Page 104 of Twisted Needs

Only Anders could spend twenty minutes talking about a nineteenth-century novel immediately after sucking my dick. But after a while, the smile fades. Because I can’t stop thinking about what he said.

Not the queer analysis or the loneliness, but more so the creation and the responsibility aspect. The horror of looking at something you’ve spent years building and suddenly realizing it’s real. And maybe that’s unfair. Maybe I’m projecting meaning onto a conversation that was never meant to be about me. Anders has always loved stories because they give him a way to talk about the things that are difficult to put into words, but sometimes a book is just a book.

Except I can’t stop thinking about the way his hand is resting over my heart. I can’t stop thinking about him tracing my father’s handwriting. I can’t stop thinking about the years, because that’s the thing that nobody ever seems to understand when it comes to Anders. They act like one day he was a kid and the next day he wasn’t, but I watched the entire thing happen.

I watched him grow into the kind of man who could walk into any room and make it brighter simply by existing inside it. And somewhere along the way, without meaning to, I started taking pride in all of it.

The thought settles heavily in my chest. Pride is a dangerous thing. I have spent years telling myself that whatever existed between us wasn’t my fault, that neither of us chose our feelings, that life is simply messy and complicated and unfair sometimes. But lying here with him curled against me, talking about Frankenstein and creation and loneliness and responsibility, I find myself wondering where exactly the line is between loving someone and shaping them.

Wondering how much of the man in my arms would still exist if I’d never been there. Wondering how much of him I taught. How much of him I influenced. How much of him became what he is because, for better or worse, I was always somewhere nearby.

The question follows me long after Anders falls asleep, and no matter how many times I turn it over in my head, I can’t seem to find an answer that lets me rest.

CHAPTER 28

TOO EARLY, PET’KA

ANDERS

It takes me a minute to realize I’m not waking up in my own bed. For a few blissfully empty seconds, I’m suspended somewhere between sleeping and consciousness, buried beneath heavy blankets and warmth that doesn’t belong to me. The mattress feels different. Firmer. Bigger. The room smells unfamiliar, too—like the faint lingering scent of Parker’s cologne that’s somehow worked its way into every square inch of this house.

Then a strong arm tightens around my waist and everything immediately comes rushing back.

The way I completely lost my fucking mind. Parker’s monstrosity of a cock stuffing my mouth to the fucking brim. His fingers running through my hair like they belonged there.

What kind of freaked out shit was I on last night?

At some point during the night, my shirt apparently vanished. I have no memory of when that happened, or why, or who the hell removed it. All I know is that I’m currently spread across Parker’s bare chest like we’re having skin-to-skin contact for the first time in recorded human history, wearing nothing except a pair of tight briefs and whatever dignity I have left.

Not much, as it turns out.

The steady rhythm of his heartbeat thumps beneath my ear. Strange to admit how comforting it feels. For a second, I let myself listen to it. There’s a deep, overwhelming kind of relief that resides somewhere behind my ribs.

For months, every interaction with Parker has felt like standing on unstable ice and waiting to see which one of us would fall through first. And now I’m here in his bed, wrapped in his arms and listening to the sound of his heartbeat. The thought almost feels absurd, like if I move too quickly, the whole thing might disappear.

“You’re awake,” Parker murmurs, his voice rough with sleep. A second later, his lips brush against the top of my head. The simple affection of it nearly makes my heart explode.

“What time is it?” I mutter, flicking my finger through his beard.

“Eight—”

“Ugh.” I immediately bury my face back into his chest. “Too early, Petchka. Let’s go back to sleep.”

“Morning skate,” he explains, brushing the tips of his fingers down my spine. The motion sends a pleasant shiver through me. “Duty calls.”

I tilt my head up and look at him through sleepy eyes. His hair is sticking up in every direction. There’s a crease from the pillow pressed into his cheek. His eyes look tired. Like, really tired the more I look at him. Dark circles linger beneath them like he barely slept at all.

The thought passes through my mind almost as quickly as it arrives. It was probably my fault for keeping him up so late. I tend to have that effect on people…

I smile. “It’s optional.”

Parker chuckles softly. “Not for me.”

“Yes for you.” I pretend to pout. “Don’t leave me, Pet’ka. You’re so warm and…” The rest of the sentence dies when his hand slides down my body and roughly grabs my ass. I let out an offended noise. Parker just grins.

Exhaling dramatically, I shake my head. “You hate me.”

“As much as I’d love to stay in bed all day and grope you,” he murmurs, slapping my ass again, “I have to go to work.”