48. Drew

It's late, and we've been celebrating. It wasn't my idea, but Olivier insisted, and he's extremely hard to say no to. Actually, that's not true. He's easy to say no to—shout it even, but he doesn't listen, and so he gets his way pretty much all the time, as evidenced by the fact that I'm still living in New York, more than a month after I thought my time here was up, and I'm in a serious, monogamous relationship with a man. Olivier Arnaud gets what he wants.

And yet again, he's succeeded—I'm officially the new face and body for Primal—a cruelty-free hair, skin, and fragrance line for men. Keats Kelly capitalized on his connection with his advertising industry buddy, and I got the gig. A huge one. The three-year contract I signed this morning made me instantly financially solvent again.

I paid that plumber and the bathroom loan off so fucking fast, you'd think I was trying to post bond. It's a huge weight lifted, and sure, yeah, worthy of celebration.

Olivier and I don't have a lot of people we associate with these days, though. Silas is MIA, Chris is still pissed at me for cheating on Jericho—fair—and our world is small. There's Mallory, the ghostwriter, who's become like a big sister to Elodie. There's Jeremy, Olivier's smoking buddy, and often Matthew, who managed to snag my job when I quit and still thinks of Elodie as his muse.

Still, I feel like I just got off a rollercoaster. Slightly nauseated, and vaguely traumatized. I have yet to process the last few years or the feelings of rejection and abject failure that came with them. I'm not happy with myself for hurting Jericho—although she's forgiven me like all I did was forget to put the toilet seat down and not completely violate her trust in me. I can't forgive myself for it, though, and I often ruminate on how karma might make me pay for that betrayal.

Losing Olivier is not only my greatest fear—it's damn near a phobia.

None of this takes away from how obsessively in love with him I am, but it does mute any joy I might find inside what we have.

I started having panic attacks about two weeks ago, while we were waiting to hear back from Primal. The paralyzing anxiety comes in the middle of the night when Olivier is passed out from whatever I just put him through to cope with my ever-present sense of inadequacy.

I weather the panic in the privacy of the bathroom when the attacks come—the sense of impending doom, the tight chest, the tingling hands, rapid heartbeat, shortness of breath—the need to dial 9-1- on my phone and let my thumb hover over the 1 just in case this is the real deal.

But they pass. And I go back to bed and either sleep or don't.

With the outlook for the next three years looking a lot brighter, I hope I'll finally start getting better. Every single circumstance of my life has changed in a good way. Eventually, my brain will catch up, and I can enjoy what I have.

We're at the stage of the night where Matt and Elodie have disappeared, Mallory and Jeremy are arguing about Shakespeare, and Olivier and I are mentally undressing each other while we shuttle dishes and leftovers from the dining table to the kitchen.

"We should go up to the roof tonight," he says to me on one of our passes. "It's warm out."

I've never been to the roof. I nod with interest, picturing things.

He's so sexy tonight with his hair in his headband and a black t-shirt. His jeans are faded, soft, and worn. He's casual. Easy. And I love seeing his whole face—his big eyes and superior nose. His pale, aristocratic forehead.

I swear half of what I do when I'm fucking him is pull his hair back so I can see him better. As someone who's spent a lot of time staring at my own reflection, there's nothing in the world I enjoy looking at more these days than him, which says a lot about how obsessed I am.

A crash comes from Elodie's room, and we all turn in that direction, but when no one emerges bleeding, Mallory swallows the dregs of her wine and says, "I guess it's probably time to head out."

Olivier shares a look with Jeremy who stands and walks over to me. "Congratulations again. Well deserved."

I try not to wince. I don't like thinking about what I deserve. "Thank you."

He turns and calls to Olivier. "Ollie—walk me home."

Olivier shakes his head, giving me a look. "I'll be right back."

I smile and walk everyone to the door, opening it for them like a compulsion. My phone buzzes in my back pocket with a text. A high-pitched shriek from Elodie's room makes me want to poke holes in my eardrums. Those two are ridiculous, but at least they're having fun. I think.

I start the dishwasher, put several containers of leftovers in the fridge, and top off my wine before I head up to the bedroom—mainly to give Elodie and Matthew more privacy—and protect my delicate sensibilities.

My phone vibrates again, this time with a call.

I pull it out of my pocket, but when I see Peggy's name, I immediately hit reject and toss my phone on the bed. I've had a good day. She's not getting in my ear and ruining it for me. I refuse to let her.

Olivier appears at the top of the stairs, and I ask him, "What'd Jeremy want to talk about?"

My phone rings again just as he's opening his mouth to answer me. I glare at it—Peggy again—and turn back to Olivier.

"Who is it?" he asks.

"Peggy."

"Oh. There's this conversation he's been pushing me to have with you, and he wanted to ask if I'd had it yet."

