Blurred Lines [BxB] COMPLETED

0.19

0.19 - Saturday 11:47 p.m.

Rhys Wyer

I'm thinking too much and not at all. My heart pounds and my head spins every time Mav leans forward to kiss me.

Don't think, I tell myself. Just don't think.

Mav's arms circle around me, caging me in, and I twist on the bed to fit against him, flat chest to flat chest, hard, smooth muscle, and oh it's so right, so good.

I want to melt against him, into him. Something sharp and overwhelming rises up in me, and I want his hands everywhere, I want his nails to scrape every sensitive part of my body, my neck, my lower back, my stomach, and I want it to happen now, but I don't have the courage to grab his hands and place them on me, my own freezing up at his waist, safely stopping at the nape of his neck or the middle of his back.

Somehow Mav gets on top of me, pressing his entire body weight on mine, warm and heavy. I shift under him, relishing in how he isn't delicate, and how his boyish stubble scrapes my clean shaven chin. I've never been so sure I like boys in my life. That thought sends my mind in a skittering panic, a crashing wave that shallows out my breath and tingles my skin.

It's almost too much, his mouth feverish against mine, his tongue stroking deeply, strong arms wrapped around my waist, and I can't breathe. I want it so badly and want it to stop simultaneously.

I press my forearm flat against his chest, practically shoving him away. Mav immediately loosens his grip, flopping to the side, eyes glazed.

"I'm sorry," I say automatically. Mav shakes his head, cheeks flushed with embarrassment.

"No, I'm sorry," Mav says, his voice hoarse. His neck burns bright red. "I've just really wanted this. I forgot that you probably haven't thought about it."

Not true. Completely and utterly not true. It's more complicated than that. I've thought about not thinking about it. I remember hours and hours spent in the shower, water pounding on my head, chanting to myself over and over don't think, don't think, don't think.

Because it's dangerous to think. Words hold more power than anything in my world.

We turn towards each other, breaths still coming out a little fast. Mav hesitantly places a hand on the sharp indent on my waist.

"Is this okay?" he asks. His thumb skims over my stomach, and it's a thousand pinpricks against my skin, sending a hot pulse through my nerves.

I can't speak, so I nod, waiting for him to do something else, needing for his hand to move quickly, yet also wanting him to take this tantalizingly slow.

His hand leaves my waist, and now it's empty and cold and I make a humiliating noise of protest but Mav doesn't seem to care, and then his fingers touch my cheek and I don't even remember what had happened a moment before.

"I didn't realize how many freckles you have," Mav says softly. The pads of his fingertips trace my cheekbones, the bridge of my nose, gliding along the slope and down across my lips.

"I hate them," I whisper, the most I've spoken this entire time. Mav scoots closer, his gaze meeting mine, and he doesn't look away, resting his hand against my cheek.

"Don't." Mav brushes the fringe of my hair back, slowly and gently. He doesn't kiss me, as if sensing that for right now I just want to be wrapped up in this, to enjoy each caress and stroke of his hands and fingers and tongue individually, separately, and truly feel the impact of each one.

"How long?" I ask, my voice trembling. Fuck. I don't know why I'm asking, except I do, and I need to know. Mav's eyelids shutter.

"Tristan's party," Mav says, and he sounds ashamed. "I know it's...not supposed to happen," Mav says, taking a deep breath to steady his voice, "but I can't help how I feel."