It started as a drizzle.
A slow drum against the windshield as he pulled his dad's truck under a flickering street light five minutes out of Creek View, but now that the rain is falling in heavy sheets, blurring the near pitch-black street, he shifts the truck into park and cuts the headlights, sending us into complete darkness as the flicking light above cuts out.
He sent Jordan back to Pullman to get something for him — something he said he couldn't fight without — and now that his eyes are locked on the time displayed on the dash, he seems to be counting the seconds for his brother to return.
Clearing my throat softly, I look over at him. All the bruises, the battered knuckles, the blood. It all makes sense now. Fight. He fights. A million questions have flashed through my mind on the way here, but it always comes back to one — why?
"Micah..." It comes out quieter than I intend, but he must hear me because he looks over. I want to ask, but I don't want to overstep. I open my mouth but shut it again, cheeks warming.
"It's for money." His voice is low, nearly lost in the patter of rain on the roof. "I fight for money. I use it to help my mom out right now since my dad's in the hospital. It's for her, for my brothers. It's not long-term, and no one knows."
I consider all of that, but my mind lingers on the final few words.
No one knows.
He swallows, his jaw hardening as he looks out of the windshield. "If anyone found out, if this got leaked, I could get kicked out of the league. I could lose my scholarship. My chances at the draft would be fucked."
"I would never —"
"I know." He cuts me off. "I know you wouldn't."
My skin warms at that, at the sincerity in his voice.
"Is there anything I can do?" I barely have enough money for rent and groceries as it is, but if there's anything I could do, I would.
"No. No, I'm taking care of it." He clears his throat, his eyes trained on the rivets of rain running down the windshield. When he finally looks at me, I catch his eyes in the flash of lightning. They're softer than I've ever seen them — a delicate blue-gray. A rare moment of tranquility in a usually tumultuous sea. "Thank you, though."
I nod, wanting to reach out to him, to interlace our fingers, but when the cold, damp bloodstain on the bottom of my sweatshirt brushes my stomach, I sit up straighter, arching my back uncomfortably to avoid it touching my skin again.
"Take it off." His voice is low, unwavering as it cuts through the dark truck.
The flickering of the streetlight above illuminates him for only a second, but it's enough to see him shrugging off his flannel. I keep my gaze on him in the dark, my eyes adjusting enough to see him look down at the flannel in his hands before looking back up at me. When the light flashes above, his eyes are locked on me, dipping down to my sweatshirt before rising back to mine.
Unbuckling my seat belt, I find the hem of my sweatshirt and pull it up my body slowly, careful not to smear the blood soaked into it on my skin as I ease it over my head. The pale yellow camisole underneath barely reaches the dip of my waist, and the material is so thin it doesn't do much to protect my bare breasts underneath from the cold air circulating through the cab. Goosebumps race up my arms and chest, shaking my shoulders as his eyes dip down, following the trail across my body. When his eyes linger on my perked nipples, I swallow hard, wondering how see-through the material is in the flickering light.
His throat bobs before the truck is drowned in darkness again, but I don't need to see him to feel the energy in the truck crackle and ignite as the click of his seat belt echoes around us. My breathing quickens, the only sound in the silence — a perfect echo of my racing heart — when his hands find my waist in the dark. The street light flickers to life in a bright flash, and like lightning, it's only here long enough for me to catch his eyes locked on my lips as he tugs me gently across the seat. His hand drops down to the back of my thighs, and he pulls me off the seat, hiking my leg across his lap, so I'm straddling him in the driver's seat.
My hip is still numb, painlessly bandaged up and hidden away beneath my jean shorts, and I forget the cut in my hip is even there when his calloused hands slowly coast up my thighs, dipping back to grab my butt as he pulls me closer. They don't stay there long, though, and when his hand cups the side of my neck, softly caressing my throat once before pulling me down, I moan as his tongue slides through my lips. I move my hips against him tentatively, trying to satiate the need pulsing between my legs, but all that does is make it flare hotter, and I groan, frustrated and desperate. The noise has his lips tilting up against mine. He grinds his hips up against me teasingly, and I dig my fingers into his biceps at the rush of sensation it elicits.
Yes. Yes.
This is what I've been craving since the creek last week. This is what I've been fantasizing about every night when my hands slide under my pajama shorts and the memory of his fingers flood my mind. This feeling — him.
