Chapter 61
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
Blood pumps through my body in a rushing sound. I feel hot everywhere, and when I think about it, my dick throbs. I can’t tell if this is anger, arousal, adrenaline, or maybe all three?
I let myself be happy for the tiniest second today, and it feels terrifying, good, and oddly upsetting.
Fuck, I can practically see Micah’s pulse pounding in his neck under that pretty, pale skin, and damn, I just want to bite it. Sink my teeth into it—
I lean over, bracing one hand on the seat and pressing my lips to his neck, where I’m hit with his bergamot and sandalwood scent.
It wraps around my brain, making it tingle alongside the rushing feeling of the blood.
I bite, and Micah groans, tilting his head to the side so I have better access, which just makes me lean in harder, stroking my tongue along his salty skin.
I want him. Right now. Want to sink into him.
Into his ass again, into his mouth, fuck into any hole he has.
“Fuck, Mads.” Micah shifts as I bite harder, and he trembles as he tries to sit still for me, which makes my dick throb.
Any hole. I need any hole of his.
Suddenly, I’m thinking about the hole I haven’t taken yet. The one that makes a rush of hesitation heat my cheeks. Would he be into that?
Micah reaches around and puts his seat belt on. As if he’s getting ready for us to…leave?
“What are you doing?” I growl, my other hand gripping Micah’s throat. The throat that I’m not done tasting and biting.
“Home!” he squeaks. “Let’s go home.”
Home? Like, the hotel? The thought makes me growl, but I realize I have my hand around his throat, and he can go wherever the fuck he wants, so I sit back. Reluctantly.
Back to the hotel. Back to reality. Reality being that the first house I finally allowed myself to think about might have our future belonging to the people who know exactly what we did.
I slump into my seat.
“No, wait!” Micah says. “Ronan will see. Drive fast, we can make it home in a few minutes.”
Right. Ronan. Ronan who’s connected to Logan.
The knowledge makes a tingle of something prickle across my skin.
It’s a reminder I don’t want to remember.
It reminds me of another thing. How I can’t be financially responsible for a house with anyone ever again.
I’m just playing house right now. Playing like there’s a reality where a place to live with someone is a comfortable reality.
Playing like what we did won’t chase us everywhere I go.
They’re reminders I want to fuck away.
And yet, Micah doesn’t want to fuck here.
I throw the car into gear and whip it around, feeling deep, throbbing urgency in my veins.
“Please tell me what you want to do to me,” Micah says.
The thought of teasing Micah’s swollen head, running my thumb up and down it until his hole opens up, of massaging lube into it until I can slide a rod into him, watching him swallow up what I have to give him with trembling obedience…
watching the rod bob with his pulse…fuck.
My raging boner hasn’t gone down; in fact, it’s gotten worse.
And I’m angry. Angry that I can’t have much in life, and I can’t even have that right now.
Only, that might be way too much for Micah. And I wouldn’t blame him; no one has ever wanted to do that with me.
“Mads? Tell me.”
I’m flooring it, sending my body back into the seat, which forces me back into reality. Reality where Arthur’s death will always be right next door, popping up in all the same places I do. Even the meds can’t keep the full existential dread away.
My boner softens.
I clear my throat. I hate that I’m fucking angry when I’m thinking about something extremely intimate with Micah.
What the hell is my problem? The therapist said anger is something that comes along with PTSD, or whatever the hell she thinks I have.
I didn’t tell her about Arthur. At least, not the last part. But clearly, I still can’t function.
“I think I need a higher meds dosage.” The confession pops out of nowhere. It feels like an apology. A weak apology. A non-apology.
Micah’s hand drops down on my thigh, squeezing gently. Kindly.
I almost brush him off me, but then I pause. I don’t deserve the kindness he shows, but he’s giving it out of the goodness of his heart, and I refuse to squash that. So, I place a hand over his.
“I’m just…fucking angry.”
Micah squeezes my thigh, then massages his thumb up and down the outside of my leg. He doesn’t try to tell me I’m not angry or baby me, just massages that damn thumb up and down.
I suck in breath after breath, trying to calm my racing heart.
“Is what you wanted to do to me making you angry?” he asks.
“No.” My answer is immediate and cutting because I want that thought gone out of his mind. It’s not him. It’s me.
I glance over at Micah. He’s biting his lip.
“No,” I say again, softer. “It’s not that at all.”
“Tell me?” he asks.
I glance at the road again. I’ve ruined the mood; now isn’t the time to talk about this. I’m soft and embarrassed and…vulnerable. I wait for that feeling that I’m unsafe, and it’s there, hovering around the edges. And yet, Micah keeps it from fully smothering me.
“Is it something we haven’t done yet?” Micah asks.
“Yeah,” I say.
“Do you want to tell me?”
I spare a glance at him. He’s so cute, looking at me with half-hesitant, half-eager eyes. As if he’d honor my wishes if I didn’t want to tell him.
Fuck, I feel myself melting. But what if that look turns to fear or disgust?
“I’m afraid you’ll think it’s weird.” I turn back to the road.
“Um, have you seen me? You think I’m gonna be scared of a little weird?” Micah scoffs. “Is it furry stuff?”
That makes me snort. “No.”
“Oh, okay, I thought for sure. Do you want to lay me in an ice bath, have me pretend to be dead, and fuck my cold body?”
“What?” I jerk my gaze over to Micah.
He shrugs. “Do you want me to drink your piss? Drink your blood? Fuck your belly button?”
“Oh my god,” I breathe. Has he done all these things? “No, it’s just sounding.”
“Oh!” Micah pauses. “Well, shit, you said weird.”
I stare at him before looking back at the road. “Are those other things your fantasy?”
“Not particularly.” Micah looks at me, eyes wide. “I mean, yes, if it’s yours!”
I glance at him.
“I read, okay? Heaven forbid a man picks up an audiobook once in a while.”
“So you’re not…weirded out?”
”Ummm, no? Mr. Grumpy Hot is going to get me hard and then do something he’s bashful about? Gonna bust a nut right here. Do you have the things?”
The rods? I open my mouth to respond, then close it again. I used to have them. They’re probably melted into the flooring now. “Uh, not anymore.”
This is such a weird conversation. And yet, it’s okay too. Oddly okay. I don’t feel like jumping out of my skin, so there’s that.
“That’s cool, there’s a sex shop on Fourth.”
I glance at Micah again. He’s practically bouncing in his seat.
The relief that he’s not judging, and the acceptance, flow through me, softening some of the spots anger hardened. I feel my chest loosening.
“Let’s go shopping,” Micah grins.