Which was why when I moved from under him, he shot me the most perplexed look I’d ever seen. His mouth pulled thin and hard, his brows knotted together so deeply it looked like they’d stay that way forever. “Did I do something wrong?” he asked, worried he’d somehow screwed things up.
“Like hell,” I said, hopefully calming his nerves. When I added, “I didn’t want you to miss out,” his eyes widened in surprise, and his pulse quickened so much, I could actually see it moving in his neck. Surer of this than anything in my life so far, I reached for his jeans and easily unbuttoned them. The sound of his zipper lowering was like a ticking time bomb because I knew once I touched Micah, I’d never want to touch anyone else.
Since he was on his knees, it was not a graceful move to get his jeans off. We shared a laugh as he almost kicked me in the balls trying to pull them all the way off. But once I laid eyes on his cock, jutting straight out from his body, all laughter fled my body. “You’re fucking huge,” I muttered as I wrapped my hand around his length. His head fell back, exposing his thick neck. He was the perfect picture of masculinity and strength, yet he was at the mercy of my touch.
Needing more leverage, I kneeled, facing him and he did the same to me. My legs shook as he worked me over, from base to tip and then back again and again and again. Matching his rhythm, we were in a race to the finish. “Jude,” he mumbled into my neck, setting loose a river of goose bumps across my skin. “I’m close. Fucking hell . . . so close.”
“Me too.” My breathing grew ragged and my vision blurred. “Micah, oh fuck. I’m gonna . . . I’m coming,” I called out, pushing my aching dick up into his hand.
“Holy shit . . . oh fuck . . . Jude.” To anyone else, it might have sounded like he was wailing in agony, but only I saw the look of pure ecstasy dancing across his face. He came two seconds after me, and it was a moment I knew I’d never forget.
With our breathing still wildly uneven, we slumped back into the couch, sitting next to each other, staring at the television. “I think the Rangers are playing.” Clicking on the remote, the screen came to life, the sound competing with Micah’s laughter.
“Orgasms and baseball. We should make this a nightly occurrence.” He made it sound as if he was joking, but I could hear the truth hidden in his sarcasm. And I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want the same thing.
So doing the only thing that came naturally, I cupped his jaw and pulled his mouth to mine. After dipping my tongue into his mouth and letting it dance with his, I rested my forehead against his and said, “That’s a fucking deal.”
And that was what we did practically every night for the next month. Even though Micah had been a steady presence in my life for the last ten months, I still felt lonely. He’d go home at night after we were done working out and I’d be left to deal with my father, my solitude my only company. But now that we’d made our “orgasms and baseball” pact, he rarely left my side. It was fucking fantastic. Though it never really left my mind entirely, I even stopped worrying about my father enough to enjoy myself for once. He was always too drunk at night to realize what was going on with us anyway—something we definitely wouldn’t have been able to get away with at Micah’s house.
Looking over at him as he shoved a handful of popcorn into his mouth, I was in awe with the turn our lives had taken. In a million years, I never would have thought coming out to Micah would have this kind of impact on my happiness. But here we were, enjoying our post-orgasmic haze to the sound of commentators announcing some home run by the opposing team.
“Can you fucking believe him? He’s let up what, like ten homers this year? My nutsack could pitch better than this guy!” Micah’s asinine rant cut through my wayward thoughts.
“Did you just say your nutsack could pitch?” I tried my best to keep a straight face, but I was two seconds away from losing it.
“Better than this dipshit,” Micah yelled as said dipshit let up a double.
His cheeks were flush and his eyes were alive. If there was anything he loved, it was watching baseball. I asked why he’d never played if he loved it so much and his answer—that he knew his father would ruin it for him—broke my heart and made my promise to watch the rest of the Rangers’ season with him that much more important. Something about remembering that piece of information, paired with his animated baseball-watching behavior punched me in the gut.
I was falling.
Hard.
And there was nothing I wanted to do to stop it.
Nothing about falling in love with Micah was scary, except for the obvious. Everyone could find out and who the hell knew what would happen from there. But for now, in our perfect little bubble of my worn-out living room, loving Micah was as easy, and as necessary, as breathing.
Taken back by my sudden rush of emotions, I pulled his hand into mine. It seemed like it was an instinctual move on his part to tighten his fingers around mine, even though I’d chewed him out just the other day for reaching for my hand in public.
With my love turned guilty, I twisted in my seat, clicking Mute on the remote with my unheld hand. “About the other day,” I began to explain.
Before I could say anything else, Micah turned to face me. “We’re good. I promise. I understand,” he confirmed, repeating everything he’d said since I’d lost my shit at him.
“But it’s not,” I protested, wanting nothing more than to go back in time and stay calm. To wrap my fingers tightly around his warm hand and publicly display how I felt about him. But even I knew that wasn’t possible. “I know we already talked about it, but I’m still angry.”
He mistook my admission for something else entirely. “Look,” he boomed. “I said I was fucking sorry. I’ll never reach for your hand again,” he continued yelling, storming away from the couch. Letting the silence stretch between us, I watched as he filled his cup from the faucet. His back pulled into a straight line, his muscles tense and aggravated.
Not wanting to see him like that a second longer, I walked over to him, wrapped my arms around his waist, and rested my cheek against his back. As if it knew no other way, our breathing synchronized immediately, his hands wrapping around mine at his waist as if they needed to touch me in order to survive.
Spinning him around in my arms, I moved one hand up to cup his face. His jaw was covered in a light stubble, a recent fight he’d had, and won, with his father. As I ran my fingertips through his scruff, I couldn’t find a single reason to complain. “Micah,” I whispered, and he looked up at me. “Please listen,” I begged.
“Not if it means—”
“You pigheaded jerk. Just stop. It doesn’t mean half what you think it means so just let me talk.” My outburst sent a wave of shock across his face. “Thank you.” I addressed the shift in his ability to listen. “What I was trying to say, was that there’s nothing more that I want than to hold your hand. I wish we could tell the world we’re together. And maybe one day we can. But for now, I’m so sorry I overreacted. I know there was no one around, but I still acted like an ass.” I hoped my sincerity could soothe the frayed ends of the last few days.
“It’s okay. I understand. It’s just that we’re here together so much. When we were walking home from school, it felt like . . .” His voice faded, and he regarded the ceiling as if it held the answers to all our teenage problems.
“It felt right,” I answered for him. “Like this,” I added before pressing my lips to his. He opened his mouth immediately, kissing me back with the wild desperation that only he could convey. “And this.” I ran my hands up his shirt, lifting it over his head and tossing it to the ground. “And this,” I echoed as my lips danced along the hard line of his jaw, down his neck, and across his chest.
