Chapter Nineteen — “Idle Hands”
553 Words
The house was silent when Owen pushed the door open.
It smelled faintly of sickness and cheap air freshener.
Leia didn't call out to him.
She didn’t even stir.
He dropped the grocery bags onto the kitchen counter and wandered back toward the bedroom, his footsteps lazy and deliberate.
---
Leia was curled up under the covers, barely a lump beneath the heavy blanket.
Only the top of her messy hair peeked out —
damp, tangled, sticking to the pillow.
Owen stood there for a moment, staring at her.
The faint rise and fall of her chest.
The rattling breath barely making it past her lips.
---
He set the cold medicine and tissues on the nightstand.
Cracked a can of ginger ale and placed it beside them.
Leia mumbled something incoherent, shifting slightly under the blanket.
A broken, helpless sound.
Owen didn’t respond.
He just turned and left the room, pulling the door mostly shut behind him.
---
Back in the living room, he dropped onto the couch.
Grabbed the remote.
Started flipping channels without watching.
Background noise.
A war documentary.
A cooking show.
An old sitcom rerun.
---
He stretched out, scratching absently at his stomach, letting the heavy silence settle around him.
After a minute, he pulled the crumpled tissue box out of the grocery bag —
the one with Jessica’s number scribbled in crooked black ink across the cardboard.
He stared at it, smirking.
"Jesus Christ," he muttered to himself, amused.
"First Keeley... now this."
The thought of Keeley flashed unbidden through his mind.
The way she dropped to her knees so fast.
The way she gagged around him, desperate and messy, her nails digging into his thighs.
Owen felt himself stir.
Throb.
A lazy pulse of hunger blooming under his skin.
---
He didn’t think about it.
Didn't hesitate.
He unbuttoned his jeans with one hand, slipping his c**k free, already half-hard and swelling heavier by the second.
His hand closed around himself — A slow, lazy pull from base to tip.
He let his head fall back against the couch, breathing out slow through his nose.
---
In his mind, it wasn’t Leia's body pressed against him.
Wasn’t Leia’s moans filling the silence.
It was Keeley —
on her knees again, looking up at him with ruined, teary eyes.
Mascara smeared.
Mouth stretched wide and dripping.
Or Jessica —
fresh, bright, soft —
tugging his belt loose with eager, clumsy hands, her lips parting around him in perfect submission.
His hand moved faster now, tightening, milking himself with slow, deliberate strokes.
His hips jerked once — involuntary — chasing the fantasy.
The couch creaked under him, the only sound besides the soft, wet slap of his fist on skin.
---
Owen’s breath quickened.
He gritted his teeth, thrusting up into his hand once, twice —
and then came with a low, broken grunt, spilling across his stomach and jeans in thick, hot pulses.
He lay there afterward, panting lightly, heart thudding in his chest.
Smiling.
Really smiling.
---
Across the hall, Leia coughed weakly in her sleep.
A fragile, broken sound barely piercing the silence.
Owen didn't even glance toward the bedroom.
He just wiped his hand on a crumpled napkin from the coffee table, tucked himself back into his jeans, and reached for the remote again.
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