Fever Dreams

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Chapter 4: Gullible

Man, I’m creepy.
Not only do I look at Silas like he’s a plate of nachos, but now I’m practically counting the seconds until we work on the potter’s wheel together. Alone.
Psychology was before lunch, and we were in the midst of a quiet work hour. During this, I sometimes daydream about what Silas would look like naked. Of course, then I have to spend some time willing down my erection. Then, I marvel at the fact that thinking about women usually does the trick. Finally, I spend some time reflecting on my homosexuality.
By this time, the bell has rung and I have nothing done.
Today, however, my brain decided that I’d be fucking Silas over Ms. Epsom’s desk. Brain, you unholy motherfucker, cut that out! It’s too late, though. I have a boner, and Mr. Lane has the eyes of a hawk.
“Looks like Mr. Wilde has decided to demonstrate the reward-seeking behaviors of dopamine the ‘hard’ way,” Mr. Lane said, smirking.
Everyone in the class snickered.
“Appreciated, but not necessary, Mr. Wilde,” the teacher continued. “Go to the restroom and, um, relieve yourself, if you please.”
Fuck my life.
Trying not to turn a deep shade of crimson, I got up and ran to the bathroom, my class binder covering my crotch.
It didn’t take long for me to lock myself in the handicap stall and think mood-killing thoughts. Just as my problem was about to dissipate, the object of my creepy desires decided to come sauntering in. Great.
“Ethan?” Silas called out. “Are you in here? Mr. Lane sent me to check on you.”
“It had to be you,” I muttered.
“Huh?” he asked.
I unlocked the stall. “I said ‘I’m fine, one sec.’”
When Silas came into view, he looked a bit flustered. It was adorable. “What got you worked up? If you don’t mind me asking, that is.”
“Just all the brain diagrams,” I joked, putting on my best pedophile face.
Silas giggled. He fucking giggled. I’m going to die.
He held out my backpack. “I grabbed this for you since the bell was about to ring.”
Just as he finished saying that, the bell, indeed, did ring.
“Speak of the devil,” I noticed.
“More like hear of him,” Silas corrected, grinning.
“Very clever,” I said in an English accent, extending my elbow toward him. “Shall we engage in clay-working, then?”
That fucking giggle again. Shit, he’s too cute. “Of course. My, what a gentleman.”
Silas, you’ll be the death of me.

Ethan messes me the hell up. I’ve never been so damn meek in front of someone, but he makes me so fucking nervous.
Allowing him to lead me like a fucking lady to the art room wasn’t helping.
So here we are: Some skinny, pointy nose, plucked eyebrows, toned body, preppy-looking motherfucker with a tiny, flustered, emo-haired shit on his arm. Life couldn’t get any better right now.
Once inside the art room, he released me, much to my disappointment. I made my way to the storage room, where Ms. Epsom told me to put my potter’s wheel this morning.
When I came out of the room, I notice Ethan pulling a stool up to one of the tables. I bit my lip when I noticed his back muscles flex ever so slightly, and had to picture a dead puppy to get my pants to stop tightening. Sad, isn’t it? How he controls me so easily without even saying a word? How his very presence leaves me a complete mess? How--
“We don’t have all day, Silas,” he said, shaking me from my thoughts.
He was sitting now, watching me expectantly over his shoulder. I nodded vigorously, carrying the potter’s wheel to the table and plugging it into a nearby outlet.
“So, I assume you’ve used this?” Ethan asked.
I sat on the table next to the machine. “Well, no. My aunt bought it for me because she knows I love art, but really I prefer sketching. I just put it in the back of my closet.”
He shook his head. “What a waste. Come here, I’ll teach you how to use it.”
A few minutes later, he’d gone through the basics with me and I was sitting on the stool working clay on the wheel. He was staring at me, so my hands were shaking. Like fucking eighty-year-old-in-an-earthquake shaking. I probably looked like a disaster, which is likely why Ethan’s now grabbing a chair from the table behind us.
He’s behind me now. I can feel his body heat. And it’s better than in my dream.
“You need to keep your hands steady,” he instructed.
I watched in a daze as his arms came into view, fingertips lightly sliding against the skin of my arms and making me shiver. Fucker. He’s toying with me.
His hands landed on top of mine; my breath caught and I had to swallow the lump in my throat. His fingers were much longer than mine; in fact, his whole hand dwarfed mine. There’s no way I’m that much smaller than him. He’s only five inches taller than me.
That’s not the point. The point is that his hands are guiding mine, and that his lips keep accidentally touching my ear; light-as-a-feather touches that I can barely feel but I know they’re there and I can feel his shallow breaths.
But is it an accident.
“Silas, you’re shaking like a leaf.”
His voice is barely above a whisper, but I hear the desperation in his voice. Does he want it as bad as I do? I’m working hard to keep my breathing steady. I want to lean back against him and feel his gently toned chest, but I can’t. Fuck, I can’t even be in here.
Which is why I’m now at the sink, face burning, washing my hands furiously. Two other hands have joined me, but I refuse to look up for fear of what I’ll find. Fuck, someone please help me.
The water is off and we’re drying our hands. Simple enough. The tension is wearing off some, which is good. Everything will be fine.
“I think you have some clay on your face,” he pointed out.
Still too afraid to look at him, I bent over the sink to examine my face in the mirror. Big mistake. Now Ethan’s right arm is hooked around my waist, dragging me flat against his chest; his left has captured my wrists, trapping them both against the sink’s edge. And me, well judging from the image in the mirror, I’m flushed, breathing shallowly, and pressed against a narcissist with my mouth hanging half open seconds from moaning like a little slut. Ethan’s smug face is surveying us in the mirror as well, and I can see it in his eyes that he has me right where he wants me. I’m either about to die or about to be naked, and to be honest I don’t know what to make of either.
“Can’t believe I fell for that,” I whispered.
He seemed to be grinding his teeth; I can tell by the movement of his jaw. “I’m really glad you did.”
I ground back into him. “I can tell. You seem very happy to see me.”
He groaned under his breath. “I want you, Silas. I’ve wanted you since the first time I fucking saw you.”
“I’m not stopping you, am I?”
That was all the invitation he needed, apparently. Now the edge of the sink is digging into my hip bone and the hand that was keeping my wrists at bay is yanking my head back by my hair. But still, I only have one thought in my head:
Fuck, I think I’m about to lose my virginity in a high school art room.

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