Sitting up in his lap, I pull my top over my head, tossing it onto the seat beside us. The heavy rain blurs the truck's windows, shielding us from the view of any passersby — not that there's been any on this pitch-black residential road since we parked. The light flicks on above us, struggling to remain lit for a few seconds before extinguishing again, and my body hums with anticipation as he uses every second of it to take me in. His hands drop back down to my thighs, sliding up slowly like he's taking the time to memorize the shape of my body under his fingers, and when he reaches my waist, he wraps one arm around my back, pulling me to him.
My head falls back when his tongue flicks my nipple softly before blowing on it, sending every nerve ending in my body into high alert. I would have never thought the soft touches would be the ones to turn me on the most, to nearly drive me insane, but when his tongue just barely brushes my perked nipple again, I groan loudly, digging my fingers harder into his arms in a silent plea to please, please give me more than that.
He seems to like my desperate pleas because his lips close around my nipple, sucking hard enough to make me shudder as the wet heat pooling between my thighs pulses. I know we don't have much time, but the pressure building in my muscles is maddening, threatening to fry my sanity if I don't release it, and when his hand drops to the button on my shorts, I suck in a soft breath, nodding fervidly.
His lips trail to my other nipple, and he smiles against my skin when I arch my back a little more, desperate to feel him on me again as his finger slides my button through the hole. He catches my nipple between his teeth as his hand slides down the front of my shorts, and I lift my hips for him, my legs shaking as his hand slips beneath my lace panties.
A fist slams against the metal roof three times, rattling the truck beneath us. A gasp dies in my throat when the light flickers for a second and I recognize Jordan's forest green jacket blurred through the window. Micah leans forward, blocking me from view, even in the darkness. I climb off his lap quickly, searching the seat blindly for my camisole before my fingers brush the soft material. I'm shoving my arms into the too-big flannel shirt when Micah finally rolls the window down. The rain is trickling off the hood of Jordan's waterproof jacket in thick rivets, and he tosses in a backpack, keeping quiet as his eyes, drowning with amusement, flick up to mine.
"You've got three minutes," he says, his lips tilting up in a smirk before turning and walking toward the cover of a massive oak tree near the fence.
Micah rolls up the window again and unzips the backpack. He doesn't say anything as he pulls off his shirt and jeans, replacing them with a back, long sleeve compression shirt, and gym shorts. I reach over and grab his discarded clothes, folding them for him as he reaches back into the bag. When he pulls out a black ski mask, my hands freeze on his jeans. He glances over at me, studying the shocked expression that I try to wipe clean.
"I can't fight and play college basketball. I'd get thrown out of the league. So, when I'm up there, I'm not me — I'm him." He holds up the mask like it's some kind of alter-ego. "Caustic, as my dumbass connect dubbed me." He looks down at the mask like he's annoyed by it before pulling it on. He tugs it down far enough to reach the bottom of his neck until all that's visible are his eyes and mouth.
He looks terrifying, sinister, and somehow, incredibly sexy.
"Let's go," Jordan calls, knocking the roof of the truck twice with his knuckle. Micah nods, pulling the now empty backpack onto his shoulder as he slides out of the truck. I fix my camisole under the flannel and reach for the door, but it's pulled open before my fingers can wrap around the handle. Micah steps back, the light above flickering on long enough to illuminate the rain falling at a slant around us as the icy breeze pulls it past. It's already soaking into my clothes, molding my yellow top even tighter to my chest as he intertwines his fingers through mine. When we run across the dark street, our shoes splashing in the shallow puddles from the cavities in the asphalt, I'm thankful for the Docs keeping my feet warm and dry.
Rounding the corner, we cross the next street over, and when he leads us into the dark parking lot for what looks like a deserted old gym, I look around. The grass around the huge building is so overgrown it's probably up to my knees, and while the street is packed with parked cars, the street itself is pitch-black, not a streetlight in sight. Micah's hand tightens around mine as he leads us through the double entrance doors, but I don't have time to fully take in the decrepit, seemingly abandoned boxing gym and the overflowing crowd crammed inside before he tugs me against the wall. Stepping in front of me, he blocks me from the curious onlookers, although, they're not looking at me. Their eyes are locked on him, and a buzz ignites around the room, whispers that turn into excited cries — "He's here! Caustic's here!"
"Caustic?" Jordan grins, stepping up beside me.
