Chapter 14 The Climax
Lake had vowed a long time ago to never hurt someone, especially someone he cared about. Not physically, not mentally, not emotionally.
It was why he didn’t do situationships.
He’d known from a young age that he wouldn’t be the kind of man his dad had been. The kind of person who claimed they hurt you because they loved you. The kind of person who thought flowers and apologies patched over black eyes, broken bones and years of betrayal.
Lake had decided he would be the kind of boyfriend people envied.
The kind who brought soup when you were sick, remembered your favorite candy, kissed your forehead just because.
The kind who fell in love with every fiber of his being and simp’d for his partner to an embarrassing degree.
He’d been sure he’d find that person by now, but he hadn’t.
In twenty-six years, he hadn’t met someone who stirred him.
So he kept things casual.
Simple.
Human.
A one-night stand to take the edge off. A mutual release. A warm goodbye. No names unless they wanted to give them. No expectations. No hurt feelings.
But this—this was different.
The boy—whoever he was—beneath him was trying so hard to act like he didn’t care, like he was unbothered by whatever was happening between them.
But Lake wasn’t blind. He wasn’t new to this.
He knew what desire looked like. He knew what fear looked like.
He knew what hunger disguised as defiance looked like.
And that was what ‘Miles’ radiated. He was an abused puppy trying to bite before he got kicked.
He was trembling, twitchy, pushing Lake away with snark and snapping words, then dragging him back in with his mouth or his fingers in Lake’s suit.
It was like his body physically resisted soft touches even while craving them.
As if gentleness was something foreign. Dangerous.
Untrustworthy. Lake recognized that kind of flinch. It tugged at something deep in him.
Maybe he was a sucker. Maybe this boy played vulnerable to get what he wanted. Maybe the prickliness was an act. But Lake’s gut instinct rarely failed him. And his gut told him the boy wasn’t acting. Not even a little.
There was something about him—this contradiction of sharp tongue and trembling breath—that was absurdly sexy. The way he pretended softness repelled him while his restless hips kept grinding up against Lake’s every time Lake grazed his teeth across the sensitive hinge of his jaw… Jesus.
The kid was killing him.
He had somehow managed to get him out of his hoodie and basketball shorts, and he’d done it carefully.
Slowly. Pausing whenever Miles stiffened, waiting for an objection that never came.
The spandex suit beneath was actually two pieces—thank god—because it made it easier for Lake to slip his hands beneath the hem and feel skin.
Warm. Bare. Unexpectedly delicate.
Miles was small but wiry, lean muscles earned from actual movement, not hours spent trying to sculpt biceps in a gym mirror.
Every inch of him was compact strength. But his skin…
his skin was soft everywhere Lake touched.
His waist. His ribs. His hips. Even his hands—when they weren’t fisting Lake’s suit—were soft.
Too soft for someone who acted like he was made entirely of barbed wire and sarcasm.
And his cheeks—Lake caught a glimpse when the mask rode up a little—were warm, flushed, almost rosy. His mouth was kiss-bitten already, pink and slick, and the idea that he had done that sent a low, aching satisfaction through Lake’s chest.
Jericho said he cared too much. He felt too much. Responded too much. Wanted too much. But every want came wrapped in fear. He recognized that fear in Miles. Except where Lake ran towards it, Miles tried to run.
Lake could feel it in the way he reacted to every stroke, like softness burned.
Like kindness was worse than any bruise he’d received.
Like he didn’t know what to do with someone who wanted to make him feel good without taking anything from him.
Who was he? How had they never crossed paths?
Or had they? It seemed impossible that Lake may have been in the same room as him without the two ever finding each other.
But it didn’t matter. They were there now. Even if it was just a one night stand. Lake pressed a kiss just below his jaw, slow and steady. Miles sucked in a sharp breath, fingers twitching like he was once more contemplating pushing him away.
“You’re shaking,” Lake murmured against his skin.
“I am not,” Miles snapped instantly. Defensive. Automatic.
Lake smiled softly against his neck. “Okay.”
He didn’t call him out. Didn’t challenge him. Didn’t demand anything. He’d stop if he asked, but Lake couldn’t think of anything he wanted less than to stop touching this boy. He skimmed his palms along the boy’s sides, feeling each shaky inhale as it shuddered through him.
Miles arched up a little, a betraying motion, then immediately stilled like he was furious with himself for giving away even that much. Lake lifted his head, careful. Measured.
