Matty froze.
He wasn’t sure what he was into, really. He just knew he didn’t do feelings. The idea of someone being soft with him felt far more dangerous than any rough hookup he’d ever stumbled into drunk. And he didn’t usually do sex sober. He would be far too in his head for that. So he wasn’t sure what had possessed him to drag a stranger upstairs, except the way Miguel had looked at him. Like he wasn’t a mess. Like he wasn’t a complication. Like he wasn’t a burden.
“What are you into, then?” Matty asked, pretending he wasn’t afraid of the answer.
Miguel took his hand—careful, like he was asking permission even while doing it—and tugged him toward the queen-sized bed in the center of the room. When Matty sat, Miguel guided him back with gentle pressure and climbed over him, bracketing Matty’s hips with his thighs.
“I’m into making you feel good,” he said simply.
Matty swallowed. Hard. He had no idea what felt good.
His throat felt too tight. His chest too small.
“I’m just looking to get off,” he said quickly, defensively.
“They’re not mutually exclusive, you know.” Miguel leaned down, letting their noses brush. “Unless you’re one of those people who needs pain to feel anything.”
The comment hit Matty like a slap, not because Miguel was wrong…but because he wasn’t sure.
His last hookup was a blur, just flashing lights, the bitter taste of cheap beer, some guy’s hands on him, Jordan yelling at him the next morning about being reckless. Matty couldn’t remember anything about it. Not a single clear moment, but all his tests had come out negative. He’d escaped with nothing more than a lecture from Jordan and a demand that he stop trying to prove something to a ghost.
He blinked up at Miguel.
“I don’t—” he started, then stopped, his throat working. “I don’t…actually know.”
Miguel’s mouth tensed, but the voice stayed gentle. “Hey. That’s okay. You don’t have to know.”
Matty looked away quickly, cheeks hot. He hated how exposed he felt, how easily this stranger peeled him open with nothing but softness. This had been a bad idea.
“You’re doing a lot of talking,” Matty muttered, trying to drag himself back to solid ground.
“You’re doing a lot of pretending you don’t like it,” Miguel countered.
Matty glared. Miguel just smiled. The bastard.
Before Matty could fire back, Miguel lowered himself, pressing their bodies together. Not grinding. Not rutting. Just…settling. Warm. Solid. His weight braced partly on his forearms so he wasn’t crushing Matty.
“I’m not here to mess with you,” Miguel said quietly. “We can stop. Or we can keep going. But I’m not going to do something if you look uncomfortable. If you tell me to stop, I’ll stop. Noquestions asked. I’m not into coercion. Do you want to keep going?”
Matty blinked hard because his vision did something stupid, like it threatened to blur. He hated that.
He hated how good this stranger felt to him. He hated how bad he wanted this softness from him.
Loser.
He didn’t know what to do with this…consideration.
“Yes. You don’t make a big thing out of it,” Matty muttered, but it came out rough, small, vulnerable. “It’s not a marriage proposal.”
Miguel nodded like he’d been expecting that answer. “Okay.”
Then he kissed him again.
Slow. Reverent. Warm.
Matty’s fingers twitched where they rested against the comforter before finally giving in, curling into the back of Miguel’s suit, gripping tight like he needed something to anchor him.
Miguel’s kiss deepened gradually, patient instead of greedy, tasting Matty one slow sweep at a time. His lips brushed, pressed, lingered, coaxing instead of demanding.
