Chapter 5. Liam
I carry the cake out of the kitchen like it's the most precious thing I've ever made, which honestly would be accurate, as I'd never baked anything in my entire life, and I had no idea how hard that was.
I carry it with both hands underneath the plate, walking so slowly that a guard in the hallway gives me a weird look, especially because what the fuck is my excuse for carrying a whole fucking cake to my dorm?
But thank God he doesn't ask questions; he goes back to playing Candy Crush or something on his phone.
I don't care. This cake is getting to Ethan in one piece even if I have to fight God himself on the way there.
I hide the cake under my bunk, though I don't know if that’s the best idea or not.
Do cakes need to be refrigerated? Quiet Time is over; everybody is eating the snack, and Ethan should already be at the gym, that freak, all he does is work and exercise.
Then, MMA, and we’ll only have time together during rec.
He hasn't mentioned his birthday since the Super Bowl, and I recognize the strategy because I've used it my whole life: if you don't expect anything, you can't be disappointed.
I have to wait impatiently, barely able to throw a punch in MMA. Ethan, of course, notices when he hits my face with a jab. It isn't hard, just to make sure I'm paying attention, which I'm not. I hold my cheek where he hit me.
"Ouch!" I complain. He frowns and grabs my chin, forcing me to look at him, while he analyzes me with those gorgeous eyes. He takes everything too seriously, the bastard.
"You're better than that, pet. What's on your mind?" he asks and comes at me again, trying to go for a hook now.
"Just tired," I say.
"Tired?" he asks, suspiciously, and stops moving. "You're never tired. You haven't been tired one day since we met."
"I… I have a headache?" I say. He squints now.
"Try again," he says, getting even closer to me.
I gulp, looking up at him, as he's so much taller than me.
He's suspicious. But, thank God, Griff calls us to switch pairs, and I dodge him.
He looks at me like he's saying, ‘You’re going to tell me what the fuck is going on, or so help me God,’ but he always does what Griff says immediately.
I leave the gym as fast as I can, before he can corner me again, and skip the showers, heading straight to our room. I can shower later. He likes how I smell after exercising anyway—that freak.
My heart is hammering. My palms are sweating.
This is stupid. It's just a cake. Except it's not just a cake, because Lu told me it's not just a cake, and Dora told me the first piece goes to the most important person, and Daddy has never had anyone really celebrate his birthday, which makes me think no one knows it's his birthday, and it breaks my fucking heart.
I crouch down and pull the plate from under my bunk.
The cake looks exactly as it did when I left the kitchen, lopsided, dark, Lu's wave pattern still visible in the frosting.
It's not beautiful, but it didn't melt, and there were no bugs.
I knew there wouldn't be any bugs. The facility gets cleaned and bleached constantly, almost obsessively.
He shows up immediately. He hasn't showered either, still a little flushed from exercise and all covered in sweat, and he looks mad, fucking turning me on at the very instant I see his face.
"What the hell are you doing? Avoiding me like that?!" he barks, and then he stops dead in his tracks when he sees the cake.
"It's for you! I made it," I say, handing him the cake.
"Lu helped. And Margarete and Dora. They showed me how.
" I'm talking too fast, the way I do when I'm nervous, words tumbling over each other.
"It's chocolate. Obviously, I mean, you can see that.
It's a little lopsided because the oven in there heats unevenly.
Lu says it's been like that for years, and the frosting is kind of… "
"Thank you," he says, so quietly that I almost miss it.
His voice is the voice he uses in the dark, after lights out, when it's just us.
He stares at the cake. His throat works.
His jaw tightens, releases, tightens again, and I watch him fighting what's happening behind his suspiciously bright eyes.
Hah! I'm not the only crybaby in this relationship.
"Nobody's ever..." he stops and swallows. He looks up at me. "Not here, not before here. My parents didn't… they weren't..." Another stop. His hand moves across his face, quick, wiping something away. "This is the first time someone's made me a birthday cake."
I don't know what to say. I can only fucking speak deflection and humor fluently, nothing that fits this wholesome as hell moment. So I do the only thing I can think of: I pick up the plastic knife from where I'd tucked it under the plate and hold it out to him with a napkin.
