Page 7 of Reckless Obsession

“On my way.” I hang up, finally exhaling.

At last, people I can actually stand.

Chapter 2

TRISTAN

The alarm on my nightstand shrieks like a drill boring into my skull. It might think it’s why I’m awake, but it’s not.

I’ve been up for an hour, wrenching myself from that nightmare—or dream, or whatever the hell it was. It’s a memory, gnawing at my brain for two years, clinging to my skin like an open wound that won’t scar. Annoying and infuriating. Yet I refuse to let it fade. I hate myself for that and for what I did with Maksim. I hate that the little fucker haunts every corner of my mind, a ghost I can’t exorcise, no matter how hard I try.

I roll onto my stomach, cursing as my aching morning wood grinds against the pajama fabric and sheets. Groaning, I stumble to the bathroom, take a leak, hoping it’ll deflate the bastard. It doesn’t. I brush my teeth, ignoring the thick shaft straining like a sword through my shorts.

On the balcony, I let the early-morning air hit my skin as I force myself to breathe, then try to work it off with push-ups and stretches, hoping to burn it off, but it proves futile. It only swells harder, throbbing with mocking insistence.

So I give up.

In the kitchen, I brew coffee with deliberate slowness, chasing some bullshit affirmation to shove the thoughts away. Focus. Control. He’s gone, let him stay gone. Lies, all lies.

“Fuck this,” I mutter, dumping the hot brew down the sink, hands shaking with the effort not to smash the mug against the wall.

Back in my room, I strip and step into the shower. The water pounds my back like punishment; it’s scalding and relentless. I grind my teeth, soaping up as my dick thickens further, a pulsing agony that’s equal parts bliss and torment, and I feel my restraint fraying.

Just ignore it. Don’t give in. He’s poison. You’ll drown. Yet the obsession coils tighter, a vise around my will.

I break.

My hand wraps around the rigid length. Big mistake, sweetest surrender. I slam my eyes shut, stroking my dick with starving greed.

And then there he is beneath me, wrists pinned behind his back in my iron grip, my other hand clamped around his throat as I rut into his perfect hole like a man possessed. His body yields, clenching tightly around every brutal inch, sucking me deeper as if his ass was forged for my cock alone, like it was waiting and starving for me to claim it, stretch it, fill it and ruin him until he breaks for me. Each savage plunge rips from him those filthy, broken sounds: whimpers twisting into pleas that haunt my blood.

“More,” he gasps, his voice wrecked by that feral, soul-stealing hunger. “Don’t stop. Please, Tristan.”

His hole spasms when he shatters untouched, cum spilling hot between us, milking me with rhythmic greed until I’m lost, erupting inside him in white-hot flood that brands my soul.

My eyes snap open as the memories fade and I watch cum spurts against the tiled bathroom wall in thick ropes, but I don’t stop stroking. I can’t. I continue fucking my fist with frantic urgency, thumb swirling the slick head, chasing the echo of him. This is pathetic and weak. But God, I need it—need him—like air. And I hate it. I hate it so much.

A second orgasm crashes through me minutes later, fiercer, pulling guttural groans from my throat as waves of pleasure rip more seed from my pulsing dick.

I slump against the stall, head bowed under the spray, despising the relief because it only sharpens the craving.

By the time the tremors fade, unavoidable guilt drapes me like a second skin. Two years of jerking off to that memory should have dulled it, but each resurgence is a fresh agony, an uncontrollable drug I can’t quit, no matter how hard I try to rip it out.

The release isn’t relief; it’s a cruel tease, leaving my dick half-hard and defiant, whispering that nothing else will ever measure up. Because deep down, I know: if I ever got him again, pinned beneath me and at my mercy, begging as I bury myself in that perfect heat—I’d chain him to me forever and never let him go.

And I can’t afford that. I can’t have him.

Not for him. Not for me. Not for either of our families.

The last thing I need is for anyone to twist the story into something ugly, to claim I crossed lines I never crossed. I didn’t. I never did. I knew him when he was young, yes, but I kept my distance. I never touched him, never encouraged anything, never even let myself think of him that way.

Even when I saw infatuation flickering in his eyes, I kept my distance. No conversations. No closeness.

Not until that night on his twentieth birthday.

The night everything fell apart.

It wasn’t planned. It wasn’t predatory. I wasn’t drunk enough to claim ignorance, but I wasn’t thinking clearly either. I knew what I was doing. He knew too. And somehow, in the middle of my divorce, his recklessness and years of unsaid tension, we crossed a line neither of us could erase. We tumbled into that one-night inferno, and it remade me and shattered the man I was.