Micah's jaw tics; I can see it through his mask. "I didn't pick it."
His eyes lock on mine again. "Just stay with Jordan, okay? This isn't — it's not the safest place."
I nod meekly, sliding my hand out of his to wrap my arms around myself as the chill of the night seeps through the shattered windows behind me. My hair is dripping wet, sending rivets of rainwater down my chest to soak into my camisole, and when he pulls the fallen flannel up my shoulder quickly, covering my top, I realize the material is nearly see-through now that it's wet.
His gaze lingers on me like he's already regretting letting me come, and I smile up at him as I tuck the flannel even tighter around me, hoping to wipe that thought. He pinches my waist with an amused tilt of his lips, eliciting a breathy laugh as I hop back a step. When he looks at Jordan, his lips fall, and the cold severity in his voice sends a shiver down my spine. "No one touches her. No one even looks at her."
Jordan nods absently as his gaze coasts around the room, lingering on the group of girls in lingerie tops near the raised fighting ring in the center of the gym. His brows rise in interest when one of the girls uses one perfectly tanned finger to tilt her friend's head back and pour her beer into her mouth. She purposely overflows the beer, so the excess spills down her neck and chest, and the crowd of guys around them watches as she leans in and licks the trail of excess beer from between her friend's breasts, up her neck until they connect their lips. My eyes widen as I watch the display, but when Micah fists the front of Jordan's shirt and hauls him forward, effectively snapping his attention away from the two women kissing, I look away quickly, willing the blood not to scorch my cheeks.
"You're going to keep her safe while I'm up there." His voice is nearly lost in the growing cheers of the crowd around us, but when Jordan's lazy smile falters and his shoulders square, I know he heard the threat in his brother's voice, too.
He nods once before Micah finally releases him.
Looking up at the ring, my stomach tightens anxiously when a shirtless man climbs the platform and ducks under the ropes. He scans the turning heads of the audience, all watching him take the stage while he shakes out his arms, flexing his hands wrapped up in red tape. When he bares his teeth out at the crowd, the ominous tilt to his lips knocks the air from my lungs, watching as he pounds his hand against his chest, as if inviting the impending violence forward. He looks unhinged...feral, almost, as he mounts the bottom rope of the ring to stare out into the crowd. Setting his glare on Micah, his lips pull back into a terrifying, merciless smile, and my breath catches painfully in my throat.
I think this was a mistake. I think this was a very big mistake.
"Micah..." I shake my head, eyes locked on the man in the ring.
He follows my gaze over his shoulder but looks back, seemingly unfazed by the display. Taking a step closer, he leans down until his spearmint breath warms the shell of my ear. "It's just a head game, Josie. All of it. It's a show." His lips linger, and it sends a slow heat through my body, but when his fingers find mine and slowly brush up my arm until he's cupping the side of my neck, my skin flames under his touch. "But I'm going to read the last page to you."
My cheek twitches, remembering our night at the creek as I nod. His lips pull into a smile against my ear, and when his thumb slowly caresses my throat, a flood of goosebumps race up my chest. "He's going to try to hit me for a while, and eventually, I'm going to let him, but then I'm going to drop him. That's how this ends, Jo. He's going to hit the mat, dead to the world for a few seconds, and by the time he wakes up, you and I will be gone. Okay?" He pulls back to look at me, hooking his finger under my chin to tilt my head back and search my face. His face is calm, deadly so, and it seems so out of place among the primal screams of the crowd.
"Okay?" He prompts again, pinching my chin gently.
"Okay." My voice is soft, a breathy whisper lost in the palaver around us. Brushing his thumb across my lips, he turns and walks through the crowd toward the ring.
Jordan steps closer to me as we watch the crowd part for him, creating a clear lane to the ring as their excited voices grow with each step he takes. The man in the ring watches him, tracking each movement with a flat expression, but when his eyes dart to the side of the ring where a group of his friends seems to be, I catch the momentary lapse and the glimmer of fear in his eyes. It's gone as fast as it came, and as his eyes set on Micah again, his jaw hardens as he watches him catch the roll of black tape from the only guy standing in Micah's corner.
