Page 26 of Ruined

“You can fall asleep if you like. I’m here.”

“No…” His voice sounds muffled, a little embarrassed. “I mean, I won’t be able to.”

He shuffles his feet again and squirms, and the realization of what’s happening makes it impossible to breathe.

God, he’s getting hard. Just from having his head in my lap and my hands on his hair. Unthinking, I comb my fingers through his locks, fingertips stroking his scalp. He makes the sweetest, softest little sounds, and I can’t help the heat gathering between my legs. Even though I fight it, the pressure of him having his head there is impossible to ignore.

My heart beats hard and fast as he tilts his face down, slowly, slowly, and rubs his nose and cheek across the fabric of my jeans, directly over my thickening cock. I inhale a sharp breath.

“Hey.” My voice comes out shaky, and I put a hand on Oliver’s cheek and tilt his face up until he’s lying on his back, gazing up at me.

God, he’s beautiful. I’d planned to steer him off me, but my hand stays on his face, tracing the curve of his jaw. Pull away, the rational part of my brain says, but instead, I rub my thumb along the seam of his lips, and his mouth parts slightly, his tongue peeking out, pink and wet.

Pull away. Now.

My thumb slips between his lips, and his eyes flutter shut. As my thumb glides over his soft tongue, my dick gives an aching pulse, and Oliver closes his eyes, brows pinching in want.

I glance quickly at his crotch, and as expected, his pants are tented with an obvious erection. I bet he can feel mine, straining under the back of his head. Wrong. So wrong. We can’t be doing this.

“Oliver,” I say—as much of a warning to myself as it is to him.

He pops my thumb out of his mouth. “What?”

“Get up.”

He flinches and sits upright. As soon as the pressure on my dick disappears, I let out a sigh that’s equal parts loss and relief.

“Sorry,” he mumbles. He sits on his knees, still turned toward me, and I have to gather all my self-control not to pull him in by the neck and bring his mouth to mine. More than that—images flash before my eyes of all the things I want to do to him, and judging by his parted lips and half-lidded stare, he looks like he knows what I’m thinking. And he looks like he wants the same.

God, why is this happening? Why does he have these feelings for me? And why, heavens why, do I feel them too?

He reaches a hand out and squeezes my thigh, and he doesn’t have to say anything. His pleading eyes say it all.

“Oliver…” My tone isn’t quite as harsh this time, but I shake my head, and his hand falls from my thigh.

“Please,” he whispers, barely a breath.

My heart clenches. I can’t acknowledge that word. Not now. Suddenly, I need to be as far away from him as I can while still reassuring him. I get to my feet, and Oliver stays on the couch, looking up at me.

“It’s late,” I say, more to myself than to him. “And you’re sleepy. You can sleep here if you’d like.”

His eyes light up with hope. “Can I sleep in your bed?”

“No.” Just the thought of having him near me… I can’t trust myself, and that’s disturbing on its own.

He pouts. “Why not? Remember when Mom was away on a work trip? I’d sleep with you in your and Mom’s bed, so why⁠—”

“Oliver.” I say his name so loud, he jumps. “This is not like before.”

“It could be,” he whimpers.

I shake my head. “It can’t. You’re grown now, and you…” I gesture toward his legs and swallow hard.

He covers his crotch with his hands, cheeks flushing. “I’m sorry. I can’t help it.”

“It’s okay.”

“No, I’m making things weird,” he whines. “I’m sorry.”