“Like, sixteen, total.”
“That’s–that’s not the fucking point! Do you really think you’ll be happy in a relationship you have to hide from everyone, all the time?”
“Yes.” His nonchalance is driving me mad.
I turn away, because looking him in the face is making me weak. There’s a part of me that tickles, a little thrill. It’s stupidly giddy, and I do my best to smother it. Dean has no idea what he’s trying to sign up for, and I can’t let him take it that far. I can’t be selfish. “You’re eighteen.” I croak.
“My birthday’s next month–”
“Living in the moment can be exciting, I understand that. You might want this now, but the world is a big, big place. You’re going to see a lot of it, meet a lot of people. You’ll grow and change. I’ll just be a skeleton in your closet, Dean. Fuck, I already am! This isn’t something that can–”
“You done?” His tone has an edge to it now. I snap around to glare at him, because he’s treating me like a child he’s having to ‘gentle’ parent. He pushes up from the couch, and I shrink back out of instinct. He’s too big, and in moments like this, it makes me nervous. I think everything I’ve said has slipped through his ears like floss, and it’s always like that. I’m speaking objective truths, aren’t I? Why is he acting like these concerns aren’t worth his time? He towers over me, but he hasn’t reached out yet. He’s throwing his weight around.
“I’m younger than you, and I know you hate that. That’s not something I can change, because no matter how old I get, the gap will always exist. Get the fuck over it, Sam. It is my future, you’re right, so I can do whatever I want to do with it. I don’t need your permission. As long as I have you, I don’t give a shit what our life looks like. Fuck a wedding, I don’t give a shit if I have kids. If you want those things, I’ll make it happen. I’ll follow your lead, whatever you want. I don’t care who knows, and I give even less of a damn about who approves.”
“If you want to be successful, you need the approval of others!”
Right before my eyes, Dean seems to shapeshift. He gets this look, one so full of confidence, charisma, and borderline narcissism. His eyes, despite being lidded, are unnaturally dark. He’s looking down on me, smiling, and it’s the kind of smile that could slice a person open. Strangely, I’m reminded of Al Pacino’s character in the Devil’s Advocate. He doesn’t just believe himself untouchable, he exudes it. There’s almost a pressure I can feel.
“Sammy…” He starts slowly, like explaining something to someone completely daft. “I could fuck you on live television, in front of the entire world, and I’d still have ’em eating out of the palm of my hand. I’ll make your mom, your colleagues, everyone fall in love with me, just like they always have. I’ll make it to where no one feels safe or comfortable questioning my choices. The only thing that’ll keep me from being successful is if I let you walk away.”
Do you know what sort of person it takes to get away with a claim like that? Someone who can deliver such arrogant, nonsensical words and make them sound like an unshakeable fact? Dean pulls it off spectacularly, because I’m inclined to believe him. He can get away with anything under the sun, and he knows it. He’d make an excellent politician. But, where does that leave me? Dragged along in his current? What happens when he inevitably tires of me? I’m already attached, and that growth will spread through every cell in my body if left to culture.
If I sit back and keep letting him do whatever the fuck he wants, how will I handle it when he decides he doesn’t want me anymore? I can’t share these insecurities with him, though. I can’t bring myself to be too vulnerable. I can’t let him know just how much of an advantage he has, because I’m sure he’ll abuse it somehow.
“I…”
Like a Great White, he scents out my weakness, blood in the water. Finally, he touches me, and God, it takes everything not to melt into it. His arm is a hot band across my lower back, fingers gripping my waist beneath the hem of my shirt. He takes my left wrist, bringing the inside of it to his mouth. Blood pounds harder beneath that thin skin, his teeth gently tracing the blue of veins. He doesn’t stop watching me, not for a second. A small, needy sound slips out, and I’m immediately mortified by it. I’m…his puppet. It’s both terrifying and exciting–
“Sammy, I love you.”
…what the fuck did he just say to me?
I’m sorry?
Excuse me?
What the fuck?
My mouth has dropped, my eyes must be twice their size, and I’m gripping his shirt so tightly, it might rip. I’m more jaded than I realized, because my first thought: this is some sick, twisted form of manipulation. He’s been love-bombing me, but now he’s finally grown enough balls to actually drop the ‘L’ word.
“Don’t…bullshit me, Dean.” I enunciate carefully, working hard to keep an even voice. “You have no idea what you’re–”
“What, does being younger than you make me incapable of love?” He replies snidely. “Keep your walls up as long as you can, Sam. If you can tell me to get the fuck out of your life and actually mean it, I’ll listen, but we both know you won’t. You’re gonna keep doing what you’ve been doing, which is letting me do whatever I want. You’ll keep telling yourself I’ll get over it soon, move on, because I’m just some stupid, fuckin’ kid who can’t possibly give a real shit about anyone or anything but himself. That’s fine, keep thinkin’ that.”
My throat tightens with anxiety as I realize…he’s got a much better read on me than I thought. How do I even begin to respond to that, when he’s completely right? He makes it sound cruel, but isn’t it just realistic to think that way? I squeeze my eyes shut and cycle a number of deep, calming breaths. In through the nose, out through the mouth. “So, what? We just…skip off to California and sneak onto each other’s campus whenever we’ve got a spare minute? We’ll both be stupidly busy, Dean, it’s…that’s completely crazy.”
“Stop manufacturing excuses, Sam, Christ.” He murmurs, nestling his face beneath my jaw. His mouth, teeth, fuck–
“Hah, why, are we just gonna fuck our way through it? Nngh! These are…things that we should talk about, you–God, Dean, stop!”
He’s working me over at the tip of my jaw, right beneath my earlobe. Sucking, biting, kissing, absolutely trying to leave a mark. Even as I tell him to stop, I crane my neck to give him more leeway. He slides his leg between my thighs and I all but sit on it, grinding myself against his quad. I’m so goddamn weak to him.
“We’ve got the whole summer to talk about it. We can talk in the car, on the plane, wherever the fuck you want. If you really, really wanna keep talking about it now, I’ll stop. Tell me again, go ahead.”
I won’t, and he knows it. Not when his hands are hot on my skin, sliding and squeezing up my back, my thighs. Not when his cock is a hard, blistering promise against my stomach, and his teeth are digging yet another bruise into the knot of my shoulder. I can’t even describe how badly I want him. My lower belly throbs with it. I’m supposed to be worried, agonizing over the future. Not panting like a bitch because he’s teased me a little. “D-Dean…”