The guy is much shorter than Micah, and I don't recognize him as he leans against the ring and looks up at the masked fighter, but even when he starts to talk, Micah doesn't seem to be paying attention to him. Instead, his eyes are locked on the quick, precise rotations of the tape around his left wrist, winding up all the way to his knuckles. He nods every now, but even from here, I can tell his mind is somewhere else entirely. When he's done wrapping his other hand, he lifts the roll to his mouth and tears the tape with his teeth as his eyes flick up, meeting mine over the crowd. Tossing the roll of excess tape to the guy beside him, his eyes finally fix on the man in the ring as he jogs up the steps and ducks under the ropes.
The crowd's cheers are deafening as Micah stops in the middle of the ring, right in front of the other fighter. His eyes are colder and more distant than I've ever seen them before, a still, unyielding black — dangerous, unforgiving, deadly.
A guy in a perfectly pressed, blue-striped button-down ducks under the ropes and meets the two fighters in the middle of the ring. He looks decidedly less intimidating than the two men he's standing between, and when he looks between them to make sure they both agree to what he's saying, I figure he must be the coordinator of this whole thing. Stepping back, he motions for them to shake hands, and when Micah holds out his hand, the other fighter hesitates for a beat before shaking it. I can tell by the flex of his bicep that the other fighter is squeezing way harder than necessary, and when Micah's lips quirk up like he's amused by the gesture, the other fighter's nostrils flare.
"Who you got, Caustic or Blane?" A blond guy in a pink polo asks his friend as they lead their buddies past us, their eyes searching the crowd for an open spot closer to the ring.
"Caustic. Blane's got a death wish." His friend snorts, keeping his eyes locked on the ring as they disappear into the crowd.
The guy in the striped blue shirt hops over the ropes of the ring, and before his feet even touch the ground, a loud bell rings through the gym, and the first fist is thrown. Micah dodges it easily, walking back a few steps to gain space from the man stalking him down. A rush of adrenaline floods my veins, sending my pulse flying when Blane throws another fist, this one much closer to making contact with Micah's face. Even from here, I can see the unforgiving line of Micah's lips. He's focused, wholly immersed in tracking the man's movements, and with each fist Blane throws, Micah dodges it, eliciting a loud reaction from the crowd every time Blane's hits fail to connect.
When his lips twitch as he tilts his shoulder and jerks his head to the side, narrowly avoiding another shot intended for his jaw, I realize that not only is he enjoying this, but he's playing with Blane. Like a cat with a mouse.
When Micah's fist connects with Blane's jaw, the crowd explodes, sending him stumbling back a step. Micah lands a shot to the side of his ribs, and I can actually see his chest deflate involuntarily as the air is knocked from his lungs. His arm comes up to his stomach on reflex, but before he can catch his breath, Micah's fist connects with the side of his cheek.
"You know, you'd think shots to the face would be the worst, but getting hit with those body shots fucking stuns you. My dad used to call body shot's the golden ticket — a surefire way to set up a knockout, if you know what you're doing, of course." He glances over at me, grinning, the excitement clear in his dark blue eyes. "He made us practice that shit constantly. Micah used to bruise my ribs so often I'd have to get high in the school bathroom just to make it through the day without passing out." Jordan shakes his head, watching his brother juke a fist before sending one back. Blane's nose is already bleeding, and I wince, taking the smallest step behind Jordan when Micah's fist connects with the man's nose again, sending him stumbling back while his blood runs heavily down his bare chest in thick trails.
My brows crash as I look up at him, his words finally registering. "You used to get into fights with Micah?"
"Not real ones. We were sparring — you know, practice fighting. It's how our dad trained us." He looks down at me, seemingly amused by my horrified expression. "Our dad was a two-time heavyweight champion before I was born. Boxing," he clarifies, catching my confusion. "He taught me how to throw a punch before I could even ride a bike. I was getting the shit kicked out of me in training every day since elementary school." His eyes find the ring again, and his brow twitches as his voice lowers. "We all were."
Following his gaze, my heart sinks as I imagine a much smaller Micah thrown into that ring instead. One with the same dark, stormy eyes and beautiful golden aura, only this one hasn't been broken down and hardened by the world yet. My eyes sting at the realization that the blood, scars, and bruises that seem to always mar his body must have been just as permanent in his life as the ink now etched into his skin.
When Micah glances out into the crowd, he looks calculating, completely in control as Blane spits the blood pooling in his mouth onto the mat. And unlike Blane, he's not bleeding. In fact, he looks relaxed, calm, even, like being in there somehow strips away the near-constant stress he always seems to carry around with him. Glancing out to the crowd again, he seems to be considering something before looking back to Blane, who's shaking out his head as he stalks back toward Micah. When Blane rears his fist back, he connects with Micah's temple, and the crowd explodes because it's the first hit Blane has managed to land.
