ll be at college,” I say.
“Where?”
“I don’t know,” I whisper. “Maybe Tuscaloosa. I could go to Auburn. UAB. There’s always out-of-state schools, too. That’s better for this,” I say softly.
“For the gay?” he murmurs.
“Yeah,” I answer.
“You wanna stay close to home?”
“I don’t know. In-state tuition is a whole lot cheaper. What about you?”
He scoots somehow even closer to me, laying his cheek against my chest. Makes my whole damn body go warm. He says, “Wherever I can get the best ride.”
“Football scholarship?” I clarify.
“Yeah.”
He lets a restless little breath out, and then rolls away from me, putting his bare back to me. “That’s an invitation.”
Fuck. My heart is hammering as I slide up behind him. I put an arm around his waist, and he folds his arm over mine.
I lean my forehead against his upper back. “Do you know how many times I wondered what this would feel like?”
“What would?” he asks, so quiet.
“Hugging you. Like…holding you. You know.” I’m awkward now. He’s gonna laugh or something.
“I’m so tired,” he murmurs. “Can you say that again?”
Fuck, I’m babbling as he tries to fall asleep.
“I’m just weird.” I laugh. “I’m saying I’ve been wanting to hug you. For a really long time,” I whisper. “Like some kind of clinger.”
“Why did you want to?”
“Just to feel you. Maybe so I can wrap you up. I’m like a caveman.” I can’t even swallow; I’m so damn scared I’m saying this shit to him.
“Do,” he whispers. “Feels good.”
A minute later, his limbs twitch, and his hand over mine falls slightly away. His head sinks into the pillow and his shoulders relax. And I’m holding him. I’m holding Ezra Masters. My stepbrother. The most infuriating guy I’ve ever met. The smirkiest and the cockiest and by far the most confusing. The most gorgeous…and I think maybe the most broken.
I’ve got him, safe with me. And I don’t ever want to let him go.
Nineteen
Josh
I wake up with Ezra wrapped around me like some kind of insane starfish. He’s behind me—he’s spooning me now—with one arm around my shoulders, one hand clutching the waistline of my boxer briefs, and one of his warm legs pushed between mine, like he wants to be sure we’re joined from head to toe.
I feel the morning wood stretching my boxer briefs before noticing there’s something pressed against the curve of my ass: his dick.
I’ve never felt it on me like this before. Never felt anyone pressed against me from behind. A swell of heat moves through my junk, and my dick hardens to the point of pain.
Shit.
I shut my eyes and try to breathe deep without making breathy noises. My gaze moves to the clock: 7:14 a.m.
I wonder when we switched places. This feels damn good—the having him around me.
Then I feel his arm move, and his hand comes down and covers my bulge.
“Mornin’,” he drawls. His low voice, right by my ear— It makes me shudder.
“Hard night?” He snickers, and I feel it in my balls. Then it’s his palm under my balls…lifting…rolling my sac.
“Been dreaming of this,” he rasps.
His fingers wrap around the base of my cock, pumping upward. My hips thrust, wanting his hand to move up and squeeze the tip of my cock.
I’m going to say so, but all that comes out is, “Aghh.”
I feel his soft laugh right before he bites the back of my neck. Then his hand slides up toward my cockhead, toying with the little notch on the underside of it. Then he’s rubbing his palm over my tip. His fingers reach back down to tease me, running lightly over my shaft.
“What do you want, Miller?”
My brain just sort of freezes, filled with exclamation marks as my throat tightens. He gives me two long, slow pumps, and then he nips at my neck again.
“Silence means that you want nothing. For the record.”
I roll over so we’re facing one another, both lying on our sides, my heart beating so fast I can barely breathe as I cup his pec. My fingers pinch his tiny nipple. “That feel like a ‘nothing’, dickface?”
We both grin when I call him that. Then his lips part and he’s panting, rubbing at me.
“I want to see you come.” His voice sounds weak and almost shaky, but his eyes are lust-glazed.
“You want me to do myself?”
"Hell no." He wraps his hand around the tip of my cock, stroking as he looks into my eyes. "I'm gonna make you come, Mills. Your job is to lie here and make my balls hurt."
