Page 21 of Rent: Paid in Full
The thing is, I need another shower more than I need air.
I crouch beside my towel in an awkward half-curtsy, grabbing it quickly before jumping up and racing to the bathroom as Ihold it bunched over my ass to protect what little dignity I have left.
“Ryan.” There’s something in his voice that stops me. Something guttural and raspy that tugs at the strings in my joints. The strings that let me know that even though the worst has passed, I still dance to the beat of his choosing. “When I come”—he breathes out heavily—“Imma say your name.”
I slam the bathroom door behind me and turn both faucets on full blast. I lean a shaky hand on the sink and look in the mirror, straight into the bloodshot eyes of a stranger.
Holy fuck. That happened.
It actually happened.
It’s still happening. Miller’s outside with his hand on his cock. A cock I made hard. He’s touching himself and thinking of me.
I jerk the bathroom cabinet open and riffle through Miller’s side, roughly knocking things over, opening a small sandblasted container with a shiny silver lid, and digging out an unnecessarily large glob of his overpriced moisturizer.
I slather it all over my aching cock and stroke as hard and fast as I can.
Quiet. Not a sound. Not a single goddamn sound,I look down and threaten my dick,or, or…I’ll take you in for a circumcision. I’m serious. I mean it. I’ll do it. Not a sound.
My orgasm hits like the crack of a whip, buckling my knees and starving my brain of oxygen. My hips jerk and my eyes roll back as waves of pleasure wrack me. Tumbling me, rolling me, spurting out of me in thick, hot floods.
I cling to the sink, knees trembling, as I desperately try to work out how to be human and totally braindead at the same time. The water is still running. My head is spinning, and there’s a loud whooshing sound that feels like it’s coming from inside me. Even so, I hear it. Soft and wispy. Smooth baritone.
“Ryyyy…”
Jesus. Goddammit.
How many times do I have to tell him not to call me that?
10
Miller
I wake up beforehim and watch him sleep for a while. The room is dimly lit, but there’s a crack of sunlight where the curtains meet. Ryan’s face is smashed into the mattress, and his pillow lies beside him with an arm thrown over it. He looks beat, poor thing. He all but ran out of here after our little collaboration, or whatever you’d call it, and he got back late. I didn’t check the time, but I’d been asleep for a while.
When he got into bed, I said, “Sleep tight,” and he said, “Piss off.”
He sounded pompous and British when he said it. It’s hard to describe the joy it brought me.
I mean, who even says that? Piss off. Who does he think he is, and how did the phrase find its way into his vocabulary in the first place? A working holiday in a pub in London when he was eighteen? A foul-mouthed English grandparent who spent summers in his home?
Nah, neither of those feels quite right.
A preoccupation with staying home and watching British sitcoms and movies, maybe?
Yeah, that feels like something he’d do.
Now, do I think it’s normal for me to take pleasure in this kind of thing? Not really, no. I think it’s the kind of thing a therapist could have a field day with, and honestly, I wouldn’t blame them. I can only imagine how they’d tuck into it—Daddy issues, Mommy issues, attachment issues, the whole nine.
The thing is, for someone like me, someone who’s been described as “perpetually bored” more than once, Ryan Haraway is better than crack. He’s completely unpredictable. A loose cannon. I don’t have a clue what he’s going to do or say next, and something tells me he isn’t completely sure either.
He starts to stir, burrowing his head farther into the mattress and letting out a muffled groan at the thought of a new day. I get up and start the coffee. He’s sitting up in bed by the time it’s ready. His hair has fallen into his face, and his T-shirt is twisted around his torso. His eyes are narrow slits and his lips are thick with sleep.
He’s a mess. A disgruntled, angry mess, and holy shit, I’d love to pin his hands on either side of his head, throw a leg over him, and grind my cock against his right now. I’d like to hold his jaw in one hand and pull his hair back off his face like it was yesterday when he got out of the shower with the other. I have no doubt whatsoever that I’d have to hold him tightly to keep him still for what I really want: a kiss. A hard, feverish kiss. The kind of kiss that involves snapping and teeth and tongues delving into each other’s mouths. The kind of kiss that would make his lips even more puffy and leave him completely breathless.
I mean, yeah, he’d be breathless with rage, but still.
I arrange my face into the most neutral, inoffensive expression I can manage and hand him his coffee in my blue dick mug.