The water beating down on me, so hot that my skin prickles and tingles everywhere it lands.
The pressure and heat stiffening my cock at the thought of being that kind of dominant person in bed.
What it must be like. Putting someone on their knees. Having them look up at you with total desperation, tears on their face, coming undone for you.
I know all of Micah’s expressions pretty well by this point, and I can clearly imagine the salacious, self-satisfied little smirk he probably wears while he pounds into that guy’s mouth. While he lets all those filthy words slip out of him, praising him and teasing him and degrading him all in the same sentence.
How he probably makes the man shiver and want to touch himself, but forces him to wait for permission.
The tile is unforgiving where I’m leaning my forehead against it, but I don’t care. I’m too distracted by the feeling of a full, aching erection that I didn’t have to fucking fight for. For the first time in months. Maybe longer.
I don’t think. I reach down and wrap my hand around my length, stroking myself firmly before my body has the chance to realize what it’s doing and call for a retreat. Every thought inmy head turns into white noise at the pleasure of it, and then the world is reduced down to this: my tight grip, all that friction building something, and the sound of my panting breaths filling the room.
Panting like a slut.
The thought invades my mind from fuck-knows-where, but I’m too distracted to linger on it. It all feels too good.
Everything assaults me at once. The things that I’ll never embody but Micah does: dominance, confidence, control. The way he made a man who could tower over him kneel and love him for it. There isn’t even space in my brain for jealousy right now, because the images of it are all too vivid.
Even though I didn’t actually see anything, because I was in the other room fucking that girl. And even though I should probably be thinking about her right now, as I fuck my own fist and moan into the emptiness of the bathroom.
But I don’t. I want to know what it is about Micah that made that man kneel. I want to know how it felt, and if it was as incredible as it sounded.
I want to know how hard he came.
I want to know if my brother called him a ‘good slut’ while he spilled his cum all over the kitchen floor.
There’s a telling pulse in my gut, and then I feel my cock flex. My orgasm hits me out of nowhere, almost like it did the other day, and before I know it, I’m painting the tile with so much cum I can’t believe it was all trapped inside me.
My pulse is racing, and my heartbeat is too loud echoing in my ears. My chest heaves, but the steam is thick in the air and I can’t seem to catch my breath.
I don’t know what just happened. It wasn’t right, I’m sure. Anyone who I told would say it was fucked up. But it didn’t feel fucked up.
A sudden wave of hot anguish hits me, and I screw up my face for a second before I swallow it down. I will not cry over this.
It’s bad enough that I act like a fucking pussy all the time. I’m not going to compound the humiliation by getting fucking weepy about it.
I consciously reach out and find the numbness that’s always waiting at the periphery of my awareness. Grabbing on to it with both hands, I pull it over my body like a blanket and let it settle in.
No thoughts. No feelings. No idea what the fuck that was.
All I need to do is finish my shower and go to sleep. I can figure the rest of it out some other time. Or maybe never. Actually,neversounds perfect.
Instead of being wokenup by the feeling of Micah’s weight shifting the mattress, it’s a pounding at the door.
My body goes from zero to sixty in an instant. I’m up and thrumming with adrenaline, heading to the door to see who the threat is. I clock that it’s still dark out, and I couldn’t have been asleep for more than a couple of hours.
Thankfully, Micah has a peephole. Because it is a threat at the door, but of all the threats in my life, it’s not the worst.
Colm, Lucky, and Eamon, all dressed like they’re about to go rob a liquor store.
Which, to be fair, is possible.
I should be more cautious, but sleep is still dragging at my limbs and the small amount of distance I’ve gotten from my old life has made it seem that much less real, so without any other checks, I open the door and let them in.
They all pile into Bambi’s apartment like they belong there, which immediately makes me chafe. But I don’t say anything. If they’re here as a group, it’s because Father sent them. I know Colm can’t stand Lucky and wouldn’t be hanging out with him for fun, and I’d be fucking stunned to discover anyone in this world voluntarily spends their time with Eamon.
It was crystal clear from our interaction today that even his little boy toy is there against his will. Which sucks. If I were the hero type, maybe I could do something about it.
