Hush (13 page)

“I’m not in any danger,” he says finally. He’s taking risks, he knows. But he
wants
to. Now that she’s said it, he wonders if the chase, running after and trying to bottle that incredible high he gets from Wren, is part of opening those doors. Peyton has never closed herself off from anything she really wants. She spent so much of their youth being wild and unpredictable, and their home life reflected that turmoil when their parents didn’t know what to do or how to stop her.

“Maggie,” he says slowly. “I know you are saying this because you care. And I hear you. But I don’t think I can talk about it right now. I need to calm down and think about this.”

Maggie nods. Her eyes are brighter, shimmering with unshed tears. He’s not sure of their source, anger or hurt, but he doesn’t ever want to make her cry. Cam flips his hand over and opens it, wiggling his fingers in invitation. Small and warm, soft-fingered, Maggie’s hand fits perfectly in his.

“I love you too, you know,” he says.

“Oh,” Cam manages to say.
His hands are buried deep in Wren’s hair, and he tries not to pull on it while Wren’s mouth trails down; he’s already kissed all over Cam’s chest, biting and working his nipples until they’re swollen and too sensitive. Cam’s pretty sure his neck is marked up too. But there’s no part of him that cares right now, and, since Maggie and Nate know something is up, he feels less pressure to hide. Wren’s mouth is dangerously low, now, licking the vee of Cam’s pelvic muscles; his hands slowly inch Cam’s jeans down. His chin is close enough to bump the head of Cam’s cock, and it takes everything Cam has not to push Wren’s mouth to where he wants it the most.

Wren loves to tease him and has done nothing but the last few times they’ve been together, coming so close, then pulling away and forcing Cam into orgasm with barely a touch of his fingers. The last time, Wren took long minutes to lap Cam’s come from his fingers and belly without ever touching his dick. It was infuriating and intoxicating at the same time.

“You can pull my hair, you know,” Wren says with a self-satisfied smile; his eyes burn fiercely when he looks up at Cam.

“
Shit
.” Cams head thunks back against the wall.

“God, you want it so bad,” Wren murmurs, and moves his mouth down to the top of Cam’s thigh. He inhales sharply at the crease of Cam’s groin, as if Cam is something delicious, as if Wren wants to consume him. Cam feels close to hysteria.

“You said you’d know when it was too much,” Cam gasps.

“You aren’t saying no,” Wren points out, then runs one finger up Cam’s dick. It throbs heavily.

“What if I did?”

Wren stops and closes his eyes. When he opens them, it’s with a deter­mined and focused look. “I can feel it, you know?” His hands span Cam’s hips and he pushes them back until Cam is braced against the wall. “I don’t care what your mouth says, because everything inside you fucking
wants
this so much. Even the teasing.”

“God,” Cam groans loudly. He’s completely forgotten where they are. Luckily it’s a slow night at the library; he didn’t see a single person when he came in. “I’ll beg; I will, just please.”

“You could beg so beautifully if I made you,” Wren says, his voice laced with dark amusement. As if Cam is a pleasing toy, as if he isn’t writhing on the edge and so desperate he wouldn’t stop Wren if he chose to blow him in the middle of a packed stadium.

Is this dangerous
? The question reverberates heavily into his chest, long enough that even Wren must sense it, some stuttering lack of surety.

“Do you want me to stop?” Wren asks for the first time, sit­ting back on his legs where he’s kneeling on the scuffed brown linoleum.

Cam shakes his head. The fact that Wren sensed it is all the assurance he needs.

“No,” Cam says, his voice low and thready, “I want you to put your mouth on me, please, fuck,
please
—please.”

“Mmmmm,” Wren’s hand circles his dick and tugs on it lightly, quickly, leaving Cam gasping, head arched back. When he opens his eyes the fluorescent lights waver and hurt, imprinting behind his eyelids. Wren’s head is in his hands before he can think about it, his fingers pull Wren’s hair taut, and Wren moans lightly, high and broken, a cut-off sound like nothing Cam’s ever heard.

“Yes,” he breathes, because this is what he’s wanted more than any­thing: to make Wren helpless, to break him down until his body is covered in a sheen of sweat and he writhes with the plea­sure Cam gives him. It’s not much, that one little moan, but it’s more evidence of pleasure than he’s gotten from Wren before. He pulls harder and Wren’s fingers dig into the meaty flesh at the back of Cam’s thighs, pulling him closer before he finally,
finally
takes Cam into his mouth.