I scowl. "What kind of conversation?" I can't help it, but the first thought that comes to my head is that he might want to have a threesome, and that will only happen with my cold dead body, so unless he's into necrophilia?—

"Calm down, it's not like he wants to have a threesome or anything—relax your face, Jack."

I approach Olivier and put a proprietary hand on his neck. "What does he want you to talk to me about then?"

Once again, as soon as he opens his mouth, my phone rings.

"Fuck." I let go of him, on edge, and stalk to the bed, pick up the phone, and bark, "What?"

"Drew?"

"Yes, Peggy. This is the third time you've called. It's me. What do you want?"

"Dad's in the hospital." She sniffs. "They don't think he's gonna make it this time."

The sense of impending doom?

Guess I wasn't crazy.

My stomach drops, and I force in some air. "I'm sorry."

What I mean by that is I'm sorry I yelled at her. I'm sorry for avoiding her calls. But how she takes it is typical.

"So, you're saying you're not coming home. When your father is on his deathbed? Too busy in the city trying to look pretty. Nice, Drew. Fucking perfect."

I blink in shock. Words won't form. Without thinking too much about it, I pass the phone back to Olivier who takes it and immediately states, "This is Olivier. What's going on?"

To be clear, Peggy has no idea who the fuck Olivier is. No one in my family does, but things like that don't matter to him. I don't hear much of what's said, but I do get the sense of him strong-arming the information out of my sister before he hangs up on her.

As soon as the phone is back on the bed, he's got his hands on my face. His palms are cool. I haven't moved, and I struggle to focus on his deep blue eyes. "Your father's in the hospital."

I nod. Yeah, I got that part.

"And it's not looking good."

I nod again, my hands fisted somehow in his shirt.

"You need to go home. Say goodbye."

I try to swallow. Can't quite manage it.

"Let me help you," he says.

I'm not close with my father. I'm one of five. We don't have a bad relationship; we just don't have much of one. I speak with my mom more often, and that's not all that much either.

They have their hands full with the girls and grandkids, and I rarely have anything but bad news to offer, so I tend not to call. It's not like I've done much since moving to New York I'm proud of, and I wasn't planning on coming out to them until Elodie and Olivier get their marriage annulled.

But I had planned to.

I wanted both my parents to meet him. I'd wanted him to meet them, too.

"I can get you on a flight tonight," he says.

No, No… I don't want to leave him.

"Tomorrow morning then."

Am I speaking out loud? Is he reading my thoughts?

"Drew." He strokes my face and I feel that, but the rest of my body is numb. I'm not equipped to deal with a crisis.

"Say something," he whispers.

"I'm scared."

He wraps his arms around me, pressing his chest to mine and his mouth to my neck, warming my frozen skin. "You're okay. We'll get you home."

"Not tonight."

"Okay," he says softly. "Do you need a minute?"

I squeeze him tight. "No."

He runs his hand through my hair. It's so hypnotic, I manage to synchronize my breathing to it.

But then he kisses my neck. It's chaste enough, yet my body reacts wildly. A soft moan escapes my lips, and he does it again, slower.

I know without having to think about it that I'll regret everything that's about to happen—that I'll hate myself—that I'll do the one final thing that will cement me forever as unforgivable, but the need is too profound. I can't contain it. I'm not strong enough.

"I love you," he whispers.

"I love you, too," I say, a hand unfisting and sliding beneath his shirt.

"We'll get you there," he says.

I nod, running my hand up and down his back, turning my head slightly as he does the same. Our mouths meet. His tongue in my mouth is like a drug, making me forget. Grounding me in him.

He's safe.

I'm safe here.

He lets me kiss him a minute or so before he pulls away, his gaze hesitant, reading my thoughts again, but seeing the darkness there, too. I'm so hard it hurts. I want him so badly, I'm shaking. "Baby, I need you."

His thumb brushes my lower lip, and it sends a throb through me. I shudder. "Please."

He studies me, his gaze moving from one of my eyes to the other. He licks his lips and gives me the smallest nod. He looks scared, too.

I don't want him to be scared.

Concerned I can handle, but I don't want him to think he's gonna get hurt because I can't control my own emotions. "I mean I need you. Inside me."

It clicks, I guess. It must, because his mouth is on mine again, and he's turning me around until my back is facing the bed. "I've got you," he says. "I've got you."

He's taking off my shirt, and I'm in a frenzy. Grabbing for him, groping him, losing my mind with how close he is and how much closer I want him. I palm his crotch, but he's barely hard, and I panic. "Fuck…what do you need? Stop thinking."

"I'm fine, Drew. Lie down."

"Put it in my mouth," I beg.

"Where do you want me?" he pauses to ask.

I can't have him pausing. I can't have any hesitation. I need him to break through the overwhelm, and I can't give him step-by-step instructions on how to do it—he just needs to do it. If he's the one for me, he'll figure it out, right?

Fuck… I can't breathe.

