Page 52 of Man On

“Who are you coming for, Lane?” Noah growls as he continues pumping me in a steady, squeezing rhythm.

“For you. I’m coming for you, Noah.”

A tingling sensation explodes in the back of my head as pure electricity shoots down my spine and explodes from my core. Ropes of cum spurt out of me as I cry out, soaking Noah's hand, both our shirts, and the front of his pants. It's everywhere, and it goes on for so much longer than any orgasm I've ever had before.

When I finally stop coming, I'm dizzy, and I lean heavily against the wall. I struggle to catch my breath. I don't take my eyes off Noah, who is looking at his hand like it belongs to someone else. His eyes flick up to mine, still with that dangerous look in his eyes.

Noah releases my face, pulling his fingers from my mouth, but not for long. He reaches up with his other hand, the one soaked with my cum, and swipes some of it across my mouth. I hold my breath, afraid and astonished, and a little nauseous. When he's done painting it across my lips, he does his own, and I think I experience full brain death. My eyes latch onto the way he licks it from his lips, instinctively doing the same. The taste of my cum isn't as offensive as it should be. It's a little salty, maybe a bit bitter, but doesn't really taste like much. I want to know what he thinks of how I taste.

A few moments pass, and once I've come down, reality starts to weigh down on me. Quickly tucking myself back into my pants, I look down at my body, wondering how I let this happen. My legs feel weak, like they might give out. Dejected, I slide down the wall to sit on the ground.

CHAPTER 17

NOAH

My aching cock deflates as Lane slides to the ground.

He went from more animated than I've ever seen him, to dead to the world in mere moments. I watched his entire face and body change as the high wore off and realization set in.

My mind spins, worrying over what I've done. I thought he was into it. He seemed really into it. Did I go too far? I wanted to push him outside his comfort zone, but I got carried away by the overwhelming hunger I felt. Lost in the desire of having him where I wanted him.

Sinking to the ground in front of him, I’m not sure how much space to give him. I want to comfort him, but he might freak out if I touch him. So I keep my hands to myself, gripping my knees, surreptitiously wiping my hand on my pants.

"Lane, look at me."

It takes a moment, but he finally turns his grey-green eyes up to meet mine. They're more grey than green right now, flat and lifeless. He's not really looking at me, it's more like he's looking through me. I'm not sure he's hearing me as meaningless words of comfort tumble from my mouth.

"You're alright," I say. He isn't. Not right now.

"It's okay," I say. Nothing about this is okay.

"Take a breath," I say. I can't breathe either.

"I'm here for you," I say. This is my fault.

"I'm sorry," I whisper. "I got carried away, I?—"

"I wanted it," Lane whispers back. His voice startles me, as soft as it is. It’s morose, like all the happiness has been leeched from him.

My eyes meet his, and he's really looking at me now. There's so much pain in his gaze, it hurts to look, but I force myself to keep eye contact. This is a confession. It needs to be witnessed, given value, truly heard.

Tears fill his eyes, but he shakes his head, breaking our eye contact to roll his eyes up. Can I tell him it's okay to cry? Would he believe me if I said I'm here for him?

"It's okay," I repeat, reaching to lay my hand on his shoulder. He flinches at the touch, but relaxes and tilts his head to rest against the wall. "You'll be okay."

He scoffs, but doesn’t respond beyond that.

I'm not sure how long we sit on the floor like that. Long enough that my knees ache. I space out, thinking about all the little moments since I've met Lane. How my emotions have been all over the place since well before I met him.

I consider my subconscious jealousy towards him for being the son Hannah wanted more. How he was this ghost-like presence that I never felt I could live up to, like I was living in the shadow of someone that only existed in someone's mind. An idea of a person is harder to live up to than a real person. Hannah rarely talked about the son she’d lost, but she'd get this far-off look on her face. Every year on my birthday, she'd go above and beyond, but as much as she tried to hide it, she was mourning. And every year on his birthday, she didn’t leave her room.

I think I became the obnoxiously outgoing person I am because I wanted to be happy for her. The day I learned he was coming to live with us, my insides were tied up in knots. I was happy for Hannah, and somewhat excited about having a brother, but mostly, I was afraid. It was like meeting a celebrity, or a ghost.

He was so quiet and standoffish, and he looked at the world like there were monsters hiding around every corner. The way he was always watching me made me feel self-conscious, and I acted out. I didn't want him to know how deeply I felt his stare, so I made him feel ashamed for looking, while simultaneously doing things to get his attention.

I became a different person that summer. I fell back into Lane's shadow more than ever before. When I search myself objectively, I know I allowed it to happen. It was never a competition, but I made it one, and I let him win more often than not so I could keep wallowing in my reasons to hate him. I made us both miserable with my own actions and choices. Just like I did things to intimidate him on purpose, because I didn't want him to know how much he intimidated me.

I'd like to say it was a lack of maturity, but what excuse do I have now? We're adults, college students, preparing for our whole lives—and all I've done is focus on him, like the obsession he's always been.

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