14. Miguel
FOURTEEN
MIGUEL
The house has gone quiet, the way only an old place in autumn can. The pipes sigh. The floors groan. The refrigerator hums. But everything else is swallowed in that heavy silence that means Mom and Dad are down for the count.
Now is the time to play.
Caleb’s been pacing upstairs for at least half an hour.
I’ve heard the floorboards creak and caught his shadow crossing back and forth under the crack of his door.
He’s waiting for me to come to him. Pretending not to.
Every second he spends chewing his nails and wearing a hole in the carpet makes me harder.
He knows I’ll come. He just doesn’t know when.
That’s my favorite part.
I give him five more minutes. Then I slide out of my room, barefoot and soundless. The hall is dark, with only the faint nightlight down by the bathroom glowing. His door isn’t locked. I don’t even knock—I push it open and step inside.
He jumps like he’s been shocked. Hoodie wrinkled, hair a mess, eyes wide as a deer about to bolt. He tries to cover it, like I didn’t catch the way his hands clenched the sheets when I came in.
“Shh,” I whisper, shutting the door behind me. “You’ll wake them.”
“Miggy—”
That’s as far as he gets before I’m on him. I pin him to the bed, one hand over his mouth, my knee between his thighs. The mattress creaks, and his body goes stiff under mine.
“Scared?” I murmur against his ear.
He shakes his head, but it’s a lie. His pulse is a drum against my palm, too fast, too shallow. His body arches toward me even as his eyes plead for mercy.
My sweet, needy Caleb.
I let him breathe, pull my hand away slowly, and reach into my back pocket. The rope slides out, coil by coil, soft from years of use in his dad’s garage. His gaze drops to it, and his whole body goes still.
“No,” he whispers, but it isn’t resistance. It’s reverence.
“Yeah,” I say softly, dragging the rope across his chest, letting the fibers scrape his throat. “You know what this means.”
I catch his wrists, press them above his head, and thread the rope around them, slow and intricate. Every loop tightens his breath. Every tug draws a gasp out of him. His fingers twitch like he wants to pull away, but he doesn’t.
He won’t.
Because he wants this. He needs me to take control.
By the time I knot it to the headboard, his wrists are bound, skin flushed where the rope bites. I test the hold with a sharp yank. He gasps, chest heaving.
“There.” I brush his cheek gently. “Now you can’t run.”
I take my time with him. I always do.
I bend low, my mouth finding his, and kiss him hard enough to bruise. No sweetness, no warmth—just teeth scraping his lip, tongue forcing his mouth open. He moans into it, helpless, and I swallow the sound whole.
“When I was on my knees for you in the maze you called me pathetic, and I called you it too, but listen to me. Neither of us are pathetic, Caleb. So let’s stop using that word.” My thumb caresses his cheek, and he nods.
“You’re going to think about this when you’re away at school.” I murmur against his mouth. “You’ll sit in your little dorm pretending to be normal, but all you can think about is me tying you down, kissing your lips, and fucking you.”
His eyes flutter shut. He nods, small and broken.
“Tell me.” My hand tightens on his jaw.
“Yes.” His voice cracks. “I’ll be thinking about you. About this weekend.”
“Are you going to miss me?” I press my thumb hard against his chin until his lips part. “Is it going to be me that you stroke your cock to under the covers at night?”
His throat works. “Fuck, yes, Miguel—” He swallows. “—in my bed, in the shower. It will always be you that I think of.”
The confession pours fire through my veins. I laugh low, the sound vibrating against his mouth.
“Atta boy, baby. You already know it’ll be your perfect ass I’ll be dreaming of coming inside when I touch myself.
” I nip his ear, dragging my teeth down to his jaw, marking him with little bites no one will ever see.
He’s mine in ways they can’t imagine, and we’ll keep it that way until he’s ready.
“You gonna think about my cock in your mouth?” I rasp, letting the words burn between us. “About being on your knees like the whore you are, for only me?” My hand reaches between us and I feel his dick twitch as I brush over it.
He shudders under me, eyes flying open wide, as if he can’t believe I’d say it out loud. But his body already knows the truth. He arches, straining against the rope, desperate without even realizing it.
“Answer me.” My palm presses against his throat, not choking, just owning. “Will you?”
A strangled sound slips out of him. “Yes, Miguel.”
“Mmm, I bet you will.” I grin. “You want to be my filthy little brother-slut, huh? You dream about gagging on me while you play good boy for your professors? While you’re lacing up those basketball sneakers to practice.”
Tears sheen in his eyes, but his lips tremble as he nods.
“Yes.” It’s a broken whisper. “Yes.”
I smirk, satisfied, drunk on the sight of him wrecked and begging.
“You’re mine,” I tell him, slow and certain. “Say it back.”
“I’m yours,” he gasps.
The words brand themselves into me, hotter than any fire.
“I’m yours,” he breathes again, as if saying it twice might make me believe him.
I already do.
I drag my thumb over his lower lip, rough, forcing his mouth open. Then I push two fingers past his lips, slow enough to make his eyes flutter, but firm enough to remind him who decides when he breathes.
“Prove it,” I growl. “Show me how much you love being mine.”
He chokes around me at first, jaw straining, but then—like the good boy he is—he relaxes. His tongue flicks, tentative, then bolder, sucking like he knows it’s the only thing that’ll keep me pleased.
I watch his face. Watch the tears prick at the corners of his eyes as he gags, drool slicking his chin.
Beautiful.
“That’s it,” I croon, curling my free hand into his hair to hold him steady. “Take it. Imagine it’s my cock.”
A muffled sound rumbles in his throat—half a sob, half a moan. He’s trembling against the headboard, wrists straining, body arching like he’s caught between wanting to flee and wanting to sink deeper into me.
