38. 38 #2
Holy shit. He says it so easily, so nonchalantly, like it’s nothing, like it doesn’t splinter something inside me. He winks at me again, and this time, butterflies erupt in my stomach so violently, it makes me feel sick. Oh, I’m truly fucked.
The weight of it presses into my chest, hot and nauseating.
Because the worse it gets, the better he treats me.
The more I want to believe it’s safe to fall.
I swallow hard, force the ache back down where it belongs, and roll my eyes like I always do.
Michael laughs, and just like that, the moment passes. At least for him.
Once inside, we squeeze into two long tables pushed together, the red vinyl creaking beneath us. There’s not enough room, but nobody seems to mind.
Michael is still riding the high, body relaxed in a way I rarely see.
His cheeks are flushed from celebration, his smile wide and boyish as he leans back in his chair and lets the praise wash over him.
Harrison claps him on the back, and Xavier keeps raising his glass and shouting, “To the fucking champ!” every five minutes, which only fuels the chaos at the kids’ end of the table.
Michael steals a chip off my plate, then laughs and tosses it into his mouth, grinning like he’s daring me to call him out.
I narrow my eyes at him, and he answers with a wink, then leans in, looping his arm around my shoulders. His fingertips drag lightly along the curve of my upper arm as he leans in, his breath tickling the shell of my ear.
“Been thinking about that pretty mouth wrapped around my cock. How you’ll sound when I fuck you so hard, your legs give out.”
It sends a flush straight down my spine—heat pulsing through every nerve, pooling low, short-circuiting any rational thought I was still clinging to.
“Oh, you two are sickening .” Olivia groans from the other end of the table, flicking a fry in our direction with a dramatic roll of her eyes.
Isla tips her head back as she chuckles. “Please. It’s only going to get worse.”
“And stay that way,” Harrison adds, grinning as he smacks a loud kiss to Imogen’s cheek.
She immediately tries to swat him off, rolling her eyes, but a smile tugs at her mouth anyway, one she doesn’t bother fighting.
And somehow, even through the slow-motion wreckage spiralling inside me, I feel it—that same heat rising beneath my skin.
Because Michael does this to me. Makes my body respond before my brain can intervene.
Still makes me want things I don’t know how to ask for.
Still feels… safe. Real. My lips twitch, but I don’t say anything.
I lean back into his side, letting myself fold into the curve of his arm. Sipping my water, I let the noise rise around us. And just pretend.
That my chest doesn’t feel like it’s cracked open. That the email didn’t land in my inbox like a ticking bomb, threatening to unravel everything I’ve rebuilt. That Liam’s words aren’t echoing in my head— court, charges, jail, leave him.
I pretend I’m not drowning in dread, anchored only by the warmth of Michael’s hand resting absentmindedly on my thigh beneath the table.
Because right now, this table is glowing .
The kids are laughing so hard they’re crying, Harrison is trying to steal a spoonful of Joseph’s sundae while Callie sings ‘Let It Go’ with zero pitch control.
Xavier is arguing with Olivia about whether or not he cheated at trivia last week, and Amelia’s giggling into her milkshake as Gracie tries to climb into her lap.
The clatter of cutlery, the rattle of plates, the sharp pop of fizzy drinks opening—all of it swells and blurs into something full .
This table is love. Loud, messy, completely unfiltered love.
And I’m lying to every single person sitting at it.
Especially him.
Because if Michael looked too closely, he’d see it.
He’d see how tightly I’m holding it together.
How none of this is okay. How I’m not okay.
So I plaster on a smile. I laugh when I’m supposed to.
I lean into the man who makes my world a little quieter, a little steadier, even as it begins to fall apart.
Again. Because he doesn’t know what I know. And when I leave, he can’t know why.
We don’t talk when we get back to his place.
We don’t need to.
The silence between us says everything. It’s thick with the weight of what I know, of what I have to do, of everything I’m not ready to say.
The second the door shuts, I reach for him.
My hands twist into the hem of his hoodie, my mouth finds his, and I kiss him like it might be the last time. There’s no hesitation. No teasing.
No pause to breathe. I give him all of me in that kiss. Clothes hit the floor in a trail to his bedroom. He pushes me down onto the bed, his mouth already on me—kissing, biting, sucking.
No pause. No mercy. His hand slides behind me, unfastening my bra in one smooth motion, and I can’t stop the moan that comes out. Because yeah, that was fucking hot.
His mouth crashes into mine then, all tongue and hunger. “I’ve been waiting for this,” he growls, kissing down my neck. “All fucking day.” Another kiss to my jaw. “While I was on that track, all I could think about was you .”
I arch beneath him, moaning as he takes my nipple into his mouth—his piercing cool against my heated skin—and he sucks hard before releasing it with a loud, filthy pop.
His kisses move lower, down my stomach, until he settles between my thighs.
His tongue strokes long and slow through my folds, dragging a moan straight from my chest.
At the last, languid stroke, Michael sits back up, bends my knees to my chest, and locks eyes with me as he fists his cock. He pumps once. Twice. Squeezes the tip, then drags it through my labia.
