The Delivery Boy(boyxboy)

Chapter 8: Hotel Rooms and Pizza Boxes.

Your man on the road, he doin' promo
You said, "Keep our business on the low-low"
I'm just tryna get you out the friend zone
Cause you look even better than the photos
I can't find your house, send me the info
Drivin' through the gated residential
Found out I was comin', sent your friends home
Keep on tryna hide it but your friends know

I only call you when it's half past five
The only time that I'll be by your side
I only love it when you touch me, not feel me
When I'm fucked up, that's the real me
When I'm fucked up, that's the real me, yeah
I only fuck you when it's half past five
The only time I'd ever call you mine
I only love it when you touch me, not feel me
When I'm fucked up, that's the real me
When I'm fucked up, that's the real me, babe

-

Xavier

Bright sunlight poured in through the window and stung my skin when I woke up, and I lazily rubbed my eyes, trying to regain my vision. Even though I had slept considerably peacefully, I found my muscles to be aching vigorously as I sat up straight and felt around for my phone.

Instead, my hand came in contact with human skin.

Memories of the previous night flooded my head, and all of a sudden, I didn't know what to feel.

All I could recall were those rough, animalistic kisses, those prying hands which searched for secrets hidden under the skin, those lips which left such dark love bites that they were no less than bruises, those hips which thrust so violently and the moans which came so loudly, the claw marks which hurt so badly, the hearts that ached so emptily.

When Scarlett and I touched each other, it was almost as if we were trying to hurt each other. Violent intimacy; it was our only means of communication. We could only love each other when we were hurting each other. We could only stand each other, when both of us knew that we were destroying each other, and we were enjoying it.

Our sex wasn't ever about the 'love.' It was always about power. It was always about who hurt the other person the most, without using any words.

I hated it. I hated touching her. I hated touching her with a burning passion. I hated each and every bit of myself when I touched her. After I had done it, after I had committed the heinous crime of touching her, I felt like tearing my skin off. I felt like I had caught some sort of contagious disease, and no matter how many showers I took, no matter how hard I scrubbed, no matter how many clothes I changed; the feeling, that disgusting, repulsive, hollow feeling would never wither off my skin. It was as if she had completely tainted me, my body, my heart, my soul; and I couldn't get her off of me. I hated nothing more in the world than I hated touching her.

But when was a monster, not a monster? Oh, when you loved it.

And oh, how I loved it. I loved it with a burning passion. I loved the way she kissed me; the wild, untamed, unadulterated, sinful meeting of two lips that wanted nothing more than to feel alive, of two lips that craved the thrill, of two lips that craved the danger, of two lips that craved not the love, but oh, the power. Oh, oh, oh, the power. I loved the way the way she took off my clothes, I loved the way her hands roamed my skin, tainting it with all those hateful things she wanted to say. I loved the way she bit me, the way she carved 'love bites' on my skin, the way her teeth nipped at the flesh as if she wanted to tear if off. I loved the way she looked at me, I loved the way that her burning gaze sunk deep inside of me, the way her smoldering eyes pulled me in and the way her claw marks made me feel more so much pain, I wanted to cry. I loved nothing more in the world than I loved touching her.