Chapter 25
Keep the door open.
Nate said it at the end of dinner with his eyes narrowed, and Mike had nodded and said of course, absolutely. I think he’s been waiting my entire life to say that, and he couldn’t waste his golden opportunity to fuck with us.
I can’t even pretend to be mad.
Mike comes through the open bedroom door wearing a black crop top that stops at his belly button, shutting the door behind him with a loud click.
“Why are you wearing that?” I ask, looking up from my phone.
He looks down at himself, pursing his lips. “What?”
“That.” I gesture at the expanse of his stomach. “That shirt. If you can even call it that.”
“Iris said I looked cute.”
“You look something,” I say, even though I don’t disagree.
He crosses the room, stopping at my dresser, covered in stuff from my childhood. “If Nate thinks that open-door policy is sticking, he’s lost his mind.”
“It’s been a month,” he adds.
“I know.”
“And you’re my boyfriend now.” He says for the hundredth time today. “So we should probably revisit the candles and the—”
“Mike,” I interrupt. “My brother is down the hall.”
“I’ll be quiet,” he says, with his hands on his hips, a smile from breaking through his serious expression. “Relatively.”
I drop my head back against the headboard and try to remember why I thought coming here was a good idea. It’s been a month, and I don’t want Mike to be quiet, and as much as I hate to admit it, he looks really hot in that shirt and—
“Oh my fucking god.”
I look over at him, and he’s holding a picture.
It’s my first day of senior year, Nate with a big grin, and me, with my blonde hair grown out past my ears, swept across my forehead. My old black eyeliner. A Bring Me The Horizon shirt I bought at Hot Topic my freshman year that still fit because I was skinny back then.
I was the total opposite of who I am now, and Mike is staring at the picture with his mouth open in shock. “This is you?”
“Uh, yeah?” I say, not getting what the big deal is.
“Alex.” He holds it up. “What the actual— You didn’t tell me you used to look like this. When I met you, I thought you were a frat boy or something, and this whole time—”
“I changed.”
“Why?” He asks, genuinely distressed. “You used to be cool!”
I look at the picture.
At the kid who had no idea what was coming for him, who was nothing but his authentic self. Who thought that if he loved hard enough, he could fix someone who never wanted to be fixed.
“After Jason, I guess I wanted to blend in.”
Mike’s face does a thing, the distress draining out of it, and something sad taking its place when he looks down at me, a few months before my life changed forever.
He climbs onto the bed beside me and lies on his back, still staring at the picture with a pout.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m mourning,” he says, running his thumb along the picture of my face. “Leave me alone.”
I do, settling back and letting him do whatever he’s doing, with an eyeroll.
“If we had met first,” he says, shaking his head in despair. “I would have fucked you so good, you don’t even know.”
“Are you serious right now?” I ask, a blush creeping onto my cheeks.
“Completely. Just imagine.” He sighs wistfully, letting me take the picture.
I don’t have to imagine. I already have. A million times before.
“I used to lay in this bed,” I say, setting the frame on the bedside table and turning over to look at Mike. “On the days when I knew Nate had late practice. And I’d fuck myself with three fingers, my face buried in the pillow, imagining it was an older, tattooed rock star behind me.”
I look over at Mike, with his black hair and his tattoos. “And look where I am now,”
It comes out as a joke, making fun of my younger self, really.
But Mike isn’t laughing.
His blue eyes have gone dark as he reaches up and touches my face, his palm against my cheek, his thumb tracing my cheekbone, before sliding up through my hair.
“Wanna show me?” he asks.
I blink, having forgotten what we were even talking about. “What?”
“What you used to do.”
“I um—” I start, when my brain catches up. “I— I haven’t done that since…” I trail off, no need to finish that sentence.
“Maybe you should try,” he says, without an ounce of expectation. But somehow, he still doesn’t look at me like I’m broken. Right now, the only thing in his eyes is arousal, his cock pressing against my leg through his sweatpants.
I think that’s why I nod. “Maybe one finger.”
“Okay.” He brushes the hair off my forehead. “If it hurts, or you change your mind, you stop, okay?”
“Yeah. Okay.”
He holds my gaze, and whatever he finds must be what he’s looking for because he brings my index finger into his mouth, sucking lightly before swirling his tongue. His eyes stay on mine the whole time, and when I whimper, he laughs.
“Still okay?” he murmurs, letting a string of spit fall from his lips.
I can’t form words right now, so I nod.
He helps me push my boxers down, and his hand lands on the side of my ass, resting there, grounding me.
When I slide my fingers down to my hole, I go slow.
Slower than I used to in this bed, desperate and craving someone’s touch.
