“Come on,” Micah says, his voice more gentle than I’ve ever heard it, and his thumb tracing a soft trail over my cheek the way he’s taken to doing so often. “Let’s get cleaned up.”
“But you—” My voice is raspy with disuse, and I trail off, looking down at his crotch. He came into the shower in boxer briefs, I’m guessing to preserve what few barriers were leftbetween us, although I clearly shot that all to hell. But they’re soaked through, and the dark fabric is clinging to every inch of him. I can see the outline of his cock as clearly as if he were naked, and my eyes trip over it for a second before getting trapped there.
It’s thick and long. Thickerandlonger than mine, which is devoutly average, and looks even more huge and disproportionate on his slender body. I can see the way the fabric traces the flared head, and I can see how hard he is. How he’s straining upward, trapped between the wet material and his stomach, thick and practically pulsing with arousal.
Which is good? I’m glad that he’s not disgusted by whatever we just did, and only tolerating it to make me feel better because I’m such a hair-trigger disaster he’s worried that one false move will set me off on a trail of self-destruction. But I’m also trying not to think about what it is we actually just did, because it seems so monumental and perspective-shifting that accepting it into my brain all at once will make me snap.
I let myself glance at the edges of it. Darting, fleeting glimmers of this new reality dancing at the periphery of my awareness. Nothing more than that until my chest has stopped heaving and I’m not still thrumming with the afterglow of that orgasm.
Micah should come, right? He should get to come, too. He’s hard. He deserves it, after everything he does to take care of me, all the way up to coaxing said orgasm out of me with whispered filthy but loving words and electric touches. By letting me hump his hip like a desperate animal until I spilled myself all over my little brother.
No, not brother. Stepbrother. Former stepbrother. Fuck. I don’t even know how to think of him anymore.
Mine.
My Bambi.
The thought makes me tremble harder, flushing with adrenaline at the realization that I would do anything and everything to protect this man. Even from myself. I think he mistakes it for distress, though, because he wraps his arms around me and pulls me into a tight hug under the now freezing water.
I slip a clumsy hand between us and grab his shaft through his underwear, pulling a sound out of him that’s more breathy and…femininethan I’ve ever heard him make. I love seeing this soft, vulnerable side of him, which is different from all the vulnerable sides I’ve seen before, and my normally worthless dick is already trying to rally in response.
What is happening to me? And why don’t I hate it?
I move my hand down his length once, pulling another delicious noise out of him before he pushes back from me.
“It’s okay, Tadhg.” He’s a little breathless but composed. “I don’t need that right now. Let’s get out of this water and take a breath.”
My heart stutters, and my brain feels like it’s flattening and twisting, trying to figure out the hidden meaning behind his words. He doesn’t want it? Or he just needs a minute? The specter of rejection is looming so large over both of us, and I hate how my fragile, fucked-up mind is just waiting for it to swoop in and crush me.
I don’t say anything, but I think I manage a nod. My mouth is still hanging open as I breathe heavily, and droplets of water keep gathering on my bottom lip before dripping to the floor.
Micah hesitates, studying my face for a moment. It’s weird to see him look unsure. He was a nervous kid, and I was used to him being unsure about everything. But here, in this reality, he’s always in charge of the situation. His hesitance seems out of place, and I want to wipe it off his face.
But he doesn’t give me the chance, because he seems to come to some decision before leaning in and kissing me again. Just like before, his kiss is firm and demanding, making me open up to him immediately in a way that makes my stomach bottom out like an elevator in freefall.
Everything in me clenches in anticipation, but he doesn’t push it any farther.
The little voice demanding over and over again to know why I don’t hate this is getting quieter, drowned out by the white noise of pleasure and adrenaline that seem to take over whenever he touches me like this.
He breaks the kiss eventually with a contented little hum, and I already want to find a way to get him to make that noise again. Something about it makes me vibrate with satisfaction.
“Come on,” he repeats, more serious this time.
He takes my hand in his, which feels a little silly because my hand is bigger but he still manages to make me feel enveloped. Then he stands and turns off the water, pulling me to stand with him. Once I’m in the open air, I realize just how cold I’ve gotten, and my trembling turns to full on shivering.
Micah smiles at me fondly when he hears me hiss in a sharp breath between teeth that are on the verge of chattering. My body is a floodplain of adrenaline right now, which isn’t helping, but he’s shivering, too. Without a word, he pulls us both out and wraps me in not one but two towels before doing the same for himself.
Once there’s a towel around his waist, he shucks off his sodden underwear. I caught enough of a glimpse to see that his erection had deflated, which isn’t surprising, given the cold. But it does make me feel a pang of something. Guilt, maybe.
Or more like I missed a moment that I didn’t want to miss. Which is yet another thought that my brain—now frayed tissue-paper thin—can’t truly wrap itself around.
We both take a second to roughly towel off before heading down the hallway. I follow Micah into the bedroom, and he throws some of my clothes at me before getting dressed himself.
It’s all soft things. Sweats and cotton t-shirts. Once we’re clothed, Micah runs a towel over his hair one more time before throwing back the covers on the bed and pushing me unceremoniously toward it.
I don’t know if he’s expecting me to object, or freak out, or what. But so far I’m successfully keeping all the freaked-out parts of me walled up somewhere else, and the part of me that’s in control is mostly just dazed.
I climb into bed, and the sweet relief that courses through me makes me realize just how exhausted I really was. Not that I did much to earn that exhaustion. Torture is what my body is built for, it’s hardly a marathon. But all the weepy, self-indulgent equivocating afterwards seems to really have taken it out of me.