Micah takes a step back, his jaw clenching and flexing like he's trying to process the splintering pain that hit must have delivered. When he looks back at Blane, his eyes are narrowed, focused as he sends a shot back to his ribs. My breath catches in my throat when a small rivet of blood drips down his eyelid and soaks into the mask.
"A little blood's good; it's a motivator." Jordan shakes his head, seemingly unconcerned. His indifference towards the injury seems to match his brothers, so I nod and look back up at the ring.
Blane is backing away from him, his eyes locked on Micah's fists as he brings his hands up to protect his head. But that only directs Micah's fists to his ribs and stomach, and when he finally moves his hands down to protect his ribs, Micah's fist swings up with so much force I cringe at the unnatural angle Blane's neck turns from the momentum.
His whispered words echo through my mind — he's going to try to hit me for a while, and eventually, I'm going to let him, but then I'm going to drop him. That's how this ends, Jo. He's going to hit the mat, dead to the world for a few seconds, and by the time he wakes up, you and I will be gone.
When Micah's fist connects with the side of Blane's jaw, the man's eyes roll back in his head, and his legs give out under him, sending him to the floor of the ring unconscious.
The audience erupts the second his body stills on the canvas mat of the ring, but before Blane's friends can duck into the ring to check on him, Micah's hopping the ropes. By the time his shoes hit the floor, the guy who handed him the tape for his hands before is shoving his backpack into his arms; only now, it's not empty. He has a massive smile on his face as he slaps Micah's shoulder, but Micah doesn't pay him any attention as he jogs through the parting crowd, his eyes set on me. A shiver runs down my spine when he holds out his taped-up hand to me. I don't hesitate to grab it, smiling as he pulls me with him. He doesn't lead us toward the entrance doors, though, and I glance over my shoulder to see Jordan's eyes locked with the girl who licked the beer off her friend earlier as he follows us. When Micah pulls a keycard from his backpack and scans it on the reader for the door on the back wall, it opens, and he leads me inside the hall.
Jordan hesitates at the hall entrance, clearly more interested in spending the rest of his night with the girl out there. Micah glances over his shoulder, his lips twitching as he nods for him to go.
"Thanks, man — for everything tonight," Micah says, pulling out the truck keys from the front pocket of his backpack. Jordan looks down at the motorcycle keys longingly, and the question is evident in his eyes when he looks back up.
Micah sighs. "Just bring me my bike tomorrow. And don't wreck her."
Jordan's smile flashes. "See you later, Mikey." His eyes flick down to me, and he winks before sliding back out of the hall, the automatic lock sliding into place as the door clicks shut.
Micah squeezes my hand gently, guiding me down the long hall. Doors are lining the walls on both sides, but he doesn't stop until he gets the second to last one on the left. Pushing it open, I follow him in, eyes widening as I take in the small dressing room. There's a couch and two armchairs set up around an old coffee table, and the open door on the back wall leads into what looks like a small bathroom. My eyes linger on the shoebox on the coffee table.
Untangling our fingers, he turns the lock on the door before pulling off his mask and dropping down on the couch. I follow him, sitting on the edge of the cushion as I assess the blood smeared across his face. The slice above his eyebrow is bleeding heavy rivets down the side of his face. He needs stitches.
He flips open the top of the box, revealing the medley of medical supplies stuffed inside. I sigh, my shoulders sinking when I realize how routine this is for him. Fight, bleed, patch himself up. Only, looking up at him as he tears open the gauze pack and uncaps the peroxide, I think he usually does this all on his own. Alone. Always alone.
A small trail of blood drips into the crease of his eye before diverting back out to drip down his cheek, and I reach out, touching his hand. He looks up, letting me take the peroxide and gauze from him. I press the doused pad lightly against his cut and watch his jaw clench as he inhales a quick breath through his nose. Peeking at the cut, I frown.
"I think this needs stitches."
He shakes his head, reaching into the box of supplies for the small bottle. My eyes bulge at the label — skin glue.
"You're not serious." I gape. "This cut is deep, Micah. You can't glue it."
"I always glue it."
