Page 112 of Reluctantly You

“Let me see,” I say as I make my way toward the door.

But he stops me, his fingers grasping my shirt roughly, sheer strength stopping me in my tracks.

“Don’t fucking move. Don’t fucking leave.”

“I just want to see what you did. I want to see what you created.”

His breath comes out in a heave. “I can’t have this. I can’t.”

I don’t know what he means, what he’s referring to. My hand moves up to his neck, squeezing tightly.

“I have clawed my way up from nothing. I’ve fought for everything I have. Let me tell you this one thing I’ve learned, Mitchell. You take happiness where you can get it. You take it, hold it, and never let go.”

“I can’t have it.”

“You can. You already have it, it’s right there. Every goddamn opportunity. Now all you have to do is not let it slip through your fingers.”

His eyes are watery, shining with something I recognize. Hope, excitement.

I want to burn his parents for tampering with him, for pushing him down, for making him doubt himself.

“Take it,” I whisper, and his lips slam down on mine. I slant my mouth against his, licking my tongue into him, tasting him, devouring.

He moans, the paint on his fingertips smearing into my cheeks as he holds me against him.

“Why do you make me want it all? Why? I can’t have it. I can’t.”

“You can. You can have anything you want.”

He moans lowly into my mouth, the vibration sliding down into me, lingering between my legs. Fuck, I’m hard. I want him. I want to fuck him, to slide my cock inside of his tight hole and make him scream.

Not yet. Not fucking yet.

I’ve never moved so fucking slow in my entire goddamn life.

But he’s worth it.

He has to be worth it.

When did this change? Even I don’t know. Just that it did, a slow gradual thing.

He pants against me, his hips grinding up into mine, movements almost frantic.

My hands slide down and roughly grab onto his ass, wanting more than I think he’s ready to give. His fingers slide down my neck to my bare chest, curling into my pecs.

My own hands rip at his shirt, the buttons falling onto the floor.

He growls and I meet the sound, hissing into his neck as I bite down on his pulse point.

“I hate this,” he says desperately.

I know what that means, the denial, the venom that seeps from his lips.

He fucking loves this. He just can’t say it.

One day he will.

One day those words will slip from his lips, and I’m going to savor it.

---