Addicted To You

Prologue

The realisation of what's happening hits me like a brick and my hand falls from his cheek instantly. Body seizing, muscles tensing as I stand still as a fucking statue. My thoughts run crazy for the entirety of his three second kiss and then some. And before I know it, he's pulling back before I get the chance to fully taste him.

My stomach sinks.

Why the fuck am I disappointed about that?

Atlas. Atlas. Atlas.

He ate crayons. He ate crayons. He ate fucking crayons. I remind myself, trying to shake off the disappointment and calm my dick down.

It doesn't work. It should, it would've in the past, but now I want to be one of those crayons. I want to feel myself glide down his throat.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

I gulp and raise my hand to my mouth, my shaky fingers running over my lips in awe, or shock, maybe both. I don't fucking know. My tongue sneaks out despite my protests, desperate for the taste we never got, trying to salvage whatever residue his lips may have left.

It's nowhere near enough.

"Shit, shit, shit," Atlas exhales a panicked breath.

My eyes find his and I blink at him, feeling a little delirious and a whole lotta confused. I'm so confused in fact, that I begin to wonder if this is some kind of nightmare. A new nightmare to add to my growing collection.

"Fuck, I shouldn't have done that," he stammers. "I mean it's not that I didn't want to. I did. I really did. I-I do. It's just... you don't seem like you want-"

My hearts hammering and my palms break out in a nervous sweat. This isn't a nightmare. It's real. Atlas Evans kissed me.

He kissed me.

Me.

Okay, maybe it is a nightmare, one where I'm too far gone to break free.

One I might just want to live in for as long as I possibly can.

Kill me now.

I push the thoughts aside and focus on the boy freaking out in front of me, breathing him and all his nervous quirks in.

It's strange, I've never looked at him like this before, never wanted him like this before. Shit, I've never had the urge to kiss anyone before, let alone Atlas. Any girls I'd kissed at parties in the past was for the sole purpose of proving a point.

And that point was what?

This. That point was this.

I'm not like this. I'm not into guys.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

I thought I was past feeling this way, that I'd somehow cured whatever attraction lingered from my early tweens when I realised I noticed pretty boys long before noticing pretty girls.

The pretty boy rambling in front of me, the feel of him lingering on my lips, the hardness pressing against my zipper...

They beg to differ.

I'm so fucked.

I try to calm the erratic thoughts in my head, but I can't think straight, which is pretty fucking ironic considering nothing about this entire situation screams straight.

Don't think about it.

Ignore it.

"Atlas," I finally find my voice, failing to hide how it quivers. Jesus Christ, grow a pair and stop being such a little bitch.