Chapter 2: The Stolen Moment
The bass from the stereo downstairs was a dull thunder through the floorboards. Liky’s birthday party was at its peak—a swell of laughter, shouted conversations, the clink of bottles. Merlin leaned against the kitchen counter, a warm beer in his hand, trying to look like he was part of the noise. He felt like a ghost, transparent.
He hadn’t seen Jonah since the attic three days ago. The memory of that grip on his wrist was a brand. Jonah had texted once: We still need to talk. Merlin hadn’t replied. Every time he thought of it, a cold dread pooled in his stomach, followed by a flash of heat that made him feel ashamed.
He saw Liky then, draped over Jonah’s back, laughing at something a friend said. Jonah smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. His gaze swept the room, landed on Merlin, and held. It was a physical touch.
Merlin looked away, his heart hammering against his ribs. He set the beer down and slipped into the relative quiet of the back hallway, aiming for the toilet, for a moment to breathe. The walls here were thin, the roar of the party muted to a murmur.
He never made it to the bathroom.
A hand shot out from the alcove that led to the walk-in pantry, fingers wrapping around his upper arm, and he was pulled, smoothly and decisively, into the dark.
The door clicked shut behind him, sealing them in. The space was narrow, crowded with shelves. The single bare bulb hanging from the ceiling flickered, casting jumpy shadows over Jonah’s face.
“Jonah, what—” Merlin’s whisper was a panicked breath.
Jonah didn’t answer with words. He pushed Merlin back gently until his shoulders met the cool wood of a shelf. A jar rattled. The air was thick with the scent of cinnamon, cloves, old flour.
Then Jonah’s mouth was on his neck, hot and urgent, his stubble a delicious rasp against Merlin’s thin skin. A surprised, ragged sound escaped Merlin’s throat. His hands flew up, not to push away, but to clutch at Jonah’s shirt, the fabric tight over the hard muscling of his back.
“Tell me to stop,” Jonah murmured against his pulse point, his voice a dark, rough thing. His hands were on Merlin’s hips, thumbs pressing into the sharp bone. “Say it, and I’ll walk out that door right now.”
Merlin’s mind was white noise. Every coherent thought, every fear about Cambridge, about his sister, about what this meant, dissolved under the brutal, welcome reality of Jonah’s body against his. He was hard already, a painful, urgent pressure in his jeans, and he knew Jonah could feel it.
He couldn’t speak. He shook his head, a frantic little motion, and turned his face, seeking Jonah’s mouth.
The kiss wasn’t gentle. It was a collision. Jonah groaned into it, his tongue pushing past Merlin’s lips, claiming him. It tasted like beer and something uniquely, primally Jonah. Merlin surrendered to it, his head spinning, letting himself be devoured. His fingers tangled in Jonah’s hair, pulling him closer.
Jonah’s hands slid down, cupping Merlin’s arse through his jeans, squeezing hard. He ground their hips together, and the friction made Merlin whimper. He felt so slight against Jonah, so easily-manhandled, and the sheer obliterating power of that thrilled him.
“Fuck, Merlin,” Jonah breathed, tearing his mouth away to trail wet, open-mouthed kisses down his jaw, his throat. He yanked Merlin’s shirt up, his palms rough and warm on the delicate skin of his stomach, his ribs. “Skinny. So fucking pretty.”
The word ‘pretty’ shattered something in Merlin. A sob escaped him, part terror, part overwhelming need. He arched into the touch, his own hands fumbling at the waistband of Jonah’s jeans.
Jonah helped him, undoing the button and fly with a quick, practiced jerk. He shoved his own jeans and boxers down just enough to free his cock. It was thick, heavy, ruddy and erect in the flickering light. Merlin stared, his mouth dry.
“Touch me,” Jonah commanded, his own hand wrapping around Merlin’s wrist again, just like in the attic, and guiding it down.
Merlin’s fingers closed around the hard, hot flesh. He’d never touched another man before. The reality of it—the weight, the silken-smooth skin over iron-hard core, the faint throb of a vein—made his knees weak. He stroked, clumsily, a gasp catching in his throat.
“Yeah, like that,” Jonah hissed. His eyes were black, his pupils blown wide. He was watching Merlin’s face as Merlin touched him. He leaned in, capturing Merlin’s mouth again in a filthy, deep kiss, swallowing his breathy little moans.
With his other hand, Jonah unfastened Merlin’s jeans, shoved them down over his narrow hips. His cool fingers wrapped around Merlin’s cock, and the touch was so electric, so perfect, Merlin cried out, the sound muffled by Jonah’s mouth.
“Quiet,” Jonah whispered, but he was smiling a wild, dangerous smile. He began to stroke them both, his big hand struggling to contain their combined girth, his grip tight and sure. The slide was messy, immediate, desperate. Precum mixed, slicking the way, the sound obscene and thrilling in the cramped space.
Merlin was lost. He bucked into Jonah’s fist, his forehead falling against Jonah’s shoulder. He was babbling, nonsense, “please,” and “god,” and “Jonah, Jonah, Jonah.”
“You’ve been driving me fucking crazy,” Jonah growled in his ear, his rhythm speeding up, becoming punishing. “Watching you hide. Watching you think. All those fucking books. I just wanted to do this. To pin you down and ruin you.”
The words were crude, brutal. They should have hurt. Instead, they felt like an absolution. To be ruined was to be free of the future, of the choice, of the person he was supposed to be. This was all there was: the heat, the pressure, the smell of cinnamon and sex, Jonah’s ragged breath hot against his temple.
“I’m gonna come,” Merlin gasped, the coil in his gut tightening unbearably. “Jonah, I’m—”
“Come on, then.” Jonah’s voice was guttural. He bit down gently on the tendon of Merlin’s neck. “Let me feel it.”
It crashed over him like a wave, violent and wracking. He shook, his cry stifled against Jonah’s shoulder, stripes of white painting the dusty floorboards and their tangled clothes. The intensity was blinding, leaving him hollowed out and trembling.
Jonah watched him fall apart, his own movements growing frantic, erratic. A few rough, brutal strokes later, he followed with a low, choked groan, his spend mixing with Merlin’s on the floor, his body rigid, then slumping heavily against him.
For a long minute, there was only the sound of their heaving breaths, the distant thump of music, the flicker of the bulb above.
Reality seeped back in, cold and sharp. The stickiness on his stomach. The bruising grip of Jonah’s fingers on his hip, now going slack. The jarred shelf digging into his back.
Jonah slowly pulled away. He released him, looking down at the mess between them with an expression Merlin couldn’t decipher. He reached for a rag from a shelf—an old, stained tea towel—and handed it to Merlin, then used another to clean himself up roughly.
They dressed in silence. The zip of a fly sounded as loud as a gunshot. Merlin’s hands were shaking so badly he could barely button his jeans.
Jonah leaned back against the opposite shelf, running a hand through his hair. He looked at Merlin, really looked at him. The raw hunger was gone, replaced by a complicated, weary intensity.
“Merlin,” he started, his voice hoarse.
From the other side of the door, Liky’s voice called out, bright and tipsy. “Jonah? Babe, where’d you go? Someone’s doing tequila shots!”
The spell was irrevocably broken. Jonah closed his eyes for a second, a muscle ticking in his jaw. He looked from Merlin to the door, then back.
“Not here,” he said, finally, the words freighted with everything that had just happened and everything that was left to say. He reached out, his thumb brushing a streak of dampness from Merlin’s cheekbone that wasn’t sweat. The gesture was unbearably tender. Then he turned, opened the pantry door, and stepped back into the light and noise of the party, leaving Merlin alone in the sweet, spent dark.