Page 57 of Reckless Obsession

I hate how that night owns me, how the ghost of his thick cock stretching my hole sends fire licking up my spine.

No one touches that. Dante teases the edge, makes me come hard—but it’s still not Tristan’s brutal ownership, not the way Tristan had choked me while he fucked my throat raw the other day till I’m dripping and marked.

A frustrated whimper escapes me as I roll myself onto my stomach on the couch and buck my hips against it as pleasure shoots through my clothed cock.

“You’re actually pathetic,” I mutter to myself, voice low in the empty room.

Because I am.

I spent the entire day with Lucas and Tyler, laughing, teasing, playing bodyguard at the mall like some overpaid security detail with attitude problems, and it was good. Normal in the way things only ever are with them.

They make it easier.

They always do.

But the second I’m alone?

This.

This restless, frustrating, suffocating feeling settles back in as if it never left.

I push myself off the couch as if the cushions offended me personally, phone already in my hand before I’m even fully upright, because of course I’m doing this again—circling back to him as if I don’t have an ounce of self-respect left. His message from last night is still sitting there, unread in spirit if not in reality, and I stare at it like it might rearrange itself into something that doesn’t get under my skin this badly.

It’s almost 7 pm. I know his schedule, know exactly where he is, what he’s doing, and probably even what expression he has on his face right now. Yeah, maybe that makes me a problem, but at this point I’ve made peace with the fact that I am the problem.

My thumb hovers for a second before I type anyway.

Where are you?

Stupid question. I know it’s stupid. I know he knows it’s stupid. But I’m not replying to his last text, not yet, not when I can still feel the edge of it scraping against my nerves. This? This is easier. This is me deciding how this conversation goes. Or at least pretending I do.

The message delivers. I stare at the screen as if it owes me something. One minute. Then two. My jaw tightens, foot already bouncing against the floor as if I’ve got electricity trapped under my skin.

Then the message shows as seen, but he doesn’t reply.

A dull ache settles in my chest, like something clawing its way up my throat.

Don’t. Don’t ignore me.

Of all the things he does, this one gets under my skin, and today it’s gonna be worse. If he ghosts me… if he fucking dares to ignore me, I’ll—

The typing bubble appears.

I exhale like I’ve been holding my breath this whole time, which, apparently, I have.

What sort of silly question is that?

“Where are you?” isn’t a silly question, Mr. Grump. Answer it.

You know I’m at the office. Or are you playing dumb about stalking my schedule like a psycho?

Don’t hit me with personal shit maksim, we’re not that close.

Oh, look, he types! Even full sentences. And we are close, Tristan. Unless you forgot railing my ass like a rabid animal two years ago.

Or slapping your fat cock across my face, and pumping your load straight down my throat just days ago.

It’s risky as fuck, and I might get blocked or ghosted. But I don’t care. My cock is aching like it’s been edged for hours, and I know only he can fix it.