George is the son to parents that own a multi-million dollar eco friendly car company. Cars have never been George's favorite subject. He knows which are the most expensive on the market because of his father but he's never understood the hype.
Aft...
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"Emotions like a yoyo, but I love you that way." Acapulco Jason Derulo
George didn't want to be alone. He'd learned that much by the age of six or seven. Sitting alone on the play bench at school took a mental toll on a kid. That was the last moment George fully was himself when he thought about it. From then on he became the boy that everyone expected him to be. A popular face in school, the golden child of a company, the perfect boyfriend to Genevieve, the perfect son to imperfect parents. And it was exhausting.
Las Nevadas was the first place he didn't have to be anyone. Not a name nor a face, he could simply be. And despite everything, Dream never expected him to be anything other than himself. Maybe that's why he kept going back to him. Round and round, fight and make up, push and pull. Or maybe George was just terrified to be alone. Afraid his own thoughts would pull him deep into water, drown him.
The lights strobed above them loud as the music in his ears. Bodies writhed within the club and George was drunk on affection. Sober as could be but Dream tainted his bloodstream and inebriated his mind. His hands. God his hands. They traveled. Up, down, on his bicep, on his chest, over his neck, his hair, his heart, George leaned into him. The music was part of this battle. Push and pull and writhe and fight. George felt alive under foreign lights and touch. Fuck his touch.
Dream articulated the song with soft hums against his ear and George couldn't see straight anymore. Physically and literally. Dream pulled him back flush and George dropped his head against Dream's shoulder. He didn't know how they'd gotten here. The blond had pissed him off and kissed his neck as an apology, then he was tugged to the dance floor. Slow at first. A joke. A few feet apart. George was ready to give it up but he was pulled closer. And closer. And fuck, Dream knew how to keep him there.
"Thought you didn't dance?" Dream whispered into his ear. His sensitive lobe was taken between Dream's teeth and George tilted into it.
"I don't," he let his hands drift over his head and reached for Dream's neck. "But you're so fucking persuasive. I hate it."
"By the way you're dancing," Dream gripped his hips and spun George around. Nose to nose they inhaled the same hot air. A breadth away from a kiss, a breadth away from that line. It was like playing with fire. "Like a slut all up against me, you'd think this wasn't your first time."
George snaked his way up to Dream's ear, "what if it's not. I could be dancing up against other people just like this. What you gonna do about it, Dream?"
"Nothing." It sounded like a lie to both of them. George snickered and licked a stripe up Dream's neck. Dirty and suffocating George pulled Dream closer. And closer. It was never close enough.
"I'm better," George stated. "Then you're hookups. Admit it."
"George," Dream warned although he was too far gone in lust to actually remember what that warning meant. "Why does it matter?"
