Forsaken Desires (The Deepest Desires 2)

chapter six

Knox

Making it to the fields a few minutes after six, I head to the bleachers where I know I’ll find him. I’m questioning whether coming here was a good idea or not, but it’s too late to back out now.

Seeing him before he notices me, I take him in for a moment. He’s kicked back with his feet up on the seats in front of him. He’s wearing a black Batman beanie that hides all his hair, a white WSU hoodie that fits snug over his wide shoulders, black joggers, and black-on-black checkered van slip-ons.

Palms suddenly sweating, heart rate picking up, I continue to walk across the field toward the bleachers. Looking up from his phone when I’m about twenty feet away, a grin slides across his face.

“Didn’t think you’d actually come, Finny,” he admits, pulling the unopened joint from his pocket.

“Why wouldn’t I come?” I scoff. “And what did I tell you about calling me that?”

“It’s cute that you think you can tell me what to do,” he mutters, sparking up.

Taking a seat next to him, I scoff. “You’re fucking annoying, you know that?”

“Likewise.” His smug ass winks at me as smoke billows around him.

Inhaling deeply, he passes it to me, watching me closely out of the corner of his eye.

Fruity, earthy smoke fills my lungs, and I feel myself instantly relax. Fuck, I needed this. I didn’t realize how on edge I’ve been until this very moment. Weed has always helped quiet my mind, mellow me out.

As if reading my damn mind, Aston takes the joint from me and says, “I don’t know about you, but this shit helps chill me out, tame the anxiety, and quiet all the noise in my head.”

Slightly taken aback that he casually admitted that to me, allowing himself to be vulnerable, I remain quiet while I think about how we actually have something in common. I’ve dealt with anxiety for as long as I can remember, stemming from my father, I’m sure of it, and nothing has been able to calm it quite like smoking can.

I don’t talk to anyone about my anxiety, not even Weston or Branson. The idea of baring myself to anybody, even those closest to me, makes my skin crawl. Nobody knows about anything my dad has put me through over the years, or what it’s done to my mind. I refuse to leave myself open and vulnerable to anyone again.

Continuing to puff and pass the joint until it’s gone, the buzzing, numb feeling of the pot is starting to take over my mind and body, and I relish in it.

At some point, Aston turns on music from his phone and lies down. Everything We Need by A Day to Remember starts playing, and I lie down on the bleachers too, closing my eyes and letting myself feel the music. I could easily stay here for hours doing just this. Weed and music—better than any conventional therapy out there.

I have no idea how long we lie here together, simply existing and listening to song after song, but it’s long enough for the winter night chill to get to me, and I find myself shivering.

Sitting up and clearing my throat, I say, “Uh, I should get going, bro.”

“For sure, for sure.” He sits up, cracking his neck. “I’ll walk with you. The dorms are in the same direction.”

Trying not to think too hard about how civil, nice, and normal this has been, we start our walk back toward the dorms. I still don’t like the guy, obviously, but it’s chill to be able to smoke with someone without the pressure of having to hold a conversation or entertain.

“So, uh, how’re your classes going?” What?! Why would I ask him that?

He must find it weird of me to ask too because he side glances at me, lifting a brow and studying me for a moment before he finally responds.

“They’re good, I guess. Some better than others.” He pulls out his pack of smokes, grabbing two and lighting them before handing me one.

Okay, that was fucking nice of him.

“What’s your major?” I ask before taking a drag. Why the fuck do I keep asking him these questions? It’s like my brain and mouth are not communicating, and my mouth is going rogue. I need to shut the fuck up.

He coughs, trying—but failing—to cover a chuckle. Great, he thinks I’m being weird.

“Art,” he finally replies after he recovers from his faux cough attack. “My major is art. What about you?”

“Psychology.” My major is never a topic in conversation. I’m not sure why, but it’s an uncomfortable thing to discuss. Probably because my reasoning for choosing it is deeply personal.

“Really?” He doesn’t even try to hide the surprise from his tone or his face. His brows are practically raised to the sky as he looks at me.

“Yes, really. Why did you say it like that?”

He holds his hands up in a mock surrender. “Nothing. No reason. Just surprised me, is all. That’s really cool, though.”

