Chapter 13 The Meet-Cute #2
He was so startled by the softness that he didn’t even react when Miguel caught his chin between thumb and forefinger, tilting his head just right and tugging his mouth open. He balled his hands into fists as Miguel swept his tongue inside, slow, unhurried, tasting him like he had all night.
Matty’s breath stuttered. He kissed back tentatively, tongue brushing shyly against Miguel’s. He didn’t know what to do with his hands, touching felt…dangerous. Too intimate. Too much.
Miguel finally pulled back just enough to look at him.
“Look at you,” he murmured, voice warm and amused, mouth so close it ghosted over Matty’s swollen lower lip. “All riled up from a kiss. You’re so cute.”
“Fuck off,” Matty mumbled, but there was no heat to it. Not when his pulse was hammering so loudly he was pretty sure Miguel could hear it.
The grin he received in return—crooked, amused, almost fond—had him faltering. “And aggressive,” he said. When he saw Matty’s downturned mouth, he only smiled wider. “What? You don’t like when I call you cute?”
“You sure do talk a lot for someone who was looking for a hookup.”
Miguel tilted his head, considering him. “Is that what this is? A hookup?”
Matty’s brow furrowed behind the mask. “Isn’t it?”
His stomach plummeted into his shoes as Miguel once more ghosted his lips over Matty’s. “Depends on how far you’ll let me go.”
Matty could feel every breath like it took effort. The air felt heavier somehow, thick in his chest. He forced a careless shrug. “You can go all the way if you just shut up and take off your pants.”
“Can we at least go to bed, bossy?” Miguel murmured, closing the distance again. “Or do you want me to just fuck you up against the door?”
Matty gasped—actually gasped—and instantly hated himself for it. That only made Miguel chuckle, low and warm.
“Oh, you like that, huh? Dirty, dirty, boy.”
“Fuck you,” Matty snapped, too quiet and too breathy to be convincing.
There it was again, that infuriatingly soft laugh. Gentle, not mocking. “You could…if you wanted.”
His lips brushed Matty’s again, exploratory this time. Curious. His tongue swept lightly across Matty’s lower lip before gliding inside, mapping out his mouth one slow stroke at a time.
“But I don’t think that’s what you want,” Miguel murmured into the kiss.
“You don’t know what I want,” Matty said, and even to his own ears he sounded like he was arguing for the sake of it, pushing because he didn’t know how to do anything else.
Miguel didn’t bristle. Didn’t push back with ego or heat. Instead, he touched Matty’s cheek with the backs of his fingers, featherlight. Like he knew Matty might bolt.
“Well,” he said, soft as warm hands on a winter morning, “if you’re looking for someone who’s going to fuck you like they hate you, I’m not the guy for you. I’m not really into that.”
Matty froze.
He wasn’t sure what he was into, really.
He just knew he didn’t do feelings. The idea of someone being soft with him felt far more dangerous than any rough hookup he’d ever stumbled into drunk.
And he didn’t usually do sex sober. He would be far too in his head for that.
So he wasn’t sure what had possessed him to drag a stranger upstairs, except the way Miguel had looked at him.
Like he wasn’t a mess. Like he wasn’t a complication. Like he wasn’t a burden.
“What are you into, then?” Matty asked, pretending he wasn’t afraid of the answer.
Miguel took his hand—careful, like he was asking permission even while doing it—and tugged him toward the queen-sized bed in the center of the room. When Matty sat, Miguel guided him back with gentle pressure and climbed over him, bracketing Matty’s hips with his thighs.
“I’m into making you feel good,” he said simply.
Matty swallowed. Hard. He had no idea what felt good.
His throat felt too tight. His chest too small.
“I’m just looking to get off,” he said quickly, defensively.
“They’re not mutually exclusive, you know.” Miguel leaned down, letting their noses brush. “Unless you’re one of those people who needs pain to feel anything.”
The comment hit Matty like a slap, not because Miguel was wrong…but because he wasn’t sure.
His last hookup was a blur, just flashing lights, the bitter taste of cheap beer, some guy’s hands on him, Jordan yelling at him the next morning about being reckless.
Matty couldn’t remember anything about it.
Not a single clear moment, but all his tests had come out negative.
He’d escaped with nothing more than a lecture from Jordan and a demand that he stop trying to prove something to a ghost.