Part of me hasn’t been able to shake the fear that I haven’t healed from what Jason did to me.
That this thing that used to feel good never will again, and I don’t want to face that.
But I don’t have to.
I exhale through my nose, surprised when all I feel is the familiar pressure. No pain at all. “Good?” Mike asks, his fingers sliding up my side.
“Yeah.” My voice comes out rough, and he smiles, happy for me, and I almost laugh, but it actually feels good, and I find my prostate and—
I close my eyes, biting my lip so I don’t let out a sound.
“There you go, " Mike says, pulling my head in to hide in his chest, blocking the little moans I can’t hold in from the rest of the world.
It’s easier than I thought it would be, sinking back into the familiarity of it. But then, I mess it up by adding a second finger too quickly, the way I used to, and my breath stutters out of me at the stretch, preparing for more pain.
Mike freezes when I flinch, and I look up at him to tell him it’s okay, but he doesn’t make a big deal out of it. Instead, he produces a small bottle of lube.
“You had that in your pocket,” I say, my breath heavier than it was a minute ago.
“I told you.” He raises an eyebrow. “I was getting laid tonight one way or another.”
My laugh dies in my throat before it even gets started because my finger taps my prostate again. Mike watches with hooded eyes, his hand running through my hair, scanning my face for every reaction, and I pause my movements when I remember him saying I like making people feel out of their mind.
You’d be so hot like this.
He notices my pause, and I know he thinks it’s for another reason. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” I nod. “I just—” I stop, looking away from those eyes. “Would you want to—could you maybe—” My ears are going hot, and I have no idea why. We’ve been fucking for months.
“Do you want some help?” he asks, and he says it all soft, but I can hear the stupid smirk in his voice, and I hate him.
And I love him.
“Yeah. I think I’ll be okay. But I—” I reach up and touch his face, making sure he’s looking at me. “I need to see you.”
He nods, giving my lips a light kiss. “Whatever you need, baby.”
“In that case, take that stupid crop top off.”
He laughs way too loud, ruining the moment, but he pulls it over his head and flings it across the room, hitting my shelves, and I shake my head at this ridiculous, beautiful man I’ve somehow convinced to love me.
But I stay right where I am when he pins me in place with his gaze.
He moves closer, and I lift my leg, hooking it over his hip, opening myself up to him. He finds the lube, slicking up his fingers, and then his hand is behind me, spreading my ass, and I feel the tip of his finger pressing in and—
“Oh.”
He’s gentle about it at first, one finger, slower than even I was, and I need more, or I’m actually going to die. But I don’t even have to tell him that. He knows exactly what he’s doing, touching me in a way that feels deeper, so much better than my own fingers.
And so much better than anything I ever did with Jason.
“Mike,” I say, moaning around his name loud enough that he brings a hand up, covering my mouth.
“I know,” he whispers. “Gotta be quiet though. Don’t want anybody to hear.”
“You—” I mumble around his palm, my whole body shuddering when he does something fucking delicious with his finger. “Oh my god.”
“There?” he asks, but by the knowing smirk on his face, he already knows the answer.
I hold onto his wrist, moaning around his plam, “Please don’t stop.”
He watches my face the entire time, almost as gone as I am, his lip between his teeth and his cock, ignored in his sweatpants, pressing hard against my own, leaking on his pants.
He adds a second finger, and don’t ask me what happens after that. I’m a mess within five seconds, and I can’t even be embarrassed when Mike is looking at me like that, and his hand is moving from my mouth to my hair, brushing the loose strands out of my face.
“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers, twisting his fingers in a way that makes me wish his hand was still covering my mouth. “So good, baby.”
“Gonna come like this?”
I nod, words are gone, everything is gone except Mike and his eyes and the pressure building that I’ve been chasing forever, and my cock begging to be touched.
“Look at me,” he says, and I find his eyes, fighting not to close my own.
My hand moves between us, and Mike exhales sharply through his nose when I push his sweatpants down, letting his cock spring out, wrapping my fingers around both of us at once.
He’s hard and hot and leaking against my palm and my cock, mixing with my own come, and the sound he can’t hold in when I stroke us almost ends it before I’ve even started.
He presses down on my prostate, and I fight for anything resembling composure, my body pulling tight as I stroke us faster.
When I finally fall over the edge, my hand tightens around us harder than I mean to. Mike groans, and he’s coming too, spilling over my grip with me, his fingers still buried inside me, curling one more time, pulling a helpless sound out of me.
He takes his fingers out of me as carefully as he can, but I still wince at the empty feeling. He notices, and pauses his movement.
“I’m good,” I tell him, meaning every word. “Really good.”