Page 49 of Discover Me
And I do. I can't stop it even if I wanted to, pleasure crashing over me in waves that make my vision white out. I'm vaguely aware of crying out, of my hands clutching desperately at Kellan's shoulders, of my body clenching around him as I shake apart.
Through it all, Kellan keeps moving, drawing out my pleasure until I'm oversensitive and trembling. Only then does his rhythm falter, his movements becoming more erratic as he chases his own release.
I watch his face as he gets closer, memorizing every expression. The way his eyes squeeze shut, the way his jaw clenches, the way his breath comes in sharp pants. He's beautiful like this—unguarded and vulnerable in a way he never isanywhere else. And I'm the one who gets to see it, gets to be the reason for it.
When he finally comes, my name falls from his lips like a prayer, and my heart squeezes so tight I can barely breathe. I want to pull him close and never let go.
Kellan
I haven't had a lot of time with Micah over the past few days, and the absence eats at me more than I want to admit. The label runs me ragged with practice for the upcoming album, demanding perfection on songs I don't even like. Early morning sessions that stretch into late afternoon, then promotional calls and meetings with Tom about the rollout strategy. By the time I get home, I'm exhausted and irritable, my body aching from hours behind the drums.
But Micah is always there waiting, curled up on the couch or in bed already asleep when I stumble through the door. I crawl in beside him and he automatically shifts closer, his body seeking mine even in sleep. Those moments are what keep me going, the quiet intimacy of sleeping next to someone who fits perfectly against me.
Sweet kisses in the morning before I have to leave again. His hand on my back when we pass each other in the kitchen. The way he threads his fingers through mine when we sit together watching TV for the brief hour we both have free. Small touches that mean everything because we don't have time for more.
Micah is so attentive despite having his own physical therapy appointments and recovery to manage. He fixes things around the house that I didn't even know were broken, tightening hinges and replacing burnt-out lightbulbs with his good hand. Makes dinner most nights, always something simple but better than the takeout I've been surviving on for years. Leaves notes around the apartment with stupid jokes that make me smile even when I'm furious with Tom.
He's so sweet, so genuinely caring in ways I've never experienced before. But I can see something weighing on him, shadows in his eyes when he thinks I'm not looking. A tension in his shoulders that doesn't ease even when he's supposed to be relaxed. I want to ask what's wrong, want to dig into whatever is bothering him, but we just don't have enough time together. Every moment we get is precious and I don't want to waste it on heavy conversations we're not ready for.
The label runs me ragged and I'm getting more frustrated with each passing day. Even after my rut ended, even after those perfect hours of fucking into my sweet Beta and feeling everything click into place, the restlessness hasn't left. It's transformed into something else, this anger at being controlled and manipulated and treated like a product instead of a person.
Now it's time for our fake but real dinner date at some high-end place Tom picked out. The kind of restaurant with a dress code and a wine list longer than the actual menu. A place where everything is photographed and posted online, where being seen is more important than the food.
My nerves are shot as I swing by the apartment to grab Micah. I spent an hour getting ready, putting on clothes that feel too formal and uncomfortable. Dark jeans without holes, a button-up shirt that actually required ironing, dress shoes instead of my usual boots. I look like someone's idea of what a rockstar should look like on a date, not like myself.
I knock on my own apartment door, giving Micah a chance to prepare rather than just barging in. When he opens it, my breath catches.
Micah looks gorgeous. He's wearing a dark blue button-up that brings out the warm tones in his skin, paired with black slacks that fit him perfectly. His hair is styled instead of the casual mess I'm used to, and he's cleanly shaved. The cast on his arm ruins the polished look slightly, but somehow that makes it better. A reminder that this is real Micah, not some sanitized version for public consumption.
"Damn," I breathe out, my eyes tracking over him appreciatively.
Micah's expression is uncomfortable as he steps out and locks the door behind him. "I hate all of this, just so you know. It's so stiff and unnatural. These clothes are expensive and uncomfortable and nothing I'd ever choose to wear normally."
"Yeah, I get that." I reach for his good hand, threading our fingers together. "But you look incredible. That's not fake or for show. You actually look incredible."
We walk down to my car and I open the passenger door for him, earning a small smile. The drive to the restaurant is quiet, both of us holding hands across the center console. His thumbtraces patterns on the back of my hand, a soothing gesture that helps ease some of my anxiety.
The restaurant is in the expensive part of the city, all glass and modern architecture that screams money. Valet parking, which I hate because I don't like strangers driving my car. But I hand over my keys and guide Micah inside, my hand on the small of his back.
The hostess recognizes me immediately, her smile going professional and bright. "Mr. Hayes! We have your table ready. Right this way."
She leads us through the restaurant to a table near the window, prime real estate for being seen. Other diners notice us immediately, heads turning and whispers starting. I can see phones coming out, cameras pointed in our direction before we've even sat down.
Micah's body goes tense beside me, his shoulders rising toward his ears. But he sits when I pull out his chair, forcing a smile that doesn't reach his eyes.
The hostess hands us menus that are entirely in French, no translations or explanations. Just elegant script describing dishes I can't pronounce let alone understand. Micah stares down at his menu with an expression of growing panic.
Flashing cameras from other tables, not even trying to be subtle about it. Giggles and whispers from a group of young women nearby who are clearly fans. The ambient noise of the restaurant feels too loud, too invasive, pressing in from all sides.
"I can't even read the menu," Micah mutters, his voice tight with frustration. "Is this in French? Why is this in French?"
"Neither can I." I stare down at the incomprehensible words, anger building in my chest. "Fuck. Let's just order something so we don't look stupid, and then we'll go find somewhere else to eat after. Somewhere with food we can actually identify."
A waiter appears, snooty and condescending in the way only expensive restaurants can achieve. "Have you decided?"
I point at something on the menu at random. "This one. And this wine." I butcher the pronunciation so badly the waiter winces.
"Excellent choice, sir." His tone suggests it's anything but excellent. "And for you?"
