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Before I can ask what that means, our server drops our food off, and we dig into our food. It’s really good, the burgers juicy and the fries crispy.
When my plate is almost clear, I ask, “Where did you grow up? I know you said foster care, but was it in California?”
Michael nods, dipping his fries in ketchup and mayo. “A few miles from where you went to school, actually. The group home I spent the last few years in is closed down now. It was fucked up when I lived there and got even worse after I aged out. I was placed in a few homes, but they were terrible. I didn’t have a good time as a kid.” He balls up his napkin and tosses it on his plate, sitting back with his arms crossed.
“Terrible?”
He runs a hand down his face. “A lot of abuse, both physical and mental. When I was younger, it was bad. Really bad. I didn’t know how to defend myself, but I knew I had to. So, I got tough. It wasn’t easy, but I managed to harden myself enough that the stuff my foster parents said and did to me had no effect. Then I got big. By the time I was thirteen, I was only about thirty pounds lighter than I am now. I bulked up. Beat the shit out of my last foster dad when he got drunk and swung on me. Got sent back to the group home and had to fight almost every day for the first few months being there.” His face screws up and I feel terrible.
I drop my hands in my lap. “I’m sorry if I brought up bad memories.”
“What? No. Damon …” Michael sighs and reaches across the table. I put my hand in his and he rubs a thumb over the back of my hand. “Damon, you didn’t. My childhood was shitty, but I’m glad you asked. No one asks me about my past. No one really cares. I’ve told exactly three people about my past. Quin and Savage. Now you. You deserve to know everything. I want to tell you everything. Ask me anything, baby. I’ll always be honest with you.”
“So, you really do know what it’s like?”
“Yeah, I really do,” he says, confirming what he told me about knowing what it’s like to grow up in a bad environment. That makes me feel a lot better. Like he won’t feel sorry for me. Makes me feel like if it came down to it, I could tell him anything and he wouldn’t judge me for how I handle it. Like how I handle getting beat by my stepbrothers and my stepfather talking down to me. I take it. Because I don’t know what else to do.
We sit in silence for a bit, then I whisper, “I wish I could be tough like you were. Then I wouldn’t feel dread whenever I go home.”
Michael’s eyes flash before he comes to sit beside me, pulling me against him. “You are tough, baby. You’re surviving. You’re brave because you go back every day. You’re trying. That’s enough. You hear me? That’s enough.”
There’s no way I’m going to cry in this restaurant. As I blink back tears, I realize just how long it’s been since someone has touched me as much as Michael does and it feels good. His hands on me are … indescribable.
Instead of crying, I tuck myself closer to him. “Have I told you how good you feel?”
He kisses my hair, something I’m getting used to. “You haven’t. You feel good too. When you touch me, it’s like … I feel complete.”
Is that a line or does he mean it?
“What were you thinking when I asked?”
He chuckles, kissing my head again. Bending close to my ear, he says something that sets my nerve endings on fire and has all the blood in my body rushing to my dick. “I was thinking how good you look in your outfit. And how I want to swallow your dick whole when we get home. I want to suck you until you explode.”
A shiver runs down my spine and my dick plumps up as I peer up at him. I can see why he didn’t tell me earlier, but I wish he had. We could have skipped dinner and went right back to the apartment.
Swallowing my nerves, I say, “So what are you waiting for?”
The slow, salacious smile that crosses his face is so worth it. “Are you ready for that?”
I shake my head and then nod as I feel myself flush. “I—you’ll be good to me, right?”
“Always, baby.” Michael takes my chin in his hand and kisses me slowly, my already hard dick not flagging at all. I don’t know how I’ll cover myself with these pants on. “See how brave you are,” he mutters, his fingers drifting down my torso to the prominent imprint of my cock. “Letting me do what I want to your body.”
I fight to keep the moan to myself, looking around at the other people here. The tablecloth covers my lower half and if you didn’t know what he was doing, no one would guess Michael’s hand was stroking my cock over my pants.
This is so out of the ordinary for me that I can’t even fathom it’s real. And the strangest thing? I’m doing nothing to stop him. Am I crazy? Out of my mind? Or am I just high on how Michael is making me feel? Wanted. Appreciated. Loved.
That has to be it. But I also love how I feel. Empowered. Strong. In charge. If I say stop, he will stop. He won’t try to talk me into it or make me feel like I should keep going to make him happy. He would respect me.
I squeeze his thigh, wanting him to stop so we can leave, but I don’t want him to move his hand. “I uh … I … Michael … I can’t come in my pants in here.”
Giving my cock one more squeeze, he lets go, kissing my cheek. “Let’s get you home. I have plans for you and your come.”
Leaving the restaurant with a hard-on isn’t easy, but I walk behind Michael’s larger body. As soon as we get into the apartment, Michael pushes me against the door and kisses me like I’ve never been kissed before. Well, that’s not saying much since he’s the only one to kiss me, but this one is different than the others.
My arms go around his neck and I tangle my hands in his hair, keeping his mouth against mine. I moan, loving how his wet tongue strokes against mine. He pushes me flush against the door, thrusting his hips so I can feel his hard dick against me. It’s so big, so thick and hard. I want to ask if I can put it in my mouth. If I can taste him too like he said he would to me. Maybe we can do it to each other?
After he kisses me breathless, he lowers his head and trails his lips down my neck. “Augh. Michael.”
