Page 67 of What We Burn

“Hands on the counter. Don’t touch me.”

He grips the edge of the island. Knuckles white. His thighs are shaking and his head is tipped back, throat exposed, and the sounds coming out of him are raw, guttural, desperate, stripped of every layer of charm and control Eli uses to keep the world at arm’s length. Down here on my knees, I can reduce him to this. Down here he’s just a body that needs me.

I pull off before he can come. Stand up. He’s panting, spit-slick and wrecked. The look on his face is pure desperation.

“On your knees,” I say, and it’s not an offer.

He drops. No hesitation. His knees crack against the tile and he doesn’t even wince. He hooks his fingers in my waistband and tugs my boxers down. When my cock springs free against his cheek he turns his face into it, drags his open mouth along the length, and the heat of his breath makes my spine lock.

“Don’t be gentle,” I tell him.

He’s not. He takes me in one smooth motion, throat opening around me, his nose pressed against my skin, and I feel it all—the wet drag of his tongue, the tight clench of his throat, the obscene sound of him choking and pulling back and going right back down. His hands grip the backs of my thighs hard enough to bruise. His eyes are closed and his brow is furrowed like he’s concentrating, like this is the most important thing he’s ever done.

I hate how good he is at this. I hate that I know exactly how good he is at this because of all those years I let it happen and never asked for anything after.

I fist my hand in his hair and hold his head where I want it. I thrust into his mouth, deep enough that his eyes fly open and lock onto mine, wet and red-rimmed.

“Did you think about this when you left?” I ask, my grip tight in his hair. “Me in your mouth? Tasting of her? Did you jerk off to it in whatever empty bed you crawled into?”

He pulls back enough to speak, spit stringing from his lip to the head of my cock. “Every night.” His voice is ruined. “Every single night.”

“I hope you suffered.”

I push back into his mouth and he takes it, takes all of it, his throat working around me while tears track down his face. Not from the gag reflex. From whatever’s happening behind those eyes that he can’t say with my cock down his throat.

I yank him off. Haul him up by his hair. He stands and I shove him hard against the counter, spin him so his back hits the edge, and press my body into his—chest to chest, hips to hips, both of us slick and hard between our stomachs. I grind against him and his head drops back and his mouth falls open.

“Look at me,” I say.

He does. His eyes are glassy, dark, his lower lip swollen where I bit it.

“You left me,” I say, and I roll my hips into his, my cock sliding against his through sweat and spit. “You left us before the attack. Then you called me away from her, and thirty seconds later she was hanging from a tree. Afterward, while the rest of us were trying to hold everything together, you disappeared into that corner and made your guilt the only thing you could see.”

“I know⁠—”

“I’m not finished.” I grip both our cocks in one hand, squeezing hard, stroking rough. He groans and his hands come up to grip my shoulders. “You left, and I had to hold her together while she cried for you. I had to lie next to her and listen to her say your name in her sleep. And the whole time—the whole fucking time—I was missing you too. Do you understand that? I lost both of you in the same night.”

His face breaks. Ugly, raw, the guilt cracking him open the way the punches in the garage didn’t.

“I know,” he says, and his voice is wrecked. “I know, Micah. I’m⁠—”

“Don’t say sorry again. I will put you through this counter.”

His mouth snaps shut. I stroke us both faster, my fist tight, my forehead pressed against his, our breath mixing hot in the narrow space between us. His hips jerk into my grip and his fingers dig into my shoulders and I can feel him getting close—the way his stomach tenses, the way his breathing fractures.

“You don’t get to come,” I say. “Not yet.”

He makes a sound like I’ve gut-punched him. “Micah⁠—”

“No. You hold it. You sit in it. The way I’ve sat in it for months.”

His whole body is shaking. He grips the counter behind him with one hand and my hip with the other and holds himself back, jaw clenched, cords standing out in his neck. He looks like he’s in agony. He looks the way I’ve felt since the night he left.

I slow my hand. Long, tight strokes. Drag my thumb across the head of his cock and watch him fight to stay still. His stomach is slick, muscles trembling.

“In the garage,” I say, low, just for him. “When everyone else hit you. You know why I didn’t?”

He shakes his head. Barely. His eyes haven’t left mine.