4 | Nathan
Nathan
Iam watching my boyfriend as he pretends to watch his show playing on the laptop screen—one that he picked for tonight, knowing full well that I hate it.
He loves it, though, or he loves the fact that I don’t.
Which makes me love it as well. It’s weird how being in love can influence you in this life.
For normal people, loving someone might mean you suddenly love the color orange, eating Chinese food, and watching rom-coms in the dark with them in your arms. For us, it means I chase women through a maze, riding a motorcycle with my boyfriend and his cousin by my side—the chaos twins who entered my life and made sure to turn it upside down.
I have always been curious about those two, even before we met.
They looked so much alike back then. They still do, but now it’s relatively easy to tell them apart.
What drew me to them wasn’t their resemblance, but the fact that they stood by each other no matter what.
I first laid eyes on Mike when he beat up a kid to defend Liam in the schoolyard.
Everyone was cheering, but Mike seemed like he was holding back.
He didn’t hurt the boy; he merely scared him.
He let him escape with just a few bruises, but if you observed him closely—which is exactly what I was doing, hidden among the bodies surrounding the boys fighting—it was clear he was pulling his punches.
I could tell from the way his knuckles turned white while he held a tight fist in the air, threatening the boy beneath him with another blow that never actually came.
And then he did the one thing no one who actually wants to beat someone up does: he let the boy go.
He moved away on the ground, releasing the boy he had held down with his weight, allowing him to run away.
What was truly interesting was that he didn’t even check himself for damage from the fight.
Instead, he ran to the boy who looked just like him.
He kneeled by his side, taking his tear-soaked face in his hands.
He whispered words to him—words I couldn’t hear—but the boy smiled and nodded in agreement before allowing Mike to help him to his feet.
They walked away without acknowledging the people cheering over them.
He didn’t glance at them even once. He didn’t care if they cheered or if he was their little hero for taking down the bully who terrorized the school and every weak kid he could get his hands on. He only cared about Liam.
I see him now—how his body relaxes after I let him know that Liam is safe and escaped the cops.
I know well that my boyfriend worries about his cousin.
I worry too. It’s not because I think Liam will get caught; I know he won't. Those insanely strict rules he placed upon our little group the first night of the hunt are working.
Even if Mike despises them, they are there for our safety.
As long as Liam is in charge of that, we will be safe.
What makes me worry is Mike himself. It’s not that I’m worried he will break over his cousin almost getting caught—this man never breaks.
It doesn’t matter what happens to him; he remains standing no matter what.
The fact that he is so unbothered is what worries me, because I know my man.
He keeps everything inside. Every little thing that happens to him piles up into a mountain of despair until he grabs a knife and sinks it into the flesh of a woman just to see her blood spill.
At least that’s one way he lets out the frustration building inside him.
The other way... the one I can actually help with...
is much easier, and oh so complicated sometimes.
I scoot closer to him as he sits next to me on the couch.
He insists on sitting on the floor while we eat and watch movies and TV shows.
But it’s been hours since we arrived at the house, the food is gone, and we are well three episodes into that dreadful show.
Around episode two, Mike moved from the floor to the couch next to me, but he hadn't allowed me to touch him. He curled into a corner, waiting.
I’m not exactly sure what he’s waiting for.
Maybe he’s waiting for me to object to his declaration of shattering the rules soon by claiming more victims in this town, or maybe it’s the fact that his cousin almost got caught.
Maybe he doesn’t show his concern, but he feels it anyway.
It bothers me how much of an enigma he still is to me, even after years of being together.
I move a little closer. He pretends to watch his show, literally ignoring me to my face. “You know...” I start, but my words seem to find no target. It’s as if he suddenly went deaf. “Mike, you can’t ignore me every time I don’t agree with you,” I argue.
“I’m not,” he says, though he is. “I’m watching the show.”
“You’ve watched this damn show at least three times already. You can spare a minute to look at me,” I say in a voice that doesn't allow him to disobey this time.
“Yes, sir,” he says with a smirk.
“Don’t ‘yes, sir’ me,” I warn.
“Yes. Sir,” he tells me again, this time fully turning to look at me, his face inches from mine. My hand finds his blond hair and curls into a fist, weaving his golden locks between my fingers.
“Fucking brat,” I say, my voice low, almost threatening. I take his lips with mine, claiming them like I have a million times before. I stand while still kissing him, and his body follows mine without leaving the couch until I am towering over him.
“Turn around,” I say, breaking our kiss. He takes a sharp breath and does as he’s told.
“Good boy,” I say in a husky voice into his ear—a whisper between us, a warning as much as a praise.
“Yes, sir.” The words slip from his mouth with meaning now. They aren't teasing words; it’s submission. He knows what is asked of him in this moment.
I unzip my pants as he does the same, lowering his pants to his knees and taking his boxers with them.
My good boy, always eager to get fucked.
I spit on my hand and coat my aching cock, already hard and ready to get inside him.
With my other hand, while I stroke myself, I reach for his mouth and push two fingers inside.
He sucks them, coating them with his saliva just as I wanted, without me having to say a word.
“Spread yourself for me. I want to see that asshole, pretty boy.” I use the little nickname he earned the first year we met, back when he was still following Liam around like a guard dog, ready to bite anyone who came close to him.
He was so pretty, yet so vicious. I loved how annoyed he got by that nickname, although eventually, he learned to love it. I never stopped using it.
He grips both cheeks with his hands and pulls slightly, giving me a view of the tight hole I love claiming each night.
I drop to my knees, my hand still stroking my cock.
I bring my face between his hands, and my tongue passes over his tight hole just once.
It’s enough to see his body language change.
A shiver goes through him as if he were just electrocuted.
I love how reactive my good boy is. I tease around the edges of it with my tongue—slowly, deliberately.
I push my tongue inside him, and a moan escapes him.
Eating ass has always seemed like a submissive’s job in my mind, but with Mike, I never think twice.
Making him moan like this feels as if God is blessing me—and I know that would never happen. God deserted us long ago.
I pull away from him and push two fingers inside while still stroking myself.
They slip in and out of him with ease, and more moans escape my pretty boy.
He reaches for his cock with one hand, holding himself steady with the other.
He strokes himself as my fingers fuck him.
I wait—not too long, but long enough until he’s on the edge of an orgasm—before I remove them.
A sound of protest escapes him for a moment, but it's quickly replaced with another moan when I stand and push inside him without warning.
I don’t wait this time. I am not slow with my movements; he doesn’t need that. I grip his hair with one hand and his hip with the other while I drive myself in and out of him with fast, punishing thrusts.
“Good boy. Let me fuck you like you deserve,” I say into his ear in the same husky voice as before, and I feel him tremble beneath me. He moans and bites the couch cushion, trying to keep himself from screaming louder as he strokes himself faster, matching my pace.
It’s not long before I am spilling inside him, and he follows closely, coating the cushion with white streams of cum. I kiss his shoulder softly and whisper to him one last time before I pull away and collapse onto the other end of the couch, sinking into the cushions.
“I would do anything for you. You know this, right?”
The question remains in the air, floating between us as he pulls up his underwear and pants and leaves the living room. He doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t need to. Everything has already been said in the silence.