Page 89 of Reluctantly You

“Why was he broken?”

I freeze, unsure if I should tell him. I ponder it a moment before shaking my head. Not yet. I don’t want to ruin this, not when I’ve just gotten him.

“He just had a lot of regrets.”

“I get that,” Mitchell replies, and my finger can’t help but trace his bottom lip once more. Seems I’m becoming slightly obsessed with his fucking mouth.

“And then after he died, I was in the system for years. Until I aged out.”

“Must have been hard.”

“Yeah, it wasn’t the best experience.”

He twists his head to look at me. “Is that why you’re an asshole?”

I huff a laugh. “Perhaps. But one thing it’s taught me is that I never let myself lose, Mitchell. Never. I’ve always had to fight. And I’ll continue to do so until I’m the best. Until I have everything I want.”

“Yeah. Makes sense.”

We’re silent a moment and then Mitchell turns over, his body curling into mine. “You ever going to be happy with all that? When you finally have it all?”

“I don’t know,” I admit. “I don’t fucking know.”

We end up falling asleep in each other’s arms. I only wake when I feel Mitchell move from me, his feet pattering to the bathroom. My mind doesn’t think much of it, until he’s gone for far too long. I sit up in bed and roll up, my dick half-hard from early-morning wood and being pressed against his body all night long.

“Mitchell?” I ask lowly.

I hear a drawer close and then an anxious, “Be right out.”

A moment later, when he doesn’t open the door, I worry that he’s hurting himself. What if things got dark? What if he’s upset about last night? It might have been too much.

Without another thought, I push the bathroom door open and catch him, his foot on the toilet, his hand on his cock, the other on his ass.

“Get the fuck out!” he hisses, but I can’t move, my dick twitching into full hardness at the sight of him.

“Oh, Mitchell,” I say softly and then move toward him, reaching down and pulling his finger out of his ass. His cheeks are flushed, his chest heaving. “You want it so bad, don’t you?”

“I fucking don’t.”

It’s all lies. He reeks of them.

“Let me help you.”

His eyes slam into mine in the mirror and I see those blown-out pupils, the way the blush bleeds into his cheeks.

“Tell me you want it, tell me.”

His chin hits his chest, a small admission causing me to press against his side, my finger sliding down his already wet crack. He’s prepped, ready. My finger slips into his open hole and he groans, his hand flexing on the marble countertop.

“Both hands.” His gaze snaps to mine, and I clarify. “Both hands on the counter. You’re going to come hands-free.”

“Fuck that.”

“Do it.”

Mitch’s hand reluctantly leaves his dick and settles on the countertop, and I feel my pulse increase. Yes.Yes.

“Good boy.”

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