* * *

Cam is twitching on the
edge
of sleep when a snatch of his conver­sation with Maggie comes back to him. Despite the chill, Nate had inched the window open for fresh air. Cam can feel storms com­ing, and ahead of them March winds sweep over campus, occa­sionally gusting through the two-inch gap with a hollow, aching sound. This once sounded like loneliness to Cam—or what he under­stands now was loneliness. For years, it had just felt like some unfinished hollow place that he had filled with running, letting the rushing high of a hard run swamp it when it was at its worst.

He doesn’t feel like that so much, anymore. The cavern is filled from so many cups, pouring in a coming home to his connection with Peyton; the sweet tenderness of Maggie’s gentle hands and insistence; the laughter and simplicity of his friendship with Nate and, in the best way, with the scorching shock at every touch of Wren’s body to his.

No, the wind tonight is soothing, reminiscent but good, a reminder of growth. Still, one particularly sharp rattle brings him from the knife’s edge of sleep.
Jason
.

Fuck. Maggie had left him with no question that he ought to let Jason know something, anything. She had been completely unsympathetic to Cam’s uncertainty about how exactly he was supposed to handle the situation or what he should say, and she had a point.

“Do you think there is any way I actually knew what to say to you when I did it?” she’d pointed out, only the slightest hint of upset lacing the question.

Cam shrugged. He felt tiny and sad when he thought of how hurt she’d been, even though he knew he would never have hurt her intentionally. Being so blind for so long… well, there’s nothing he can do about it now, other than to be the best friend he can to her, and to anyone else he might have unwittingly affected.

This probably includes Jason. Cam reaches over to his night­stand, unplugs his phone and burrows under the covers with only his arms peeking out.

Are you awake?
he types, before he can overthink his approach.

You live!
comes the immediate response. Cam exhales; Jason’s playful, quick response makes him feel even shittier.

I’m sorry,
he replies.

There’s a long pause.

I’m not sure if that’s for the silence, or for what’s coming next,
Jason finally replies.

Despite his feeling terrible, Cam’s eyes had been starting to droop.
Would it help if I apologized again?

Depends on what for,
is the cryptic response.

Cam frowns.

“What the hell are you doing?” Nate’s voice pops out of the darkness, startling Cam into dropping the phone.

“Huh?” he says.

“Fuck, Cam, it’s three in the morning,” Nate doesn’t wake well at a normal hour; three a.m. when he’d been sleeping soundly isn’t any better. “Make your phone stop fucking buzzing.”

Cam switches his phone to complete silence. “Sorry,” he says. There’s no further sound from Nate other than the deepening even breaths that signal his heavy drop back into sleep.

A string of texts has come in from Jason during the exchange with Nate.

You’re a cool guy. I like you, but I get it if you weren’t into it or some­thing else happened

And I figured you’re new to this whole thing

But seriously, at least tell the next guy when you’re done

Cam bites his lip.

Maybe Maggie does have a point. Wren’s not dangerous in any way she might have meant or worried about, but Cam has to admit that he’s definitely influencing Cam’s whole life. And not all of those influences are positive.

Just sated from being with Wren, skin still sticky with the imprint of Wren’s fingertips and tongue, it’s easy for Cam to prom­ise himself a little more discipline. No more dropping classes and friends and blowing off phone calls from his mother.

I know it’s inexcusable. And stupid to apologize now. But fwiw, I am sorry
.

Jason doesn’t respond. Cam can’t lie to himself and pre­tend he’s on tenterhooks waiting for absolution over the next few days, not when his resolve to manage his life and fit Wren in is com­pletely blown to hell the next time Wren texts him. But it is a relief when Jason does text him a week later, a simple
All right
offering an acknowledgment of Cam’s apology, if not acceptance. It’s a small measure of karmic retribution, medicine he’s glad to take.

* * *

“Cam.” Maggie drops into the
chair
next to him with a mild
whoomp
sound. “What are you doing?”

His whole table is strewn with papers and books. Eyes aching, half blind from an attempt to squash as much reading into two hours as possible, Cam glances at her.

“What does it look like?”

“It looks like madness.” Maggie pokes at a haphazard stack of papers, article after article on environmental law precariously balanced.

“I have an exam today in a few,” he says, bending back to his reading, hoping she’ll get the hint.

“I’ve never seen you this stressed about a class before,” she says.

What’s given me away
? Looking down, he realizes that his shirt is buttoned wrong, and wrinkled. There is a ketchup stain on the knee of his jeans and, now that he’s surfaced, he’s pretty sure his hair must be sticking up all over the place from when he buried his hands in it while hanging his head over his books.

