Chapter 15
Damien
My ribs are turning purple. I stand in front of the bathroom mirror with my shirt pushed up, fingers pressing carefully against the bruises blooming along my side where Eric managed to catch me during the fight before Atlas dragged me off him.
It hurts just enough to annoy me every time I breathe too deeply.
“Fucking asshole,” I mutter.
The problem is that I barely even care about the bruises. What I care about is the fact that Atlas left. The memory replays over and over in my head, no matter how many times I try to stop thinking about it.
This isn’t fake anymore.
Don’t make this something it’s not.
Jesus Christ.
I drag a hand down my face. I didn’t mean it the way it sounded.
At least, I don’t think I did. The issue is that I panic every single time things get real with Atlas. The closer he gets, the more terrified I become that eventually he’s going to see every ugly part of me and realize he deserves someone better. And now I’ve hurt him because of it.
I stare down at my phone on the bathroom counter.
Still no response to the texts I sent last night.
I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have handled Eric like that at such an important event.
It got too real and I...
I don’t like it when people come for you.
Or my text this morning.
Good morning.
Or the dry apology attempt I made an hour ago that just said please talk to me.
Nothing.
Atlas never ignores me. I exhale slowly and glance back toward the mirror. The bruises along my ribs look dramatic enough against my skin that an idea forms immediately.
A stupid idea.
Which, unfortunately, means it’s probably going to work.
I pull my shirt off and grab my phone. The lighting in the bathroom is good, so I snap a picture in the mirror wearing only low-slung basketball shorts, my bruised ribs fully visible, curls messy enough that I look freshly fucked instead of emotionally unstable.
Then I send it directly to Atlas.
eric can do some fucking damage
The typing bubble appears almost instantly. Relief hits me embarrassingly fast.
Atlas: Are you seriously trying to apologize with a thirst trap?
I grin despite myself.
Me: idk. would that work?
Three dots appear.
Disappear.
Reappear.
I can practically feel him fighting a smile through the phone. That makes my chest ache. I lean against the counter and take another picture before I can overthink it.
This one is worse.
Or better.
Depends who you ask.
The shorts ride lower this time, my fingers hooked into the waistband just enough to expose the sharp V of my hipbones disappearing beneath the fabric.
It’s suggestive, definitely enough to make Atlas lose his mind a little.
I send it.
Atlas: Damien.
I grin harder.
Me: what?
Atlas: This is not going to work.
Me: really?
A pause.
Atlas: No.
Liar. I can practically hear the strain in that response. I stare at the screen for a second before typing again.
Me: send a picture of your dick if it’s really not working
The reply takes longer this time, long enough that I know Atlas is debating whether to encourage me. Then my phone buzzes.
Fuck.
Atlas sends a mirror picture from what looks like his bedroom—shirtless, gray sweatpants hanging low on his hips, and very obviously hard.
Atlas: See? I’m fine.
I physically lean back against the sink. Jesus Christ.
The picture is somehow worse because it’s not polished at all. His hair is messy, his expression annoyed in that fake-irritated way he gets when he’s flustered, his arm tattoos stretching across warm skin while one hand holds the phone carelessly.
It feels intimate, like something meant only for me.
My stomach flips hard enough to piss me off.
Me: wow. i guess you’re right. you should probably let me inspect it in person.
Atlas replies instantly this time.
Atlas: you better mean “suck it in person”
Me: would that make you forgive me?
There’s a pause after that, long enough that my chest tightens.
Atlas: maybe
Relief settles over me again, warm and dangerous.
I stare at the picture one more second before typing.
Me: still mad at me?
The typing bubble appears immediately.
Atlas: yes.
Fair. I bite the inside of my cheek for a second before sending another picture. This one isn’t teasing anymore.
I’m sprawled across my bed now, shorts pushed lower, bruised ribs still visible while one arm stretches above my head. The expression on my face looks softer than I intended. Vulnerable, almost.
Like I miss him.
Which…fuck. I do.
Atlas takes almost a full minute to respond this time. When he does, it’s another picture—still shirtless, with his hand disappearing beneath the waistband of his sweatpants just enough to make my pulse jump violently.
Atlas: you are making it very difficult to stay mad
Heat curls low in my stomach, and the tension between us shifts. The anger softens around the edges, turning into something hotter and heavier instead.
