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I'm not stupid. I knew he was using me. I knew it very, very much, but… I couldn't help it. I had to let him. I couldn't not let him use me; though it defied all regular logic to think that, it defied my warped logic not to think it. I was stupid, I was idiotic…

And I was going to let him do it.

"Patrick, baby, just relax…"

"I'm trying," I protested, but I couldn't help it; my breathing was hitching, like I was hyperventilating or something. It was so retarded. I was actually getting pretty annoyed with myself, honestly. He was holding my damn hand. We weren't even to the room yet. We were at a hotel, having told Andy and Joe that we were sick of sleeping in the van, and needed a break, even if it were just for one night. But they knew; Andy at least did, and I was pretty sure Joe had the jist of it.

These one-night things weren't serious. There was no way they could be. Just thinking that it might be would kill me. There was no way that Pete Wentz, the celebrity, the guy people loved to love, and loved to hate, could love me. There was no way he could love me; the unknown, the wallflower, the… Not so great. I didn't want to get too far into bashing on myself; this was a time that being depressed most definitely would not be a good thing. Not that it's good ever, but it'd be even worse at that moment…

I let him pull me into the room, my hitched breathing turning into a lack thereof; hey, holding my breath was better than making a fool of myself, right? Pete put the "Do Not Disturb" sign on the doorknob and shut the door, locking it calmly, even going as far as to put the chain on the door. We both knew how bad it would be if someone walked in on us. The paparazzi would be there in seconds, and we… Would be fucked. Big time.

He turned to me, grinning, and held out his arms. I don't know how he did it; I don't know how he still does it. He's always so calm and cool, and controlled. And sexy. God, was he sexy. "Ready for this, baby?" I didn't even need to answer. I let out a shuddering breath, and he stepped forward, cupping my chin with his hand, pulling my head up so he could lean down and kiss me. I just about melted. If it weren't for the arm he wrapped around my lower back, I probably would have fallen backwards. He held me, firmly, protectively, and I fell into our occasional, one-night-at-a-time romance. It surfaced every now and then, like when he flirted with me on stage, or when he would lay his head in my lap on the bus. It wasn't like that senseless flirting; this feeling, even if he felt nothing in return, was at its strongest, at its best and its worst, on these nights.

I had such a love/hate relationship with these nights.

He worked his way towards a wall, pressing me against it; it was a damn good thing, too. I needed the support. He pressed into me, hands running along my sides, as usual wasting no time in removing my clothes. He slid his hands up my shirt, pushing it up and over my head, pulling away for only that, taking my hat with it. He then returned to kissing… Though this time, he targeted my neck. I swear to god, I almost whimpered, it felt so fucking good. This boy knew what he was doing… Duh. He did it all the time. He knew what I wanted, and he knew how I wanted it… And he was going to give it. And boy, did he give.

I found myself anxious, too eager to undress him as quickly as he was me, my hands fumbling for the bottom of his shirt, though I was quite distracted by his kissing and whatnot. I felt his chuckle against my neck and shivered from intense pleasure. God, he was good.

He pulled away then, doing my job for me and slipping his fingers under his own shirt, taking it off like a pro; well, duh, he was a pro. He was Pete fucking Wentz, for goodness's sake. I watched hungrily as that shirt slid up, showing off his well-shaped hips with that damn tattoo in the middle of them, his formed stomach, the chest, coming up over his neck carefully ringed with a barbed wire tattoo. I wanted that, right there. That was what I was craving.

Pete was using me… But I needed him.

Description
I'm not stupid. I knew he was using me. I knew it very, very much, but… I couldn't help it. I had to let him. I couldn't not let him use me; though it defied all regular logic to think that, it defied my warped logic not to think it. I was stupid, I was idiotic…

And I was going to let him do it.

"Patrick, baby, just relax…"

"I'm trying," I protested, but I couldn't help it; my breathing was hitching, like I was hyperventilating or something. It was so retarded. I was actually getting pretty annoyed with myself, honestly. He was holding my damn hand. We weren't even to the room yet. We were at a hotel, having told Andy and Joe that we were sick of sleeping in the van, and needed a break, even if it were just for one night. But they knew; Andy at least did, and I was pretty sure Joe had the jist of it.

These one-night things weren't serious. There was no way they could be. Just thinking that it might be would kill me. There was no way that Pete Wentz, the celebrity, the guy people loved to love, and loved to hate, could love me. There was no way he could love me; the unknown, the wallflower, the… Not so great. I didn't want to get too far into bashing on myself; this was a time that being depressed most definitely would not be a good thing. Not that it's good ever, but it'd be even worse at that moment…

I let him pull me into the room, my hitched breathing turning into a lack thereof; hey, holding my breath was better than making a fool of myself, right? Pete put the "Do Not Disturb" sign on the doorknob and shut the door, locking it calmly, even going as far as to put the chain on the door. We both knew how bad it would be if someone walked in on us. The paparazzi would be there in seconds, and we… Would be fucked. Big time.

He turned to me, grinning, and held out his arms. I don't know how he did it; I don't know how he still does it. He's always so calm and cool, and controlled. And sexy. God, was he sexy. "Ready for this, baby?" I didn't even need to answer. I let out a shuddering breath, and he stepped forward, cupping my chin with his hand, pulling my head up so he could lean down and kiss me. I just about melted. If it weren't for the arm he wrapped around my lower back, I probably would have fallen backwards. He held me, firmly, protectively, and I fell into our occasional, one-night-at-a-time romance. It surfaced every now and then, like when he flirted with me on stage, or when he would lay his head in my lap on the bus. It wasn't like that senseless flirting; this feeling, even if he felt nothing in return, was at its strongest, at its best and its worst, on these nights.

I had such a love/hate relationship with these nights.

He worked his way towards a wall, pressing me against it; it was a damn good thing, too. I needed the support. He pressed into me, hands running along my sides, as usual wasting no time in removing my clothes. He slid his hands up my shirt, pushing it up and over my head, pulling away for only that, taking my hat with it. He then returned to kissing… Though this time, he targeted my neck. I swear to god, I almost whimpered, it felt so fucking good. This boy knew what he was doing… Duh. He did it all the time. He knew what I wanted, and he knew how I wanted it… And he was going to give it. And boy, did he give.

I found myself anxious, too eager to undress him as quickly as he was me, my hands fumbling for the bottom of his shirt, though I was quite distracted by his kissing and whatnot. I felt his chuckle against my neck and shivered from intense pleasure. God, he was good.

He pulled away then, doing my job for me and slipping his fingers under his own shirt, taking it off like a pro; well, duh, he was a pro. He was Pete fucking Wentz, for goodness's sake. I watched hungrily as that shirt slid up, showing off his well-shaped hips with that damn tattoo in the middle of them, his formed stomach, the chest, coming up over his neck carefully ringed with a barbed wire tattoo. I wanted that, right there. That was what I was craving.

Pete was using me… But I needed him.