Page 270 of What We Burn

I can’t even process how hard that hits. I don’t want to talk—I want to ruin him, leave proof on his skin that he’s not the backup, not the fallback, that I’ve been bone-deep obsessed from the start and the only reason I pretended otherwise was because I’d die if he ever left.

So I fuck him like I’m trying to make up for all the time I spent pretending I didn’t want this.

The headboard pounds against the wall, the bed shaking under us, sweat and lube slicking the point where our bodies meet. Micah claws at my arms, at my back, the sounds in his throat high and helpless and exactly the way he sounded the first time I ever got him off.

I free a hand and wrap it around his throat and squeeze, thumb dragging up under his jaw. The flush crawling his neck is glorious, blooming in real time under my hand. His eyes go wide, then half-shut, the edge of submission so real it ripples right down my own spine.

“Fuck—” Micah chokes out, then he gasps, unable to say more. His cock is trapped between our bodies, leaking all over his stomach, and I press into him harder, the friction making him shiver.

“You want to come?” I snarl.

He nods. His pupils blown, face wild and ruined. “Please,” he manages. “Please⁠—”

I never thought I’d get off on hearing him beg, but the way his voice cracks on it makes me want to give him everything. And God, I love him for still asking. Always asking.

“Good boy,” I growl, releasing his neck and wrapping my fist around his cock.

He bucks hard into my hand, his whole body coiling with the need to let go, and the sound he makes is pure fucking music—raw, shaken, like I ripped the last vestiges of his self-control from right under his skin.

He comes with a wrenching shudder, whole body locked around me, taking and taking like the hunger might finally be fed. The release rips through him, heat splattering my chest, his back arched, and the sound that tears out of him is loud enough that the whole house will have an opinion about it. I let go of his other hand, and he clutches my face, urgent, trembling, like he needs to memorize the shape of my jaw so he can find it in the dark later.

He yanks me down into a kiss as he’s still spurting, his hand fisting my hair, and I fuck into him as hard as I can, selfish and mean, wanting to pour everything I have into him. His entire body is shuddering around me, his thighs locked tight to my hips, and when the orgasm hits me I almost black out, vision going white around the edges. I’m so deep in him that I want to stay there forever, fused and stupid and wanting.

When I finish, I collapse forward, pinning him to the mattress with my own weight, both of us panting like we just sprinted for our lives. Sweat drips down my face onto his, mixing with the tears streaming from his eyes. I’ve never seen Micah cry from sex—I’ve never seen any man cry from sex—but this is some new fucking just-unlocked vulnerability and it undoes me in a way I’m not even remotely prepped for. I kiss him, lips gentle now, trying to say all the things I can’t get my mouth to say out loud.

“It’s okay,” I whisper. “You did perfect. You’re perfect.”

Micah’s breathing is still ragged, but the wobbly, shellshocked expression on his face shifts into a smile, ruined and brilliant. His arms wrap around my neck and he holds on for the simple fact of wanting me as close to him as possible.

“Fuck,” he says, voice hoarse, “I think you just exorcized most of my childhood trauma.”

I laugh. I’ve never loved a man more in my fucking life. I roll to the side, pulling him with me so we’re tangled together, his leg over my hip, our hands in a knot of limbs and sweat and aftershocks.

“Eli.” His voice is rough. Used. The sound of it tightens my chest in a way that’s dangerously close to the feeling I get when Sage curls into my lap and I feel her breathing slow. The same warmth. The same certainty.

Different frequency, same signal.

“Yeah.”

“If you ever go back to being gentle with me, I will actually kill you.”

“I make no promises,” I say, dropping my forehead to his. “But next time, maybe don’t wait three years to ask for what you need.”

Micah laughs, then he sobs, then he laughs some more. I stroke his hair, let him ride the edge until the rest of the shaking leaves him. The devastation is all through his body—muscles loose, eyes red-rimmed and shining.

“That was stupid good,” he says, still catching his breath. “Like, I think maybe the best sex I’ve ever had.”

“Yeah?” I kiss his jaw, the hollow beneath his ear, the tendons jumping in his throat.

“Yeah. Why did we ever pretend this wasn’t a thing?” His hand finds the back of my neck and rubs there, gentle.

“Because I thought I’d break you,” I admit.

“I’m not made of glass, Eli.”

“I know.”

“Then act like it.”