“I—” He closes his eyes. They’re dry and throbbing. “I’m a little behind.”

“Cam—”

He really isn’t in the mood for the warning edge in her tone. “Maggie,” he says, taking a breath so he doesn’t snap at her, “not now.”

“But—”

“Not. Now,” he says between his teeth. “You’re free to quiz me tonight or anytime today past six, okay?” He knows he deserves it; part of him recognizes that he needs it, and hopes that a lecture will wake him up from the fog Wren has him in.

Maggie isn’t pleased; her lips are tight and white. She makes a show of pulling out her phone. “I’ll pencil you in,” she snaps and leaves. Cam sighs raggedly and turns back to his books. He’s really not doing well enough in this course to go after her and apologize right now.

Suddenly his phone starts to ring, the sound muffled from wherever it’s marooned under drifts of paper. He locates it even­tually under his textbook and the notebook he had stacked under that.

For the first time since this race started, with Wren barreling faster and faster through his life, Cam turns off his phone with­out look­ing at the screen. It could be anyone, but Cam can’t risk know­ing it is Wren; even though he knows that Wren cannot actually compel him through the phone, Cam also knows there’s something so addictive about Wren that he has no faith in his power to resist.

Wren pulls the phone away
from his ear, stares at the screen where his call seems to have been dropped and frowns. He presses the call button again, but this time it goes straight to voicemail.

He doesn’t leave a message. It’s not the first time Cam’s not picked up immediately. Wren puts his phone down and forces himself to turn back to the dinner he’s throwing together, shaking the vegetables in his pan before they can burn. It’s early—only five—but it’s been a day. He’s wound tight and wonders how soon Cam will return his call; the longest he’s ever gone is about half an hour. It was totally forgivable—he’d been in the shower; he wasn’t dressed or properly dried, of course; and as soon as he’d seen the missed call, he called Wren back. The image of Cam naked and shower-wet is a powerful antidote to any negativity. Actually, that image is working for Wren right now.

Still, a glass of wine with dinner is more than welcome. The scent of ginger pork stir-fry fills his tiny kitchen. Maybe he’ll make Cam wait a little, too: sip his wine slowly and read, taking the time to savor every bite of his dinner, drawing it out and keeping Cam guessing as to when Wren might call him back.

It’s a wonderful plan,
insofar
as half of it works. Wren does enjoy his dinner and savors his wine—a lovely bottle his parents bought him on their last visit as a gift for his birthday. But Cam doesn’t call back. As the hours tick by, Wren finds himself drinking another glass to soothe himself until Cam does call; his skin feels too tight and he’s on edge. After that glass, he has another to calm him down when he starts to feel annoyed, and the last glass, the dregs of the bottle, is to help him forget because the silence from his phone feels more and more like rejection, and rejection is something Wren promised himself he’d never let another man make him feel.

Nora comes home to find him limp on the couch, covered in tortilla chip crumbs,
Cupcake Wars
blaring on the TV.

“All right,” Nora says. He ignores her; either she’ll read him or will just know; it’s pretty obvious he’s a mess. “Let’s get you to bed.”

Wren makes a face, and then scoots to make room at the couch near his head. She sighs and picks the empty bag of chips from his chest, attempting to brush the crumbs off of him and into her hand. She dumps them into the bag and settles down, pillowing his head on her lap. Wren closes his eyes. Her skirt is an incredibly soft cotton; her fingers are perfectly gentle threading through his hair. He closes his eyes; her nearness and kindness and the safety of being with someone who knows him—one of the only people he feels this safe with—brings him near to tears. He burrows a bit more.

“Do I have to talk about it?” he mumbles.

“Not if you’re not ready,” Nora says. Wren swallows the hard knot of tears in his throat and exhales, breathing deeply, slowly. He’s overreacting and can’t bring himself to stop, but at least now he doesn’t have to talk about it.

Wren wakes the next morning with a headache from the wine and a crick in his neck from sleeping on the couch. His mouth feels as if it’s been lined in cotton batting and his eyes water from the assault of sunlight pouring through the window. He sits up slowly, with one hand shading his eyes the other braced on the couch. The screen of his phone is too bright when he thumbs it open to read the time and check if he has any messages.

He doesn’t.

Jerking off in the shower
almost seems like a good idea. Even through the hangover, Wren considers it. Cam could probably not care less, but it seems like a sort of
fuck you
to do it without the rush of heat fucking Cam brings. He’d be getting off out of messed up spite, not because Cam is brought him to pleasure.