His heart was racing.
And he was pretty fucking sure his body was warming up, or it could have been the rush, an amazing rush, sending shivers down his body, even the tips of his fingers feeling pleasantly numb.
Whatever that thing had done to him, each heartbeat reverberated against his ears, loud and clear, maybe a bit too loud. He couldn't feel his feet, like he was floating on nothing and yet they were heavy and thick. Jesus, what the fuck, what the fuck had he done, he should have stayed back in his own room or Peter's or something else. Something rather than this. The walls moved, for God's sake.
Either way, nothing would prevent whatever bubbled up in Jesús chest from leaving him without air. He couldn't pinpoint what it was, but he needed release and he needed it urgently, else he was going to completely fucking lose it.
So, Jude. Jude's door. Had he really fallen so low? Shit. He didn't care what the physician was doing, who he was with, fuck all that, fuck it. Jesús wanted him, and he'd get him.
His heart was fucking racing.
So he tapped away at the door, then without warning or announcing himself, strutted inside. "You," he pointed at him, smirking, "what the fuck have you been up to? You get into one pussy fight with an old man and then you stop speaking to me? What the fuck."
