Crushing On The Billionaire (Part 2) (3 page)

I smiled at him. “The love is there. You make me feel safe and free all at the same time. I want nothing more than to be near you. I’ve never felt like this about anyone, and I don’t care about what anyone else might think. When it’s a real thing, you know, and I know. This is real, and we’d be idiots to try and ignore it.”

He captured my lips with his, kissing me deeply, threading his fingers through mine before taking my legs and wrapping them around his waist. I looped my arms around his neck and hugged him to me. There was nothing better than this—I was convinced. There was nothing better than to hold the one you loved against you and breathe in his scent. Worries dropped away, and other, much more pleasant feelings grew. I squeezed my legs around him and was rewarded with a push of friction, his erection grinding into my denim-covered crotch.

We were going to have to get these clothes off.

I fumbled with the edge of his shirt before slipping my hands beneath the fabric, running them up his hard stomach and torso, exploring his chest, smiling as I felt his nipples peak beneath my palms. He helped me, taking the hem of his shirt, flipping it quickly over his head, and flinging it across the room to rest—forgotten—while we relearned each other’s shapes and curves, the things that made us shiver.

I plucked at his belt until he took pity and removed it himself, joining the growing pile of discarded clothes on the floor, followed by his pants and shoes and socks and boxers. There was something oddly erotic about being fully clothed but writhing against a very naked Patrick, his cock still pressed against my jeans.

“Now this isn’t fair at all,” he said, giving me a playful pout. “I feel pretty exposed.”

“I don’t really know what to do about that,” I said, sighing helplessly, fighting a smile.

“I think I might have a solution.” And that was all the warning I got before Patrick divested me of my jeans in one swift, strong tug, the tight material dragging my panties down with it. The bundle of clothing—along with my shoes—joined Patrick’s pile on the floor. He dragged my shirt up over my face with his teeth, nibbling at each new inch of skin he exposed as he went.

Finally, we pressed our completely nude bodies against each other, enjoying the feel of skin on skin. I liked the shivery tickles his hard nipples made against my own breasts, the way his cock seemed determined to bury itself at the juncture of my legs. I stroked it once, twice, and was rewarded by a delicious sigh. Patrick loved being pleased, and I loved pleasing him. It was so simple, and so glorious.

He traced my ribs beneath my skin with his fingers, making me shudder and giggle before going completely serious, homing in on my clit as if it had been beaming a signal only to him. I went from laughing to breathless in half a second, arching upward to meet his touches, feeling myself go slick between my legs. He slipped one finger into me, then two, and it still wasn’t enough. I needed more of him—much more—and he knew it. He was only teasing me, prolonging my exquisite torture, but I wouldn’t break down. I wouldn’t bend to this treatment. I would stay strong.

“You’re not going to hold out on me, are you?” he asked, raising his eyebrows, as he massaged my G-spot, making me see stars for a brief moment.

“What do you mean—hold out?” I tried to ask, but all I did was moan thickly, unable to summon the power of speech to come to my aid.

Patrick only smiled, withdrawing his fingers, which earned a moan of disappointment. Then, he ducked down and replaced those fingers with his tongue, working up and down my pussy until I’d forgotten all nuances of language. I was panting and whining, both hands scrambling to grasp at his head. I urged him to just keep going and tried to protest when he added his fingers again, kissing everywhere, touching everything, until I was blinded and muted by my sudden, unexpected climax. It was early to the party but still a welcome friend. As it subsided, it became only a dull ringing in my ears. I wondered if I’d shrieked my orgasm.

“I didn’t mean to come,” I gasped out as Patrick all but smirked at me. “I wanted to save it for when we were having sex.”

“I wanted you to come,” he said. “And I want you to come again, while we’re having sex.”

I was wet, ready, and aching for him after that, and his cock slid easily inside of me without a single barrier. Sex after my orgasm was sticky and sweet, almost dreamlike in the way I floated through each thrust and pull. It would’ve been easy to just coast to the end, to let Patrick have his pleasure in my comfortable afterglow and call it a night, but he wasn’t having it. He tweaked my nipples, sucked my neck, and thumbed my clit until I was right on the edge again. He never halted his relentless rhythm.