"I —" I shake my head, trying to understand how he can be careless with his own injuries when he didn't even think before rushing me to the hospital for mine. When I open my mouth to argue, his eyes coast down to my lips before lingering on my yellow top. His flannel shirt has fallen down my shoulders, hooked on my elbows like a shall.
His brow raises a little, appreciating the view of my see-through shirt, and I add a little pressure to the gauze on his cut to pull his attention back.
"You need stitches, Micah Costa." I try to sound stern, but when his lips pull back into a toothy grin, his hands wrap around the back of my knees, and he hauls me closer to him on the couch. I tilt my chin up, trying not to smile at the move as I meet his challenging gaze.
"We can argue about this for the next twenty minutes." His grip on the back of my knee tightens, lifting my leg over his to pull me even closer. "But you're just going to end up gluing it shut anyway because I'm not going back to that fucking hospital." I glare at him. This is going to scar. It's going to scar. It's not a tiny pinprick or a minor scratch; it's a deep cut slicing across his brow. "Or —" He leans in a little, so close I can feel his warm breath on my lips as he murmurs, "You can save us the fight, glue me up now, and we can finish what we started in the truck."
My body warms, the heat between my legs pulsing in answer.
"That's..." I close my eyes, shaking my head as I try to stay strong here, but it's hard when his hand slowly trails down my arms, pulling the flannel all the way off. His cut has slowed its bleeding, and I drop the gauze pad onto the coffee table.
"A great idea?" He finishes with a smile, already reaching for my top.
"You'll go to the hospital if the glue doesn't work?" That seems like a perfectly reasonable compromise.
He grins when I lift my arms, allowing him to pull my top off.
"I'll consider it." He nods. I narrow my eyes at that, but all thoughts of hospitals and stitches and arguments are lost when his hand comes up to cup my breast, brushing his calloused thumb over my perked nipple. The soft noise that sounds in my throat has him reaching for the button of my pants, and I lift my hips for him to pull them off. He's careful as he does so he doesn't touch the bandage on my hip, and when he slides off the couch to kneel in front of me, my heart stops in my chest.
I've never done this. I've never —
Oh, God.
His hands reach for my pink lace panties, but I grab his hand. "Wait!"
His brows raise, looking up at me.
Oh, God.
"The glue. I need to glue your cut first."
He blinks as he looks around for the glue bottle like he forgot he was cut in the first place. Finding it on the cushion near one of the brown pillows, he hands it to me. I uncap it with shaking hands, praying he doesn't notice. When I lift the small brush to his cut, his hands rest on the top of my thighs, watching me as he instructs, "Pinch the cut together first, so it's closed when it dries."
I nod, ensuring the cut is closed before sliding the glue across the skin. It's shiny wet, and I keep my hand there holding the cut together, not sure how long it takes to dry. When I lean forward and blow on it softly, his grip on my thighs tightens. My eyes widen when the glue loses its shine a beat later. It's dry. Pulling my hand away, I'm shocked to see the cut closed — the bleeding completely stopped.
Grabbing the glue from me, he caps it and tosses it back onto the couch, but instead of reaching for my panties, he cups my cheek and pulls my lips down to his. I relax a little at the change of direction, and I think he can tell because he takes his time with me, just like this, pulling my legs around him until my butt is at the edge of the couch and our bodies are pressed together. His tongue brushes mine softly, a silent caress that steadies my shaking hands on his shoulders.
When he pulls back enough to trail his lips across my cheek and down my throat, I inhale a shaky breath as his lips awaken every nerve in their wake. My back arches into him when he kisses between my breasts, and I close my eyes as his hands on my waist guide me back gently, so I'm laying back as his lips trail down my stomach.
"Breathe, Jo," he murmurs against my skin, and I open my eyes, taking a deep breath when I realize I wasn't breathing at all.
When his eyes flick up to mine, the anxiety tensing my body releases slowly, and I lift my hips for him. His eyes seem to lighten at the gesture, and he slides my panties down my legs, his chest rising as he lifts my legs over his shoulders. I prop myself on my elbows, enough to watch him as he lowers his mouth to my hip — the one not covered in a bandage. He licks the skin like he's tasting it, like he's curious, and then he lowers his mouth and sinks his teeth into my skin. I inhale a sharp breath as he sucks on my hip, pulling me a little further down the couch as his tongue massages the skin like he's applying a soothing balm. My head falls back as the heat between my legs pulses hotter, and I try to clench my thighs to relieve the pressure building there, but he pulls my thighs further apart and sucks harder.
