Wicked Boy (31) (Patreon)

"My turn. You attracted to me, Milan?"

Ez's question is sudden. His tone almost sounds stern. I touch the back of my neck, the heat in my cheeks spreading towards my ears.   I don't say anything.

The corner of Ez's lip lifts into a lopsided smirk.

"...We don't know each other."

"That wasn't the question."

"Well..."  I trail off, confidence nonexistent.  I scratch above my brow-line in an attempt to hide behind my cupped hand.  Ez rolls his eyes, catches my wrist, and I jump, our gaze meeting.

"Why do you care if I'm attracted to you?"  My words are strung together so quickly that they sound messy and frightened. I fidget.  Ez's head tilts. He moves my hand aside to lean in further, and my back meets the arm of the couch.

"It's not,"  His eyebrows shift upwards the slightest bit, a knee on the couch, and I fall back, "your turn."

And with the inflection, a tease is barely hidden between words.

"I,"  I swallow.  I glance down at The collar of Ez's shirt, the swell of his Adam's apple, the curve of muscle beneath fabric.  That's not it, though.  I think of my fingers laced; my arms stretched around his midsection, the night air, and passing city-lights.  I think of his eyes, of the embrace in his corridor moments before—his pajamas.

My heart aches.

"... I think that's what it is."

"Hmm. Lucky me." Ez smiles at the confirmation, and if I could shrink into myself any further, I surely would.  "Go on.  What was your question?"

"...Is this fun to you?"  I don't mean to sound defensive, but I undeniably do.  For the first time, I feel myself giving more and more parts of myself to someone. They're raw, messy, embarrassing, and my hands are empty in return. "Messing with me?"

"Yeah."  Ez's smile grows, with no malice to it, and I blink up at him.  "But I don't think that's the question you wanted to ask."

"What do you mean?"

"I think ya' wanna hear,"  His hand on my wrist tightens the slightest bit, and I wonder if he thinks I'll book it,  "that I don't invite clients to my house — and I don't take 'em on rides on my bike," his voice is quieter, but the humor and nonchalance have been stripped from it, and I waiver against his honesty.

"... Are you saying what I want to hear?"

"Nah.  It's true. Call me a dick, but I don't drive two hours outta my way to get 'em to sign a fuckin' contract?  I'm lazy that way."  He shrugs slightly, but he hasn't pulled away.  There's a breath between us, a low and quiet laugh, and his finger trails up the pulse of my wrist.  "...Payment upfront.  Hours are scheduled.  Is that what ya' need?"

"No."  I clench my teeth together, my voice trembling.  "Because you do. Because — I'm a client."

"Only because," My wrist is still in his hand.  Ez begins to push it back gently, and my heart hammers erratically.  "Ya' want to be. Am I wrong?"

"If I wasn't a client," my fingers dance between the couch and him. I feel overwhelmed. He's not wrong. He's not right — either. But something is comforting about a contract, about the thought that I can chalk it up to that. To him being an escort and to me, paying for his company.

"What would I be?"

Anything else might hurt.

Ez contemplates my question. He eyes my hand, the one that doesn't ever take what it wants or what it needs.

"If you're thinkin' about touchin' me," he drifts closer, "do it."

We're crossing into somewhere unfamiliar to me.

"I don't want to make you uncomfortable."

Ez's bright eyes shift to my hand, still caught by his.  His brows gather, and instead of saying anything, he pulls it towards himself.  My fingers graze the cut of his jaw.   I hesitate, my touch non-commital.  It flutters over the warmth of his skin, down his neck.  I touch two fingertips to the dip of his Adam's apple.

He pulls them upwards, runs them over the swell of his lips, the dip of his Cupid's bow. I use my other hand to brush under his lashes, over his cheekbone, but with a soft tug, my fingers wind up back at his lips again.

Ez gives me the mildest, curious look.

He's easy to become lost in. He's warm and close, and he smells like he always does. Night air, cigarettes, gasoline. It's nothing like Pennbrook, a comfort of his body heat so striking that my world feels tipped upside-down.

"Why do ya' wanna know me?"

I think of him in my dream. Of him occupying the space between my legs, of his taunts in my ear.