Luckily, I’m saved from making an even bigger ass of myself because we’re walking up to the dorms. As we prepare to go our separate ways, the air suddenly feels tense and the idea of saying our goodbyes feels awkward, yet I’m not sure why.

Aston is the first one to speak. “Alright, peace, Finny. See you around.”

“Fuck off, JT,” I growl, continuing my walk past the dorms in the direction of my place.

Hearing nothing but his fucking chuckle behind me, I roll my eyes and pick up the pace. He always seems so unbothered, completely unaffected by me, and it pisses me off more.

It’s the middle of winter, I’m in a hoodie and a windbreaker, and it’s fucking cold. My warm bed is calling to me, and I think I actually stand a chance of falling asleep easily tonight.

******

Aston

Locking my door behind me, I set all my stuff down on the table, undressing down to my boxer briefs. It’s a little after nine and Anderson isn’t home yet. It’s still early, so he could still come home, though.

Getting into bed, I decide to text him and find out what his plans are.

Me: Where you at, bro?

I don’t have to wait long for his reply.

Anderson: With Cash. Why? What’s up?

Me: Nah, just wondering. You coming back to the dorm tonight or nah?

Anderson: Probably not. I’ll probably crash at Cash’s.

Me: Aight, night. Be safe.

Anderson: You too. See ya tomorrow.

Plugging my phone in and getting settled under the covers, I replay this bizarre day in my head. Aside from our smoke sesh, which was weird in and of itself, I found myself actually enjoying the banter between us this morning through text.

I’ve always enjoyed fucking with Knox and pissing him off, but this? This is… different. It’s like I look forward to his replies, and I found myself hoping he would show up tonight.

He’s such an asshole and his reason for hating me is beyond stupid, but I feel drawn to him. As much as I hate to admit that, I do. I don’t have a damn clue what it means, nor do I really want to dissect it right now either.

While actively not thinking about my obscure feelings, I find myself also actively not remembering what he was wearing tonight.

It’s working so well for me.

Not thinking about the way his hair was mussed up and hanging slightly in his eyes.

Not thinking about how his gray fucking sweatpants fit him like a glove.

Definitely not thinking about how those same infuriating sweats also cupped his bulge perfectly.

Nope.

Absolutely not thinking about the way he smelled both like citrus and spice, and how it enveloped my senses when he sat next to me.

While I’m swimming in denial, I may as well also deny the erection threatening to break out of my briefs too. Shit, it’s ridiculous how hard I am right now.

Dancing my hand down my bare stomach, I tease around the waistband of my briefs before dipping below and wrapping my palm around my stiff cock. Letting my eyes fall closed, I begin to pump myself at a steady pace, exhaling a heavy sigh and pulling my bottom lip between my teeth.

I reach over into my nightstand, pulling out the bottle of lube in there and pouring a liberal amount onto my aching cock, then move on and do the same to my left pointer and middle fingers.

I resume stroking my dick with my right hand while bringing my left hand down past my sac, along my taint, until I get to my ass. While continuing to work my length, I begin to massage my hole firmly before inserting a finger and slipping past the tight ring of muscle, letting out a gasp at the intrusion.

It’s been a minute since I’ve done any ass play with myself, so the burn is there, but it’s a burn that hurts so good.

Moving my hand down from my cock to play with my balls, I work the second finger into my ass, getting both up to my second knuckle. Crooking my fingers while rolling my balls and squeezing lightly, I am hit with a white-hot lightning bolt of pleasure when I graze the sweet spot inside me, causing a shiver to wrack through my whole body. Toes curling, eyes rolling back, I let out a quiet moan at how fucking good it feels.

As I go back to stroking my now leaking cock and pump my fingers in and out of myself steadily, I feel the beginning of my release creep up low in my belly. My mind is firmly rooted on the broody boy, with the angry eyes and the pouty lips. Quickening my strokes, they become erratic while my breathing gets heavier, and I explode thick, hot spurts of cum all over my stomach and hand. Groaning deeply through my release—which feels like it goes on forever—I melt into my bed once it finally finishes.

Exhaustion quickly takes over, my eyelids get heavy, and I have to work to keep them open.

Holy hell, so much for denial.