13. Ryan

You can have whatever you want from me.

Mouth, hands, ass.

It’s been days, and the words still ring in my ears. Interrupting my thoughts, breaking my focus. Torturing my nights.

Mouth, hands, ass.

It’s yours.

The thought of so much as touching any part of Miller’s body without being paid for it leaves me dangerously inflamed. Dangerously afraid. Afraid for real because I don’t need to try it to know what it would be like. I know. It’ll be heaven and hell wrapped in smooth skin. Intoxicating. In fact, I’ve started trying hard not to breathe in when he’s close because I know what he is. A drug. A chemical reaction that causes a nuclear dopamine surge. A full-blown addiction waiting to take hold.

I have no idea how to explain what’s happened between us. Even to myself. Even though I’ve been right there, front row, every time. I don’t know how to explain it or organize my thoughts about it. I’ve strictly forbidden myself to think about taking anything other than money from him. That’s more than bad enough. It’s the last thing I ever thought I’d find myself doing, but I’ve already proved I can’t say no. There has to be a line though. I can’t take anything else. I can’t even think of any part of my body entering his. There’s no possible way I can do that.

I’d never recover.

There are only eight more weeks of the semester. I just have to keep my shit together, be professional, and stop thinking about him.

It’s hard not to though. He’s everywhere. Not just in our room. I see him everywhere. Seriously, I’m going so fucking crazy that yesterday I thought I saw him in the library.

Miller MacAvoy in the library. Can you imagine?

Wherever I look, I see him, whether he’s there or not. Laughing in the quad with his friends. A fist pump and a smile for Trip in lieu of hello, and a little slap on the ass for Dean as he heads to a lecture. A golden glimmer as the sun catches the highlights in his hair. A cocky up-nod when he sees me in the cafeteria, the icy blast of a steel gaze slicing through my clothes, leaving me naked. A slow, satisfied smile that doesn’t leave his face for hours after I’ve had his dick in my mouth. I see that smile every time I close my eyes. I see it in lectures. At Pepe’s. When I’m asleep.

Why the fuck does he have to look so fucking happy when he has sex?

And why does he have to look so beautiful when he’s happy?

I’m doing my best to keep my head on straight. Well, not straight exactly, but you know what I mean. I know who Miller is. Temptation. Trouble. A pretty smile designed to lure you in. I know people like him better than I know myself. I made a vow to myself that I’d never trust anyone like him again. And I won’t.

I brace myself and open the door to our room. He’s on his bed, shirtless as usual, and he pulls himself up by his core, causing deep lines to splinter down his torso.

Damn.

Low-hanging fruit never looked so good.

The good news is I’ve managed to pay for the repairs to my truck, and I’ve paid off a set of badly needed new front tires.

The bad news is my throat is sore, and I haven’t been able to taste anything other than Miller fucking MacAvoy for forty-five minutes. My lips are tingling, and he’s talking incessantly.

“…just one thing, then I’ll go to sleep.”

“Fine, but make it quick.”

“Okay,” he hums softly, the way he does when he’s thinking or plotting. “What kind of music do you like?”

He’s already covered food, movies, and a plethora of other things I’d rather he didn’t know about me.

“I like weird stuff. Old stuff. Not cool stuff. Leonard Cohen and Bob Dylan, that kind of thing.”

“No way, I love Leonard Cohen.”

“You do not.”

“Do too.”

“Fine, name one song by him.”

“Um, ‘So Long, Marianne, ‘Sisters of Mercy,’ ‘Famous Blue Raincoat,’ ‘Chelsea Hote’…”

“Yeah, yeah, okay, fine, I get it.”

“Why Cohen? Your mom a fan?”

“No, my dad. He plays him on Saturdays when he washes my mom’s car for her. You?”

“Uh, my grandma. My folks used to send me to her place when things got bad between them, so I was there a lot growing up. She had this old CD player in the kitchen, and she loved playing his stuff. I was always trying to get her onto Spotify, but she wouldn’t have it. Said she didn’t know how she’d find her music if she couldn’t see it.” He laughs. Not his usual laugh. A softer sound that sends a chill down my spine. “What else?” he asks.

“I dunno. Random stuff. There’s this guy on Instagram who shreds on the guitar, and I kind of like that.”

“The guy or the guitar?”

I smile, but only because it’s pitch dark, and I know for sure he can’t see. “Both, I guess.”

He laughs again, his usual laugh. “Been there.”

Obviously, I’d never admit it because I’m talking to Miller, but it feels kind of amazing to say it aloud to someone who feels the same way.