I can still feel the bird-bone delicacy of his forearm. The way his skin was too warm. Fever-warm. Heat-warm. The way he weighed nothing when I pulled him back from falling. Like he was hollow. Like he was disappearing.
I lean against the door. Press my head back against the wood. Close my eyes.
My cock throbs.
One hand drops to my belt. Muscle memory. The buckle clinks as I undo it. The button pops. The zipper drags down and the relief is immediate—the pressure easing as I shove my jeans and briefs down just enough.
I wrap my hand around myself and hiss.
Already slick. Already leaking. Pre-come smearing across my palm as I stroke once. Twice.
Max on the stool in the kitchen. Wincing when he sat down. Perched on one hip because he couldn't bear weight on—
Why was he hurting?
The thought should kill the mood. Should make me stop. Should make me think about anything other than what I'm thinking about.
It doesn't.
Max in the library. Hair falling across his face while he wrote. The way his pen moved across the paper—quick, sure, graceful. The way he bit his lower lip when he was concentrating. Teeth pressing into soft pink flesh. The indent it left behind.
I stroke faster. Grip tighter. My breath comes in harsh pants that echo off the walls.
Max falling. My hand catching him. His face inches from mine. Those eyes—dark, liquid, wide with surprise. The pink of his mouth. The flutter of his pulse in his throat, visible beneath paper-thin skin.
And the scent. God, the scent. Pouring off him like a wave. Like a gift. Like something I didn't earn and don't deserve.
I think about what it would smell like up close. Not a whiff in a shared chair. Not the ghost of it on a notebook. But close. Nose pressed to his neck. His jaw. That spot behind his ear where scent glands concentrate in omegas.
I wonder if he'd let me.
No. He'd shove me away. Tell me to fuck off. Look at me with those guarded eyes that see right through my bullshit.
You're nothing. You're nobody.
I said that to him. Meant it. Or thought I did.
Guilt should make this stop. Should soften me. Should remind me that I don't deserve to be thinking about him like this. Not after what I said. Not after the way I treated him.
It doesn't stop.
Max's mouth. The way he says "fuck you" like he means it. Like he's not afraid of me even though he should be. That flash of fire underneath all the damage. The bite.
Submission with teeth. That's what I see when I look at him. Someone who wants to surrender but refuses to go down without a fight. Someone who'd make you earn every inch. Every gasp. Every shudder.
My hand moves faster. Rough. Punishing. Like I'm trying to get this out of my system. Like if I just come hard enough, fast enough, it'll purge whatever this is from my blood.
Max on his knees. Those dark eyes looking up at me. Lips parted. Waiting.
"Tell me I'm good. Tell me you need me."
The thought comes from nowhere. Hits me like a truck. Because it's not Max's voice in my head—it's mine. Saying those words to him. Begging for something I've never begged for from anyone.
Tell me I matter.
My orgasm hits without warning.
Violent. Consuming. My vision whites out. My back arches off the door, hips snapping forward into my fist. Come spills over my hand, my stomach, soaking my shirt. Wave after wave that seems to go on forever, that wrings every drop of tension from my body and replaces it with something worse.