"Dora says in Brazil, the birthday person cuts the first piece and gives it to the most important person in their life."
Ethan takes the knife and the napkin. He looks at the cake for a long moment, then cuts a slice. He lifts it onto the napkin. And hands it to me. I take it. My mouth opens to say something, and nothing comes out.
Then, he comes at me so fast I can barely understand what he's doing. I barely have time to set the cake down. We start kissing like maniacs, his mouth exploring mine, drawing my tongue into his, his hands everywhere on my body, pulling me, grabbing me.
"We should go to your office," I say, trying to catch a breath. "It's safer."
"Don't care." Ethan's voice is low; he's two seconds away from losing control, and it turns me the fuck on, more than I ever thought possible. If I get one tiny bit more turned on, I'll fucking explode. "Can't wait."
"You used to care about rules," I say, laughing now, and he answers with "Mhm," and keeps doing what he's doing.
I've been hard since I finished this fucking cake, which shows his power over me and a deep, existential problem because there's no way to hide it in the uniform sweatpants.
He's on me before I can formulate another excuse.
"Someone might come in…!"
Not that I fucking cared. But I didn't want him to get in trouble.
"Then we'll stop." He nips my jaw, then my ear, and I feel his breath. "But until then, you're mine."
The mattress is worse than a trampoline, which is to say it's exactly as loud and offers less support. He pushes me down on it anyway, hands on my shoulders, his body pinning me in place. I'm not even pretending to resist. I want him to fuck me so hard I forget where I am.
He straddles my hips, knees bracketing my thighs, and peels off his shirt. Suddenly it's just him, bare-chested, muscles tight under that ridiculous golden skin, reddish hair tousled, lips parted and wet. I bite my own to keep from making a noise.
"Fuck," I whisper.
He grins, wicked, and reaches for my shorts.
My t-shirt comes next, dragged up and off so fast I hear stitches tear.
My arms are above my head, and he pins them there, one huge hand holding both wrists.
It's not even a contest; I'm a string bean, he's a fucking MMA cyborg.
I struggle just for show, then settle, pulse pounding everywhere, skin already burning.
His free hand trails down my chest, slow enough that it's torture. He thumbs over my nipple, and I jerk in his grip, the other hand still locked over my wrists like iron.
He lets go, only to grip the waistband of my briefs and yank them down in one go. I'm exposed, naked and shivering in the cold air, cock already leaking. He glances at the door and keeps going.
We don't have lube. But that's fine. I like it rough. He knows I like it rough.
He spits into his hand, slicks himself, then presses my knees up and apart with a force that's just shy of bruising.
He's leaking so much pre-cum that I tell myself lube isn't even necessary.
The mattress creaks loud enough that I swear the whole wing can hear, but I don't care.
I'm beyond caring. I want him inside me so bad it's an ache, a hunger, a black hole in my gut.
He lines up, pushes in slow, watching my face the whole time.
It burns like hell, and I can't help but hiss, my eyes closed, my heart in my throat, but I love it, love the feeling of being taken apart and put back together.
He's careful, but not gentle. He doesn't stop until he's all the way in, and I'm gasping, legs trembling, nails digging into the foam of the mattress, and it feels so fucking good.
"Color?" he asks, voice barely a whisper.
"Green," I say. "Fuck, green, go…"
He starts moving, and it's not slow. The thrusts are hard, deep, each one driving me up the mattress and making the frame squeal in protest. It feels ridiculously raw without lube, brutally painful; the pain melts into pleasure, burning, burning both in sensation like fire and in my stomach like whiskey, in my veins, fast, my heart thundering, FUCK.
I bite my wrist to keep from yelling. He buries his face in my neck, teeth scraping along my pulse point, breath hot and ragged.
Outside, a door slams. Footsteps echo down the hallway.
We freeze, both of us holding perfectly still, his cock buried inside me, my heart racing so fast it might explode.
The steps fade, and he starts again, this time one hand clamped over my mouth, the other bracing my hip.
I can't breathe, can barely think, can only feel.
I try not to moan; I try so hard, but it's impossible, I'm more vocal than is sane, and I always have been.
He picks up speed, hips slamming into mine, every movement designed to break me. I want to scream. I want to die. I want to live in this exact second forever.