When he pulls back, I don't have time to glance at the budding bruise before his tongue, warm and slick, finds the bud of nerves aching between my legs. My hips twitch instantly, silently pleading for more pressure, but his hand slides up to my stomach and holds my hips down, keeping me in place as his tongue finds a pressure and tempo that has my fingers digging into the leather couch.
When his teeth graze my clit softly, my back arches off the couch, and I moan so loud it echoes through the room, but I'm drowning in pleasure so intense it's almost painful, and I don't have the sense to be embarrassed. He slides a finger inside of me and hits a spot so deep my eyes fly open, and the pressure building in my stomach nearly piques, clipping my breaths into desperate pants.
"Yes, yes, yes," I reach for his hand on my stomach, holding him to me.
His tongue quickens, and I squeeze my eyes shut, my muscles winding so tight I can't even breathe anymore.
I'm about to come.
Oh, God.
He stops, his tongue's quick, rough pressure slowing to a leisurely pace, so soft I can barely feel him. I sit up on my elbows again, eyes wide as I meet his gaze. I can't even speak, I just squeak in protest. I was so close. So close.
"Micah." I finally find my voice, trying desperately to move my hips to add more pressure myself, but his hand on my stomach tightens and pins me against the couch, completely immobile.
"Hmm?" He hums against me, and the vibration alone nearly sends me over the edge. I moan again, desperate and breathy and loud. Leaning back again, my face flames, realizing what he wants here. I bite down, clenching my jaw as he adds a little more pressure, his finger teasing the spot deep inside of me that makes my toes curl.
I dig my heels into his back, pulling him toward me. I can feel him smiling against me, but he keeps the same lazy tempo. "Tell me what you want, Josie."
My chest caves, and my body flames.
"You know what I want." I counter, my fingers digging deeper into the leather couch when he adds a little more pressure, just enough to make my legs shake.
I'm in orgasm purgatory.
"Say it." He drags his teeth across my clit again, and my body jolts, like every nerve in my body has been electrocuted. Oh, God. Yes, please. Please.
He does it again, only this time, his finger drives faster, rougher inside of me, and I cry out. "Please, please, Micah, please."
His tongue finds a quicker rhythm, finally letting me move my hips against him, and when the muscles in my stomach feel like they're going to burst, the all-encompassing rush of adrenaline and endorphins floods my body, drowning my veins and lighting up my nerves in the kind of pleasure that freezes my lungs.
His tongue slows, bringing me down from my high with soft aftershocks, and when he finally pulls away from me, all I can hear is the blood rushing in my ears and my desperate uneven gasps and pants as I try to catch my breath.
His thumb brushes against my ankle as he pulls my legs from his shoulders, and when he sets them back down, it takes me a little while to come back down from my high before I straighten up and slide my arms through his flannel. It's long enough to wear as a dress, and since my top and shorts are somehow more rain-soaked than the flannel, I'm warmer in just this. He surprises me when he reaches for the bottom button before I can, sliding it into place. When he stops a few buttons from the top, he brushes his thumb across my collar bone.
I don't know the rules for friends with benefits. I don't know when I can kiss him and when I can't. I don't know how affectionate or soft or intimate I'm allowed to be. I don't know where we both drew that line, but I try not to think about rules or expectations as I lean forward and connect our lips. He doesn't try to deepen the kiss or unbutton my clothes again, and somehow that warms my cheeks even more as I smile against his lips. His hands slide down to my waist, pulling me closer as I cup his cheek, and when I pull away, he straightens the collar of the flannel that slid down my shoulder.
"Thank you," I whisper.
His lips twitch, and I know he thinks I'm talking about him going down on me, but I'm not. Not really.
"Thank you for today. For earlier in the field, for letting me come with you tonight, for showing me a part of you that you keep hidden away, for showing me how to experience art," I clarify.
His brows pull down a little, and I brush my fingers over the stubble on his jaw. "I was always told that art is found in the experiences and adventures that make your heart race and your lungs burst. That it's meant to be experienced before it's created. I never knew what that meant — not really. Not until today." I look up at him, watching his eyes lighten as he considers that. "So, thank you, Micah, for letting me experience art with you."
A/N:
So how are we feeling so far?! I need all of your thoughts and reactions *excited squeals*