He blinked up at Miguel.
“I don’t—” he started, then stopped, his throat working. “I don’t…actually know.”
Miguel’s mouth tensed, but the voice stayed gentle. “Hey. That’s okay. You don’t have to know.”
Matty looked away quickly, cheeks hot. He hated how exposed he felt, how easily this stranger peeled him open with nothing but softness. This had been a bad idea.
“You’re doing a lot of talking,” Matty muttered, trying to drag himself back to solid ground.
“You’re doing a lot of pretending you don’t like it,” Miguel countered.
Matty glared. Miguel just smiled. The bastard.
Before Matty could fire back, Miguel lowered himself, pressing their bodies together. Not grinding. Not rutting. Just…settling. Warm. Solid. His weight braced partly on his forearms so he wasn’t crushing Matty.
“I’m not here to mess with you,” Miguel said quietly. “We can stop. Or we can keep going. But I’m not going to do something if you look uncomfortable. If you tell me to stop, I’ll stop. No questions asked. I’m not into coercion. Do you want to keep going?”
Matty blinked hard because his vision did something stupid, like it threatened to blur. He hated that.
He hated how good this stranger felt to him. He hated how bad he wanted this softness from him.
Loser.
He didn’t know what to do with this…consideration.
“Yes. You don’t make a big thing out of it,” Matty muttered, but it came out rough, small, vulnerable. “It’s not a marriage proposal.”
Miguel nodded like he’d been expecting that answer. “Okay.”
Then he kissed him again.
Slow. Reverent. Warm.
Matty’s fingers twitched where they rested against the comforter before finally giving in, curling into the back of Miguel’s suit, gripping tight like he needed something to anchor him.
Miguel’s kiss deepened gradually, patient instead of greedy, tasting Matty one slow sweep at a time. His lips brushed, pressed, lingered, coaxing instead of demanding.
Matty’s hips jerked up—embarrassing, involuntary.
Miguel swallowed the sound he made, sliding a hand from Matty’s hip to the curve of his waist, thumb stroking the sliver of skin exposed where Matty’s hoodie had ridden up. Warmth shot through him at the touch. Pleasure, pure and startling. Something inside him tugged, tight and trembling.
“Jesus,” Matty whispered, breath shaking. “Why are you kissing me like—like that?”
“Like what?” Miguel asked softly, brushing their lips again.
“Like we’re…”
He swallowed.
“Like we’re what?” Miguel asked, teeth grazing Matty’s jaw.
“Like this means something. Like I’m…important or something.”
Miguel’s breath hitched now, just barely, but Matty felt it, like it was pressed right against his heart.
“Maybe you are,” he murmured.
Matty’s chest cracked open at the edges.
He shoved at Miguel’s shoulder in a knee-jerk panic, then grabbed him right back before Miguel could even move.
“Don’t—just don’t say shit like that,” he snapped, voice breaking. “I’m not—don’t—ugh, just don’t. Okay?”
“Okay,” Miguel whispered. No pushback. No argument. Just quiet acceptance. “No saying it. Just kissing?”
Matty hesitated for half a second…then nodded once, sharp and jerky.
Miguel kissed him again immediately—soft, obedient, warm—and Matty felt himself unravel another inch.
“Good,” Miguel murmured between kisses. “Just tell me what you want.”
Matty didn’t know how to say it out loud. Didn’t know how to admit the truth without sounding more pathetic than he already did. I want to feel good without feeling empty afterward. I want you to touch me like that again. I want to stop thinking for five seconds.
So he whispered the only thing he could manage.
“Just…kiss me harder.”
Miguel did.
He cupped Matty’s jaw and kissed him deeper, still gentle but with more heat, more tongue, more intention. Matty’s toes curled in his sneakers. His fingers flexed, dragging Miguel closer. He should stop. He should pull away. He should not be letting some masked stranger kiss him like this.
But God—He didn’t want to stop. He didn’t want to think. He didn’t want to go back downstairs and see Jordan flirting with the Crow or remember that he didn’t belong here.
He just wanted this.
Miguel drew back only long enough to murmur, voice low and sweet against Matty’s swollen mouth, “Tell me if you want to keep going.”
Matty dragged him back down by the front of his suit.
“Shut up,” he whispered. “And keep kissing me.”
Miguel smiled against his mouth, and obeyed.