Page 112 of Man On

"Lane..."

Mortified, but also amused and a little aroused at his level of obsession with my body, I let him press a closed mouth kiss to my lips. He licks against the seam and nips my bottom lip, but I keep them pressed together. Growling in frustration, he moves his kisses down my throat, and spends probably too long making out with my neck and chest while grinding into me before peeling my sleep pants off my body. After turning on the shower and forcing me inside, I think he's going to leave me, but he presses me against the tile and uses what he calls his cheat code to wrench an orgasm from me before leaving me to wash myself on shaky legs.

My heart is beating in my throat the entire time I get ready. I'm headed upstairs, considering asking Scott to re-tie my tie for me because I think it seems crooked, when I hear his voice.

"You’ve got to be fucking kidding me, Noah!"

I've never heard Scott cuss or shout before. His deep, angry voice is jarring. I take a step back, but slip and fall down a few stairs before I catch myself.

"The sickness is inside you, Isaiah." "Repent!" "To accept God's love, you must purge your sins!"

I back up into a wall, hands holding either side of my head. Stop it, stop it, stop it!

I can't breathe.

"Get away from him! Don't touch him!"

"Son, I'm not?—"

"Just back off, Dad. You don't understand!

"What's going on down here? Oh my God, Lane!"

"It's okay, he's okay. Just give him some space."

"Is he having a panic attack?"

"Lane, baby. I'm here. I'm here."

Warmth surrounds me. The smell of familiar bodywash and the underlying scent of cum fills my lungs as I suck in painful breaths, like I've been held under water too long. Pressure around my chest. Whispering in my ear, reminding me where I am. Who I am. Who I'm with.

Noah.

Something small is pressed into my hand. My mother and Noah's voice talking back and forth.

"Open your mouth, Lane."

Isn't my mom here? This isn't appropriate?—

An intense, sharp, acidic flavor bursts in my mouth. My eyes water, but open, squinting as my face contorts to react to whatever is in my mouth. I spit it out, and Noah catches it in his hand.

"It's just candy, Lane. Keep it in your mouth."

My mom watches us with a strange, wide-eyed expression as Noah puts the terrible candy back into my mouth, encouraging me to suck on it with a completely straight face. My mom and Scott look at each other, having some silent conversation. Noah winks, because of course the dirty implications didn’t escape him.

The sour fades to sweet, and my heart rate returns to normal.

"I'm sorry," I say, embarrassed, unable to look our parents in the eye.

"It happens to me, too," my mom says, tentatively placing a hand on my arm. My eyes raise to hers, seeing concern rather than anger. "That's why I have a pocket full of these," she says, pulling a few Warheads candies out of her pocket. "Someone in a support group recommended them once."

"Support group?"

"Yeah," she says. "My therapist recommended I talk with other women who have been through similar trauma."

"Trauma?"

Her lips form a sad smile, and I realize that I'm just repeating her like I'm learning a new language. Then I realize that I'm sitting on the floor at the bottom of the stairs, with Noah straddling my lap, face buried in my neck. Instead of pushing him off me, which is my first impulse, considering our parents are staring at us, I wrap my arms around his body and hold him for a few moments. My mom's hand reaches for Scott's, entwining their fingers and squeezing.

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