I hate him.
“Theo.”
A f*****g whine, replaying in my head again and again.
The hitch of his breath when I push into him, the tremble of his legs, the way he bites his lip when he’s feeling good—I hate it.
Every night, I’m tormented by Phillip f*****g Echavarria.
“Keep . . . going.”
A week.
One f*****g week.
“Please, Theo.”
My body is hot.
Painfully hard.
And every morning, my boxers are ruined.
Like a f*****g curse.
“Wait.”
A gasp.
I’m staring up at my ceiling, a useless poster of a girl who looks nothing like what I want.
Who I crave.
I just keep . . . touching myself.
But it’s not what I want.
Not satisfying.
Not him.
Never him.
God, I want him.
I want him so bad it hurts.