I stare up at him.  Why do I?

Is any of this any different?

I'd even kissed Isaac. After I had, I hadn't felt anything. It brings me to a surprisingly reckless conclusion.

Maybe I should kiss Ez.

"I don't know." My voice is a stranger. It's quiet, timid, and breathless. It was never like that with Isaac, or Clark, or any other man. "You're just — comforting to me. I don't know you. It doesn't make sense."

"Comforting?"

"You always say — or do, the right thing.  Even if it's  — even if it's not."  My words aren't making sense.  They overtake each other in a meaning that only I can feel.  "It's stupid... You're safe."

Ez's eyes are lidded, his gaze downcast. His thumb drags over my lower lip, and I let myself fall back against the couch.  I allow him to pull himself over me, one of his hands falls at the bend of my leg, under the crook of my knee, and he lifts it to trap himself between them. I feel Ez's weight shift; his lips hover over mine.

I've never been in a position so intimate.

"Safe," Ez says, and his nose bumps mine.  I lean upwards, but he kisses my cheek instead, leans into my ear, "what a word for me."

I glance up at him, down his torso that looms over mine, and I tell myself I'm being rational — this is a means to an end.

"Ez?  Can you kiss me?"

Ez brows jump the slightest bit, taken aback.

I tell myself that I don't want this.

But I do.

"I think..."  I inhale, my chest touching his.  "If you're not faking this.  That... You're confused about me. It'll get it out of your system."

"That so?" Ez's nose wrinkles like a snarl,

"Yes." I nod, but my hands are shaking. Ez hums again, his lips hovering over mine, and my body trembles beneath his.

Ez's lips barely graze mine, but our eyes catch, and his narrow. "Have ya' even ever been kissed?"

"Of course I have." I feel my eyes lidding, but an indignant vehemence still creeps into my tone. The way Ez is looking at me — is different. It's so hard to pull apart, to dissect, but I'm frayed at the edges by it.

"Well, I bet that I don't kiss," Ez only laughs, and the grip on my wrist has me bracketed between him and the couch, his free hand trailing up my neck, a thumb at my pulse, a rough cup of my face, "like one of your posh pricks."

But he pulls back, and I blink up at nothing.  Ez grabs the television remote, and I watch dumbly as it flickers to life,

"Your turn."

I pull myself upwards, slow and unsure, and catch the background noise of his television show.  I chew the inside of my cheek.

I could've sworn — earlier, that he almost kissed me.  I could've convinced myself that he almost did again.

Am I just delusional?  Why did —

"I don't mind."  I rub my palm over my shoulder, my legs pulled up to my chest, and I forget the rudeness of my socked feet on his couch cushion.  I can't look at him at first, but curiosity gets the best of me eventually.  "If you don't — if you're not the same as them.  So why didn't you?"

"Because."  Ez changes the source on the television, and the screen changes to DVD output.  "I'm not the same."

"What does that mean?"

"Ya' want me to be safe?"  I feel myself swallow again.  There's a pinprick of warmth behind my eyes.  I suddenly feel foolish, very irrational.  I suppose I've just shown I'm both things for trying to ruin this.  I hug my knees, nodding.

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be.  It's okay.  'Kay?"  Ez sighs, his jaw clenching.  He presses on through the menu.  I rub my palms over my eyes.

"Okay."

"... Ask some questions.  I'll answer."  He tilts his head, "whatever you want."

My insecurity blossoms into something overwhelming, my disappointment growing. I reach, tugging at the hem of his shirt.

I just want him to look at me.

“...Did I upset you?” I ask. It feels stupid. Such a childish question. Ezra’s bright eyes slide to mine, searching,

“...No.” He leans back, taps the remote against the arm of the couch. He’s being careful, and that in itself is odd. “But I really don’t like playin’ the role of gentleman.”

I release the fabric of his shirt, my brows gathering.

“...What?”

“If ya’ ever ask me to kiss you again. I will.” He’s not smiling. There’s a certain heat there. A catch of his gaze, a sharpness in his eyes, and whatever it was that scratched beneath the surface is on full display. “Got it?”

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