My second climax was in harmony to his first, both of us reaching that magic peak almost at the same time. We were so attuned to each other that it was easy to make it happen, to hold back and then leap forward together when we were both ready. It was a beautiful thing, kissing him while we were both coming, swallowing his pleasure into mine, holding on for dear life until we sank back into the couch, sleepy and sated.

Yes, the love was there. Love and so much more.

I was happy with Patrick—more than happy, really—but as that relationship grew, my friendship with Shawn shriveled on the vine.

I didn’t know how he would react to seeing me again after the confrontation with Patrick in the foyer of their house, but I needn’t have worried. Shawn stayed away from all the familiar haunts we’d shared—the cafeteria, the shady trees in one of the courtyards, his actual classes.

I thought maybe he just needed some time away from me, some time to lay low and lick his wounds. The confrontation had been ugly, and I was sure his pride had taken a beating. Putting myself in his shoes, I could easily understand a need to hide myself away.

I had to swallow my concern as the absence stretched into a whole week. I couldn’t remember a time when we’d gone even a whole day without at least texting each other. I felt the tangible lack of Shawn keenly, like there was a Shawn-sized hole missing from my soul. We had been together every day. There wasn’t anyone I spent more time with. I was so worried about him—and maybe just missing him selfishly—when I decided to reach out.

“Where are you?”
I typed, sending it before I could think too much about it. There were a million words I wanted to send into the atmosphere, hoping that a few would find him. “Where the hell have you been?” was a possibility that came to mind, followed closely by, “Are you okay?” Coming in third was the greedy “Are we okay?” in which I would seek to absolve myself of any lingering feelings of guilt. “I miss you,” was present in every letter, and I was sure he would read between the lines to understand, “I care about you” without me having to spell it out.

I waited for a response, but none came. Not even the speech bubble icon that told me he was typing. And not even the tiny indicator that told me my message had been delivered.

“Where are you?” just hung in space, as lost as my friend, as lost as I was. It was as if he had his phone off—something I’d never known him to do.

But if I really thought about it, there were lots of things he was doing right now that I never knew him to do—or thought him capable of.

I didn’t think he was in love with me, first of all, even with all the signs ostensibly there, including a professor pointing it out to me casually, as if it were obvious.

And I didn’t think he could be so angry at Patrick and me. Or capable of maintaining radio silence with both of us for a solid week.

I’d texted Patrick after I hadn’t gotten a bite from reaching out to Shawn.

“Have you heard from Shawn?”
I asked.

The response was almost immediate. “
No. Why? Have you heard anything? Is everything all right?”

My heart ached for Patrick. I was mourning the absence of a friend, but he was a father worried about the whereabouts, mental state, and physical health of his son.

“No, didn’t mean to worry you,”
I sent back swiftly.
“Just curious.”

“You didn’t worry me,”
was his answer. “
He hasn’t been back to the house. Let me know if you hear from him. I’m thinking about contacting the police.”

The police?
“I think that may be overreacting,”
I sent back.
“Give him time. Don’t send the cops after him.”

“If you think so,”
he replied.
“I need him to be okay.”

It was a sentiment I firmly shared. Where was Shawn staying if he wasn’t at the house? I was puzzled. Was he crashing with one of his fellow fine art majors? I didn’t think he was that close with any of them, but maybe desperate times called for desperate measures. I started asking around but didn’t have much luck.

Then, one day, after nearly two weeks of nothingness and an increasingly worried Patrick, I saw him. It was Shawn, looking ragged and exhausted, but Shawn all the same, shuffling across a sidewalk just off campus. I could’ve wept with joy, and I pulled my cell phone out to text Patrick the good news.

“Shawn spotting near campus,” I sent, before calling out Shawn’s name. My voice was loud enough to startle some pigeons, but he didn’t give any sign he heard it.

