At the kid who had no idea what was coming for him, who was nothing but his authentic self. Who thought that if he loved hard enough, he could fix someone who never wanted to be fixed.
“After Jason, I guess I wanted to blend in.”
Mike’s face does a thing, the distress draining out of it, and something sad taking its place when he looks down at me, a few months before my life changed forever.
He climbs onto the bed beside me and lies on his back, still staring at the picture with a pout.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m mourning,” he says, running his thumb along the picture of my face. “Leave me alone.”
I do, settling back and letting him do whatever he’s doing, with an eyeroll.
“If we had met first,” he says, shaking his head in despair. “I would have fucked you so good, you don’t even know.”
“Are you serious right now?” I ask, a blush creeping onto my cheeks.
“Completely. Just imagine.” He sighs wistfully, letting me take the picture.
I don’t have to imagine. I already have. A million times before.
“I used to lay in this bed,” I say, setting the frame on the bedside table and turning over to look at Mike. “On the days when I knew Nate had late practice. And I’d fuck myself with three fingers, my face buried in the pillow, imagining it was an older, tattooed rock star behind me.”
I look over at Mike, with his black hair and his tattoos. “And look where I am now,”
It comes out as a joke, making fun of my younger self, really.
But Mike isn’t laughing.
His blue eyes have gone dark as he reaches up and touches my face, his palm against my cheek, his thumb tracing my cheekbone, before sliding up through my hair.
“Wanna show me?” he asks.
I blink, having forgotten what we were even talking about. “What?”
“What you used to do.”
“I um—” I start, when my brain catches up. “I— I haven’t done that since…” I trail off, no need to finish that sentence.
“Maybe you should try,” he says, without an ounce of expectation. But somehow, he still doesn’t look at me like I’mbroken. Right now, the only thing in his eyes is arousal, his cock pressing against my leg through his sweatpants.
I think that’s why I nod. “Maybe one finger.”
“Okay.” He brushes the hair off my forehead. “If it hurts, or you change your mind, you stop, okay?”
“Yeah. Okay.”
He holds my gaze, and whatever he finds must be what he’s looking for because he brings my index finger into his mouth, sucking lightly before swirling his tongue. His eyes stay on mine the whole time, and when I whimper, he laughs.
“Still okay?” he murmurs, letting a string of spit fall from his lips.
I can’t form words right now, so I nod.
He helps me push my boxers down, and his hand lands on the side of my ass, resting there, grounding me.
When I slide my fingers down to my hole, I go slow. Slower than I used to in this bed, desperate and craving someone’s touch. Part of me hasn’t been able to shake the fear that I haven’t healed from what Jason did to me. That this thing that used to feel good never will again, and I don’t want to face that.
But I don’t have to.
