Matty’s hips jerked up—embarrassing, involuntary.
Miguel swallowed the sound he made, sliding a hand from Matty’s hip to the curve of his waist, thumb stroking the sliver of skin exposed where Matty’s hoodie had ridden up. Warmth shot through him at the touch. Pleasure, pure and startling. Something inside him tugged, tight and trembling.
“Jesus,” Matty whispered, breath shaking. “Why are you kissing me like—like that?”
“Like what?” Miguel asked softly, brushing their lips again.
“Like we’re…”
He swallowed.
“Like we’re what?” Miguel asked, teeth grazing Matty’s jaw.
“Like this means something. Like I’m…important or something.”
Miguel’s breath hitched now, just barely, but Matty felt it, like it was pressed right against his heart.
“Maybe you are,” he murmured.
Matty’s chest cracked open at the edges.
He shoved at Miguel’s shoulder in a knee-jerk panic, then grabbed him right back before Miguel could even move.
“Don’t—just don’t say shit like that,” he snapped, voice breaking. “I’m not—don’t—ugh, just don’t. Okay?”
“Okay,” Miguel whispered. No pushback. No argument. Just quiet acceptance. “No saying it. Just kissing?”
Matty hesitated for half a second…then nodded once, sharp and jerky.
Miguel kissed him again immediately—soft, obedient, warm—and Matty felt himself unravel another inch.
“Good,” Miguel murmured between kisses. “Just tell me what you want.”
Matty didn’t know how to say it out loud. Didn’t know how to admit the truth without sounding more pathetic than he already did.I want to feel good without feeling empty afterward. I want you to touch me like that again. I want to stop thinking for five seconds.
So he whispered the only thing he could manage.
“Just…kiss me harder.”
Miguel did.
He cupped Matty’s jaw and kissed him deeper, still gentle but with more heat, more tongue, more intention. Matty’s toes curled in his sneakers. His fingers flexed, dragging Miguel closer. He should stop. He should pull away. He should not be letting some masked stranger kiss him like this.
But God—He didn’t want to stop. He didn’t want to think. He didn’t want to go back downstairs and see Jordan flirting with the Crow or remember that he didn’t belong here.
He just wanted this.
Miguel drew back only long enough to murmur, voice low and sweet against Matty’s swollen mouth, “Tell me if you want to keep going.”
Matty dragged him back down by the front of his suit.
“Shut up,” he whispered. “And keep kissing me.”
Miguel smiled against his mouth, and obeyed.
Lake had vowed a long time ago to never hurt someone, especially someone he cared about. Not physically, not mentally, not emotionally.
He had spent years perfecting the art of patience. Breathing techniques, grounding exercises, therapy. He’d worked hard to keep his nervous system from reacting irrationally to outside forces. His friends teased him that he was basically a Buddhist monk in a 6’1” rugby-built body, but they weren’t far off. He’d trained himself to be the antithesis of his father.