“Shawn? Shawn!” It was usually me walking around in a daze—more often than not behind a camera lens—and Shawn chasing me down across campus. This time, though, the tables had turned. Shawn was the one in his own world, and I was the one pursuing him.

It made me wonder if I’d ever willfully ignored him, but I quickly shook the thought from my head. Things were so topsy-turvy right now that I was second-guessing myself at every turn.

“What are you doing?” I panted when I finally caught up with him.

He looked at me as if I were an apparition and tried to walk away.

“Stop!” I cried, seizing him by his elbow. “Talk to me!”

He turned to me, and I fought the urge to recoil. If I hadn’t known him well, I would’ve doubted that the person in front of me was Shawn at all. It looked like he’d lost weight since I’d last seen him—the kind of weight that made people worry about you—and that he hadn’t slept in days.

“Are you okay?” I asked, aghast. My horror at the state he was in was quickly outweighing the joy I felt at seeing him at all.

“I’m whatever,” he said, his eyes glazed as if he’d pulled a couple of all-nighters. If I didn’t know him better, I would’ve guessed he was on some kind of drug I’d never tried before, but I knew he didn’t like them just as much as I didn’t.

“Where have you been?” I demanded. “Shawn, I’ve been trying to get ahold of you. So has your dad. Both of us are worried sick.”

He shrugged himself out of my grip and stepped away. “I’ve been here and there. Everywhere.”

He was so vacant and lost I wasn’t even sure if it was registering in his brain who he was talking to or where he even was. It broke my heart to see him like this.

“I’m sorry about everything,” I said, unsure that he would understand what I was even talking about. “We’ve been really, really worried about you. Scared for you. Where’s your phone?”

“Threw it away,” he said, waving his hand in a vague mimic of a throw. “Didn’t have anyone to call.”

Jesus. My heart was already in pieces. I could do nothing to stop the single tear that coursed down my cheek. I’d done this to him. Loving me had done this to him, and I needed to make this right.

“Do you need some help, Shawn?” I asked, trying to wipe my wet face before he realized I was crying. “Can I take you somewhere or get you something? I think I know a really good person you can talk to, right down this sidewalk, not too far away.” I was aiming to lead him to the institute’s health services center, which kept a couple of counselors on hand to help solve crises usually brought on by heavy academic workloads and stress. Shawn would be something different for them, I’d bet.

“I don’t want to go anywhere with you,” he said without a trace of anger. “We’re not friends anymore. You’re a bad friend, and I have new friends now.”

With that, he ambled off, and I was painfully aware that at least some of those new friends were either drugs or people who could easily connect him with drugs. A ball formed inside of my stomach and swelled painfully. Shawn had access to an awful lot of money. I cringed to think of just how far he could take a binge. What was I going to do? What was there to be done?

“Shawn!” I called after him. There had to be something. “Shawn! We care so much about you. Take care of yourself!”

He whirled around at that, his face frozen in a snarl. “Leave me the fuck alone!” The anger was a thing that was alive, biting and snapping, until he turned back and continued his journey to nowhere.

My phone vibrated in my pocket, and I realized, belatedly, that I’d missed no less than six texts from Patrick after my initial triumphant message of making contact. There wasn’t anything to be triumphant about now. There was something broken inside of Shawn, and I didn’t know the first thing about how to fix it.

The insistent vibrations told me that Patrick had given up on the art of texting and had decided to call me for a status update.

“I just ran into him,” I said by way of “hello.”

“And how is he? How did he seem? Is he upset? Is he taking care of himself? Did he say where he was staying? How classes were going? If he’s going to come home any time soon?” Patrick’s questions were rapid fire and overwhelming given that I was already flummoxed by the state Shawn had been in. What hurt even worse was knowing just how painful it would be for Patrick to hear about how out of character Shawn had acted.

I seesawed between honesty and wanting to spare the man I loved that knowledge, and kindness won.