I ease my fingers out, strings of spit clinging, and smear them across his cheek. His chest heaves, mouth red and swollen, and eyes glassy with humiliation and need.
“You love it,” I tell him. “Being used. Being mine.”
“Yes,” he gasps, voice shredded. “I love it.”
The admission hits me like a fist to the gut. Heat surges low and sharp, and I’m hungry enough to devour him whole.
“God, I fucking need to be inside of you.”
“Please,” His voice cracks, raw and desperate. “Untie me, I need you… fuck, please.”
“You’re going to ride me, Caleb. So I can kiss you. Unless you want me to take you from behind.” Still giving him the option to choose how he wants me inside him. While I know Caleb needs for me to be in control, this is something I have to let him decide.
Heat rushes to his cheeks as I untie his hands. “From behind. I’m—I’m just not ready to be on top.”
I lean forward and kiss him, nice and soft. “However you want it. If I need to stop, you say so.”
“Okay, Miguel.” Without pause, he pulls his sweatshirt over his head and is out of his shorts in a flash. I came in only wearing shorts, with no underwear, so I’m undressed even faster.
The way he bares himself so fast, cheeks flushed, chest heaving—it’s almost enough to make me lose control.
But not tonight. Tonight, he deserves care.
Caleb kneels on the bed in front of me, shoulders trembling, face buried in the pillow.
I run my hands over his back, slow and steady, feeling every shiver.
I press him gently down onto his stomach, hands sliding along his spine.
“Easy, baby. Let me take my time with you.”
“I trust you, Miggy.”
“Look at you,” I murmur, pressing a kiss between his shoulder blades. “So beautiful like this. Ready for me.”
He lets out a shaky laugh. “You’re just saying that.”
I shake my head, sliding down his spine, planting kisses until I reach the dip of his lower back. “No, Caleb. I mean it. You’re everything.”
His breath stutters.
The words hit harder than they should. I kiss the back of his neck, lingering there until I feel him soften.
I take my time with the lube, slicking my fingers until they shine. Then I ease one against him, circling, waiting for the tiny hitch in his breath that tells me he’s ready. He tenses, then relaxes, letting me in.
“That’s it,” I whisper. “So good for me.”
One finger becomes two, stretching him slowly. I curl them just right, watching his thighs tremble, listening to the soft whimpers he tries to smother in the pillow.
I put just the right amount of pressure on a spot that makes him gasp, clutching the sheets, but he doesn’t pull away. I keep whispering to him, filling the silence with praise. “So tight, Caleb. You’re doing so well for me. So fucking perfect.”
By the time I work in a third, he’s shaking, sweat beading at his hairline. But his hips rock back into me, desperately. My cock aches, heavy and throbbing, but I don’t rush. Not with him.
“Tell me when, Caleb.”
He lifts his head, eyes glassy, lips parted. “Now. Please, Miggy. I need you.”
I slick myself thoroughly, every piercing catching against my palm. I line up and pause, hands steady on his hips. “Breathe for me. I’ll go slow.”
The first stretch pulls a sharp cry from his throat. I still, leaning over to kiss his temple. “Shhh. You’re okay. I’ve got you. You’re doing so well... Just let me in. That’s it, mi amor…”
The words slip out before I can stop them. Mi amor. My love.
He swallows hard, knuckles white in the sheets. “More. Please, don’t stop.”
Inch by inch, I sink deeper, the heat of him clenching around every ridge of my Jacob’s Ladder. It’s almost unbearable—too good, too much—but I force myself to keep it steady.
“Fuck,” I whisper, forehead pressed to his shoulder. “Eres todo para mí, Caleb.”
He lets out a sob, half pleasure, half something raw, and I know he heard it.
Once I’m fully seated inside him, I still again, letting him adjust. His back arches, sweat slicking his skin. “So big,” he gasps.
I kiss the curve of his shoulder. “And you’re taking every inch. Like a fucking pro, baby.”
When I finally move, it’s slow, careful thrusts, the barbell piercings dragging deliciously over his sensitive walls. His whole body arches, a strangled moan escaping.
“God, you feel so good, Miguel,” he moans.
“Yeah?” I groan, gripping his hips tighter. “Then shut up and ride my cock, baby. Milk me until I fill your tight ass.”
His whole body shudders. “Yes—fuck, yes—”
I reach under, stroking his cock in time with my thrusts, wringing cries from him that sound half-broken, half-ecstatic.
“Don’t stop,” he pants. “Don’t you dare fucking stop.”
“I won’t,” I swear, stroking him fast, matching the pace of my thrusts. “I’ve got you. Always.”
That’s all it takes. He comes hard into my fist, body clenching around me, milking me until I can’t hold back. My release tears through me, spilling deep inside him with a groan I bury in his neck.
For a long moment, all I can do is hold him there, chest to his back, both of us shaking. Then I ease out of him carefully, kissing his back when he winces at the loss. “Shh, I’ve got you.” I grab a towel and clean him meticulously, murmuring praise the whole time. “So good. You did so well, baby.”
He watches me through glassy eyes, like he can’t believe I’m still touching him softly after all that. I slide into bed beside him, pulling him against me. He curls into my chest immediately, still trembling faintly.
“You okay?” I ask, brushing sweaty hair from his forehead.
“Better than okay,” he whispers. His voice cracks, raw. “I’ve never felt—” He cuts himself off, burying his face in my chest.
I kiss his hair. “You don’t have to say it. Just let me hold you.”
And I do. I keep him tucked tight in my arms, stroking his back until his breath evens out.
“Mi vida,” I whisper when I know he’s asleep.
He’s mine.
Always mine.