When he pushes in, it’s torturously slow—inch by inch—stretching me, filling me, until I’m trembling beneath him.
“Fuck,” I gasp, nails digging into his arms. “You’re killing me.”
“You feel so good, baby,” he groans. “So tight. So fucking greedy for me.” He eases into me, back and forth, slow at first, testing the edge between control and surrender.
His palms press into the mattress beside my head, caging me in, but then he leans down, resting on his elbows, bringing us chest to chest. The air shifts.
His tempo changes. Just slightly. Subtly.
His hips roll, pressing himself ever deeper into me.
This time, there’s a different kind of hunger behind his movements—less fire, more feeling.
His hands slide up my sides with reverence, thumbs grazing the underswell of my breasts like I might break beneath him.
He kisses my neck, my collarbone, the space behind my ear.
“God, you feel like a fucking dream,” he whispers. His movements soften, filled with care. With worship. He’s not just fucking me anymore. He’s making love to me. And I can’t handle it.
Not tonight. Not when every slow grind of his hips feels like a promise I can’t keep. Not when I’m already suffocating beneath the weight of what I know. I press my palms to his chest and push gently. His gaze lifts, concerned, but I shake my head.
“My turn,” I murmur, adding a smirk. “Let me ride you.”
His brows jump. His eyes widen—just for a moment—before darkening into narrow slits of heat.
“Yes, ma’am,” he drawls, that usual teasing note curling in his voice. I twist my hips, flipping us over, and straddle him. My thighs cage his waist, and his hands instinctively reach for me, but I catch them, pinning them to the mattress with a firm grip.
“No touching, Hotshot.”
His throat bobs with a swallow. “Well, fuck me—that’s hot.”
I smirk. “You can look all you want.”
“I plan to,” he says, planting his hands behind his head like the cocky bastard he is. His eyes drag down my body, heavy and hungry. I start to move, rolling my hips as he did, in steady circles, grinding against him until his head tips back with a low groan.
His hands twitch above his head, clenching and unclenching. “Fuck! I need to grab you. I need to touch you.”
“Not yet.”
His groan is pure frustration, his knuckles pressed to his mouth as he watches me. I change the angle, rolling my hips differently, dragging out the friction just right, and he chokes on a curse. “Jesus, do that again and I’ll come.”
I do. Slowly. Watching his face contort in pleasure. “Don’t,” I warn, voice silky. “I’ll tell you when to come.”
His jaw drops open. “Holy fuck…”
“Hm. That’s a good boy.” He moans. It’s loud and unrestrained, and I laugh, drunk on the power, on the way he gives it up so easily for me. Who would’ve guessed? The stoic, brooding mechanic likes being bossed around.
“You think this is funny?” he pants.
“Mhm. But you’ve been such a good boy, keeping your hands to yourself.”
His voice is gravel. “I have?”
I grind down hard, dragging my nails across his chest, leaving streaks of red. “You have, Michael,” I purr, leaning down until our noses brush.
“Fuck,” he growls, the sound vibrating through his chest. “Say my name again.”
“Michael.” I hum.
His whole body trembles. “Please,” he rasps, eyes glassy. “Please, can I touch you now?”
I hover, lips grazing his. “Since you’ve been so good—”
He doesn’t wait for more. He flips me fast, pressing me into the mattress as he thrusts back inside with one powerful, brutal slide.
The rhythm is punishing—hard, deep, relentless.
I cry out, clutching at his shoulders, my whole body burning.
We unravel together, bodies shaking, breaths caught in our throats.
It’s not just physical. It’s not just sex.
It’s something more. Something deeper. Something terrifying.
Because this feeling that’s blooming between us—the connection I’ve been pretending not to see—it’s not lust. And I’m not ready to admit it out loud.
Michael’s groans spill into my ear, and it’s the most erotic sound I’ve ever heard. His body trembles above mine, buried deep, and grounding me completely. He presses his face into my neck, arms tight around my body. I feel it then—everything he’s holding back. Everything I am.
“God, Freckles,” he rasps, voice thick and wrecked. “I’m—”
“Shh,” I whisper quickly, running my nails across buzzed hair, down his back. “Don’t.”
Because whatever he’s about to say, I can’t hear it. Not now. Not when it would ruin me. Tears burn behind my eyes, and one slips free. I blink fast and swipe it away before he notices, swallowing the ache that rises sharp and sudden in my chest.
Michael can’t love me. He can’t fall for me. And he can’t know what’s really happening—because if he did, he’d beg me not to go. Or worse, he’d try to come with me, and that would only make things harder. Not after what Liam has threatened him with.
He wouldn’t understand, and maybe that’s not fair to him, but I know it’s true.
And that has to be okay. So I stay quiet, holding on to the silence like it’s a shield, something to protect the small, fragile part of me that’s still pretending this is only physical.
Because if I speak—if I let him speak—it becomes something else.
Something neither of us is ready for. Something I’m not ready for.
All logic has left the room, and I know I’m not thinking clearly, but deep down, beneath the panic and the pull of him and the warmth of his body wrapped around mine, I know exactly what I have to do. I have to end this before it becomes something I can’t walk away from.
Before it ruins him.
Before it breaks me.