The boy stared back at him, mouth parted like a soft invitation he’d never admit was intentional. And Lake felt something shift inside him. Something slow. Something deceptively dangerous.
Fuck.
He liked this boy.
Not just liked the way he looked or the way he sounded when Lake kissed him. He liked the way he fought tooth and nail. He liked the way he kept trying to shove Lake into a role he didn’t want to fill. He liked the way every bit of bravado cracked the second Lake touched him gently.
He liked the idea of being the first person to show him that gentle and good could still feel filthy hot.
“You okay?” Lake asked softly, brushing a knuckle down the boy’s cheek.
Miles twitched. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“No reason,” Lake murmured. “Just checking in.”
Miles scowled like that was the worst possible answer. His fingers curled into the front of Lake’s suit again, tugging him down, muttering, “Shut up and kiss me.”
Lake smiled. Warm. Obedient.
He lowered his mouth to his again—slow, coaxing, reverent—because God help him, he wanted to kiss this boy for hours, would have been fine with doing nothing more than that until the sun came up.
Lake was quickly getting addicted to the soft sounds he made, the way he writhed under even a hint of attention.
He liked how small he felt beneath him, how his breath hitched every time Lake’s fingers skimmed over warm skin, how he clung to Lake’s shoulders like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to be kissed or devoured.
When Lake pulled him upright and tugged off his shirt, Miles didn’t fight.
He just lifted his arms like a sleepy toddler letting someone undress him, the mask still sitting just at his cheekbones.
Lake’s mouth twitched. For someone who strutted around like a mouthy menace, he was shockingly compliant the second gentleness entered the equation.
When Lake pushed him back down—carefully, slowly—Miles threw his forearm across his mask, hiding his eyes like he didn’t want to see what was coming next. Or maybe like seeing would make it too real.
Lake sat up, straddling his hips, running both hands over his abdomen with a reverent slowness that made the boy’s breath stutter.
He mapped the contours of lean muscle, the subtle dips between ribs, the tight tension in his stomach.
When his thumbs brushed over the peaks of Miles’s tight nipples, the boy jerked like he’d been startled.
Lake leaned down and took one into his mouth.
The moment his lips closed around the sensitive bud, Miles’s hips bucked up beneath him, a strangled whine tearing free. Lake nearly groaned.
God, those sounds.
He scraped his teeth very gently over the peak, just enough to tease, not enough to hurt. Miles grabbed at Lake’s suit again, fingers clutching the fabric like he needed something to anchor himself to.
“Take it off,” he panted, pulling at his costume, breathless and bossy in a way that made Lake smile. “I want to see you, too.”
Lake sat up and peeled the top half of the suit off in a single fluid motion.
He heard the tiny gasp immediately, sharp, involuntary, unguarded.
Then small hands landed on his abdomen, hesitant at first, then bold.
Fingers traced the ridges of muscle, ghost-light touches that made goosebumps rise across Lake’s skin.
“How do you look like a superhero even without the costume,” he whispered, almost as if he didn’t mean for it to come out.
Lake snorted, embarrassed in a way he hadn’t been in years. “Hardly.”
But the way Miles was touching him—soft, almost reverent—made his pulse pound.
Miles dragged him back down into another kiss, messy and needy and immediate, like he couldn’t stand even a second of distance. Lake liked how desperately he clung, how he tugged at him, how his little noises kept slipping out against his will.
And yeah…he liked that this cocky, sarcastic little shit seemed wholly out of his depth without anything rough. Like tenderness scrambled his brain.
Their clothes disappeared in fragments between kisses—spandex, shorts, gloves, the rest of Lake’s suit—shed piece by piece as if vanishing under the heat they kept stoking between them.
Every time Lake tried to pull back to breathe, Miles reeled him in again like they were sharing oxygen.
Soon the only thing between them was the bottom of Miles' costume.
“For someone who hates softness,” Lake teased, lips brushing his jaw, “you sure are clingy.”
Miles froze. Just a fraction. But Lake felt it.
Then Miles dropped his hands from Lake’s shoulders like he’d been burned. “Whatever,” he said softly. Too softly. The bravado cracked at the edges.
“Hey,” Lake murmured, tipping his head. “Don’t be like that. I like it. You’re the one acting like I need to give you a black eye to get you off.”