I sink fully onto the mattress while we keep texting. Flirting turns into teasing. Teasing turns into full-on sexting so naturally it almost startles me. Atlas gets filthy when he’s emotional. I’ve learned that the more worked up he is, the dirtier his mouth gets.
And right now, he’s clearly still upset enough to make every message hit like a punch directly to my nervous system.
Atlas: You looked so good in that tux last night, I almost dragged you out of the ballroom
I swallow hard.
Me: you did drag me out of the ballroom.
The response comes immediately.
Atlas: careful.
I grin despite myself.
I press record on my phone. My hand starts rubbing the bulge clearly forming in my shorts. I start to breathe heavily, my fingers toying with myself.
My hand slips into my shorts, and I start jacking myself off under the fabric.
I send the video.
Atlas: Jesus fucking Christ.
Warm satisfaction settles over me.
Me: i thought it wasn’t working?
A full minute passes before a video appears.
Atlas is standing before his dresser, phone propped up against something. His hand is now pumping under his sweatpants, a small wet spot forming where the tip of his dick should be. His free hand grabs his pec, his fingers digging into the plush muscle.
The message attached to it makes my pulse jump.
Atlas: you know exactly what you do to me
I type back before I can think too hard about it.
Me: you look obscene.
The reply comes instantly.
Atlas: you started this
I smirk slightly and stretch back across the bed, basketball shorts riding even lower on my hips.
I stare at the screen too long before typing back.
Me: if you weren’t mad at me, you could come over and fuck me right now.
Me: but im still in the doghouse :(
Atlas: Damien.
Me: what?
Atlas: youre being bratty because you know i cant get my hands on you right now
I grin despite myself. He’s right. I absolutely enjoy winding him up.
Especially because Atlas always acts so composed in public. Calm. Charming. In control. Then I get him alone and suddenly he’s all rough hands and filthy whispers and desperate kisses. The thought alone makes heat crawl down my spine.
Me: i just miss your mouth
Atlas: you cannot say shit like that when im already this hard
I laugh under my breath.
Me: sounds like a personal problem
Another picture arrives, and it nearly ruins me.
Atlas is lying back against the pillows now, his sweatpants pushed down on his thighs like he couldn’t get out of them fast enough. His expression looks wrecked already, lips parted slightly while his abs tense under warm bedroom lighting. His cock is pink and hard against his stomach.
The caption reads:
come fix it
My stomach flips violently. God. I bite down hard on my lower lip before responding.
Me: you still mad at me?
Atlas: im trying to be.
The honesty in that hits me harder than the pictures somehow. I stare at the screen quietly for a second before responding.
Me: im sorry.
Atlas: i know you are
Another pause.
Atlas: but sending me shirtless pictures while talking about another man bruising you is psychological warfare
I snort softly.
Me: you jealous?
Atlas: violently
Something warm spreads through my chest. Atlas’s possessiveness does something deeply unhealthy to my brain, especially because I know he means it.
I roll onto my stomach and snap another picture, this one mostly teasing—bare chest against dark sheets, curls messy, one hand beneath the pillow.
Atlas replies so fast it’s almost embarrassing.
Atlas: i think i’ll die if I dont fuck you soon, honey
Me: youre dramatic
Atlas replies with a video of him saying my name over and over while he rubs his dick.
Atlas: come home
I grin, then decide to push.
Me: you wouldnt last a full day without talking to me
Atlas: You overestimate yourself.
Me: send me another video
A minute or two passes before I get a dirty porno starring the hottest man in the world.
He’s standing in front of the mirror fully naked, one hand holding the phone while the other rubs his long cock for me.
It shines slightly in the light, making me think he got some lube to really make himself feel good.
My hand starts working my dick as his moans fill my ears.
“Oh, fuck.”
A moment later, another message appears.
Atlas: Damien, if you were here right now id pin you to the mattress and make you say something honest for once
My breath catches. I stare at the screen for a second too long before typing back, slower this time.
Me: maybe id let you
Atlas: let me?
Atlas: you always let me
Atlas: Please tell me you’re touching yourself.
Heat rushes through me.
I shift against the mattress, my pulse hammering harder while the tension between us thickens into something almost unbearable.
Me: of course I am
Atlas: show me
I press record.
I squirt some lube onto my penis and smooth it down my shaft. Then I slip my fingers between my legs and start fingering my asshole.
My hips buck off the bed. “Oh, fuck, Atlas.”
I send it and then pull up the video of him rubbing himself so I have something to finger myself to.