“You know, he seemed like he was going to be okay,” I lied, feeling like I was going to throw up. “He’s obviously still a little miffed, which is why he’s been staying away. But he’s crashing with a friend of a friend, someone in the theater department, I think, and classes are going well.”

Patrick let out a long breath that he must have been holding since the moment he’d run out of questions. “Thank God,” he murmured. “Thank God he’s okay.”

Why didn’t I feel good that I’d saved Patrick from suffering? My own suffering seemed to grow tenfold at the understanding that I’d denied Patrick vital knowledge about his son. I just didn’t want Patrick to know what Shawn was doing to himself. I wouldn’t want my own foster parents to know if I was hell bent on destroying the life they’d worked so hard to give me. I couldn’t imagine that Patrick would be pleased with Shawn.

It didn’t matter. Shawn was going to be okay. He had to be okay. He was just going through a weird phase…of taking drugs and wandering around. That was something he’d grow out of, right? Everything would work itself out.

“Did you tell him I want him to come home?” Patrick asked. “He hasn’t even come back for any of his clothes or things.”

“He’s doing just fine with his clothes and things,” I said. With each lie I spouted, my own pain became even more unbearable. I could take it, though, if it meant Patrick didn’t have to. “I think he just needs a little more time. It was all such a shock to him, the way everything went down.”

“A shock to everyone involved,” Patrick muttered before brightening a little. “Thank you so much, Loren, for keeping your eyes peeled for him. I think this calls for a celebration, don’t you?”

There wasn’t anything to celebrate. I wanted to tell him that, but I couldn’t. Not now. Not with how happy it had made him to believe that Shawn was doing okay.

“Sure thing.” It was the worst lie yet.

“Why don’t I send a car over for you and you come have a beer with me at the house?” Patrick said. “Maybe Shawn won’t be here, but it’ll kind of be like old days.”

“That sounds good,” I fibbed.

***

The weight of my lie was heavy on my chest as I rode in the backseat of the car, out to Patrick, whom I was trying to save from all the pain that Shawn was in. Would I be able to save the both of them? One of them? Myself?

“You look like you need a drink,” Patrick declared upon seeing me, wrapping his arms around me and tilting my chin up so he could kiss me on my lips. It was quieter than usual in the mansion without Shawn, who liked to have music or televisions providing background noise for whatever socializing was going on. Even the air felt different. I guessed it was just going to take some getting used to.

“A beer would be nice,” I admitted, following him to the refrigerator behind the bar.

“I think there’s going to be a really nice sunset,” he said, upbeat, moving with practically a bounce in his step. “It’s getting kind of cool out, but there’s a nice view from the kitchen, if you want to watch.”

“That sounds good,” I said, smiling a little at just how happy he was. Wasn’t that worth the lies I’d told? Patrick was positive and hopeful and relieved. I could handle my own crushing guilt if it meant the man I loved could be happy.

We watched vermillion and caramel melt into bronze and gold as the sun sank down below the horizon, sitting in perfectly comfortable silence for the entire time. I hadn’t been able to help myself while we were bathed in the magic light of the sunset and had taken dozens of photos of the spectacle.

The light grew velvet and deepened, and evening rolled into night.

“I know things have been stressful lately,” Patrick said, breaking the silence and studying his bottle of beer. “Stressful and a lot less than ideal.”

The elephant in the room was Shawn’s palpable anger and the influence it wielded in our relationship. We were helpless to its sway. It was our persistent and terrible third wheel…with us at all times. Of course, it was less than ideal to have the son of the man I loved coming between us without even trying that hard. It wasn’t as if Shawn was actively conducting a campaign against our relationship. Yet, his rage was a living thing, worming its way around Patrick and I. That rage had transformed into something desperate and ugly and dangerous, and I was afraid that it was going to swallow Shawn whole.

“Loren?”

“I was thinking that less than ideal was probably an understatement,” I said, taking a swig from my beer. I was nursing it so much that it had started to turn warm.

“If you want out, now’s the time,” Patrick said, his words clipped and formal. “We don’t have to do this. You’re too young to be stuck in a miserable relationship.”