I drag his mouth back to mine, a hand on the back of his neck forcing the issue. We're on the bed now, and he's on top of me, and I'm furiously making out with him, my hands grasping his ass, my hips arching to grind my cock against his—try to get him harder, but I can't tell if it's working.

"Stop, babe. Stop," he whispers against my mouth.

I freeze everywhere. The only thing moving is my pounding dick. He takes both my hands and presses them to the bed. "I said I've got you. Be still and let me take care of you."

The demand in his tone hits the exact right note inside me—even causing my most frantic thoughts to do as he says—be still.

He kisses my chest, lifting his gaze to meet mine. "You need to come?"

"Yes."

"You think I can make you come?"

"Yeah." I'm fucking panting. I don't think it'll take much. He sits back and undoes his jeans, reaching in to pull his long, not-hard-enough cock out and give it a few strokes.

"Give me a minute, I had a lot of wine," he says.

Wine. Right. It's not me. It's not me.

"Let me suck it for you, baby." I'm not sure I have a minute. Something bad could happen. Something worse.

I was supposed to be celebrating.

"You wanna suck this cock?" he asks, still working on it.

If talking dirty helps get us there faster, I'm in. "Yeah. I want that fat cock in my mouth. I want to get it so fucking hard."

"You're not gonna try to make me come in your mouth, are you?"

"No," I swear.

"No. Because you want me to fuck you, don't you?"

"Yes. Fuck, yes, I want that. I need you inside me so fucking bad. I miss you."

He groans, throwing his head back and giving me a gorgeous view of his neck, a mess of hickeys and bruises in various stages of healing, and I'm not the one who needs to be turned on more here. My chest is tight, and my fingertips feel numb. "Olivier, if you can't do it?—"

"Drew," he snaps, loudly. "Shut the fuck up."

He lets go of his cock, and it's erect. He gives me an annoyed look and moves toward his nightstand. My panic recedes slightly. I watch as he shoves off his jeans and strips off his shirt. I keep staring at him as he lubes up his dick and squirts some more on his fingers for me.

"You gonna spread your legs for me?" he asks, eyeing my position on the bed.

Anything he wants. "Anything."

"Oh, I get an option?"

"Whatever you want," I say.

He takes less than a second to think about it. "I want your feet on the floor. I want you bent over the bed."

I'm on fucking autopilot. It takes me maybe two or three seconds to assume the position and one more second to feel his hand moving up my back, applying firm pressure between my shoulder blades until my face hits the mattress.

I grunt as precum spills from my dick to the floor. There's so much, it makes a sound like I'm pissing myself. Whatever muscles pushed it out of me continue to vibrate with arousal, and I grip the velvet comforter and growl, edged on anticipation alone. I'm sweating.

Olivier's fingertips glide from my taint to my hole on a slick slide of lube. "This was the conversation by the way," he says softly, but I don't follow. "I didn't know whether you'd ever want me to fuck you again, and he said I should talk to you about it."

"You talked to Jeremy about fucking me?"

More precum, another splatter, a dangerous clench in my groin. Something about how humiliating it is—the position I'm in—that my bottoming for Olivier is a conversation topic—I guess it's working for me. Tonight anyway. Maybe I should have him choke me and spit on me, too. Really complete the cycle.

He rubs his cock around the rim of my wide-open hole. It's back there begging for him. Starving. "I'm just trying to be a good boyfriend," he says. "You know I have no idea what I'm doing."

"Put it in me. That's the only thing you need to be doing."

"Mmm…You don't want me to stretch you out first?" That voice. Seduction and filth.

"I want you to fuck me. Just fuck me."

"You gonna come for me?" he asks, fitting his cockhead in place.

"Yes, baby."

"I like that," he murmurs before slamming into me so hard, my knees buckle, his hips smack my ass, and a sob rips from my chest, deep and wrenching and completely obliterating.

I come apart at the seams, unraveling and choking on my tears with each successive thrust.

He doesn't go easy on me. He's not gentle or tender or loving. He fucks me just like I asked him to and exactly the way I need. Like he read my fucking mind.

Again.

The thought is terrifying, but there's no opportunity for panic when I have to use all my will to stay on my feet.

He pounds and pounds, and each rough thrust brings a new emotional outburst. A scream. Another sob. A growl and a long series of pathetic whimpers.

I don't even know if it feels good. I just know he's in me, and he's wrecking me, and he's shoving everything I've kept buried deep, deep inside me out in sound waves that are louder than any sound Elodie's ever made. I burn and I break over and over again until I'm literally weeping into the covers.

Olivier takes some mercy on my unspent dick, reaching around and jerking me until I finally spill.

As the contractions of a release so fundamentally necessary work through my body, my ass clenches on him in sporadic spasms. He groans my name and fills me with one hot gush after another, his nails digging into my sides, his hair tickling my back.

When, after long minutes, he pulls out, I sink to the floor, and he follows.