Chapter 10: Best Friend's Betrayal
The knock was too soft, too hesitant, to be anyone but him. Xavier opened the door and the breath stalled in his chest.
Micah stood silhouetted against the hallway’s sickly yellow light, swimming in a too-large trench coat. His face was ash. His eyes, usually bright with cocky assurance, were black pools of pure need. He smelled of sandalwood and sour milk.
“Xave,” he whispered, and the single syllable was a crack in the world.
Xavier pulled him inside, shutting the door on the empty hall. The lock clicked, a final sound. He didn’t ask questions. The proof was in the way Micah moved, a careful, pained shuffle, his hand pressed low against his belly beneath the coat.
“He did it again,” Xavier said. It wasn’t a question.
Micah just nodded, a tremor running through him. He let the trench coat slide from his shoulders. It puddled on the polished floor. Underneath, he wore only a silk robe, charcoal grey, tied loosely. It gaped open, revealing the brutal truth.
Xavier’s mouth went dry. Micah’s chest, that once solid slab of muscle, was undeniably changed. The pectorals were softer, fuller, with a defined swell beneath each dark nipple. The areolas were wider, darker. A faint, sticky sheen glistened on the left one.
But it was his stomach that told the whole story. It was no longer washboard flat. A subtle, firm curve pushed against the silk, a nascent dome that hadn’t been there a week ago. Fresh, pink stretch marks, like tiny lightning strikes, webbed the skin just above his hips.
“Dios mío,” Xavier breathed.
“I can’t… I don’t know how to be,” Micah choked out, his voice breaking. He wrapped his arms around himself, a futile gesture of modesty. “He wants… a wife. I’m just a broken toy. I need you to show me. Please, Xave. Show me how to be good for him.”
Xavier had heard the fantasies for years, played along with the theoretical, smoky late-night confessions. This was different. This was the physical, trembling reality of it, standing in his living room, leaking and swollen. His best friend.The football captain. Begging.
“Micah, this ain’t a game no more,” Xavier said, his voice rough. “Look at you.”
“I know!” Micah’s cry was raw. He grabbed Xavier’s hand, pressing it against the swell of his own belly. It was warm, taut. “I feel it. It’s in me. And I’m so empty. I need to be taught. Please.You know. You’ve been with… you know how it’s supposed to be.”
A war raged behind Xavier’s eyes. Concern, fear, a latent desire he’d spent years burying. He looked at the rose on his nightstand, a token from a date that now felt trivial. He looked back at Micah’s shattered pride.
His hands came up, hovering over Micah’s shoulders. They were trembling. “You came to the right Papi for a lesson, I guess,” he said, the attempt at his usual bravado falling flat, revealing the apprehension beneath.
He guided Micah to the edge of the bed. The silk robe whispered open. Xavier reached for the tie at Micah’s waist. “A wife doesn’t hide,” he said quietly, and undid the knot.The robe fell apart. Micah sat, exposed, his powerful thighs tense, the cruel metal cage a stark contrast to the softness blooming above it. The air, thick with whiskey and cologne, grew heavier.
“First,” Xavier said, kneeling on the floor between Micah’s legs. He didn’t touch him yet. “It’s in the sounds you make. Not those little boy grunts. A wife… she savors it. She thanks him for it.”
He placed his hands on Micah’s knees, spreading them gently. His thumbs stroked the inner skin. “He fills you up, and it’s a gift. You let him hear that it’s a gift. A low sound, from right here.” He pressed a fist lightly against Micah’s lower abdomen, making him gasp.
“That’s a start,” Xavier murmured. “But it’s weak.” His hands rose, skimming up Micah’s sides, making him shiver. They came to rest, palms cupping the full, heavy curves of his chest. Xavier’s breath hitched. “Mira. Look at you.”
His thumbs, calloused from the gym, brushed over Micah’s nipples. A jolt went through Micah’s frame. A thin, pearly bead welled up instantly on the right side.
“Sensitive,” Xavier observed, his voice dropping. He leaned in, his breath warm. “A good wife, she learns her body is for his comfort. Her breasts…” He circled a nipple, watching it pucker and leak. “…are for nourishment. For his pleasure.”
He bent his head and took the wet nipple into his mouth.
Micah cried out, a sharp, broken sound. His hands flew to Xavier’s close-cropped hair, not to push away, but to clutch.
Xavier suckled, gently at first, then with more purpose, his tongue working the hardened bud. The taste was startling—sweet, faintly metallic, uniquely Micah. Milk, thin and warm, seeped onto his tongue. He swallowed, a shudder passing through him. This was the line, and he was crossing it in a way that felt irreversible.
He pulled off with a wet sound. Micah’s nipple was red, glistening. “You don’t just lay there,” Xavier instructed, his own voice unsteady. “You arch into it. You offer it. Like this.” He placed his hands on Micah’s back and pushed, guiding him to present his chest.
Micah obeyed, back arching, a low moan tearing from his throat. It was a better sound, deeper, filled with a shameful kind of gratitude.
“Yes,” Xavier whispered, encouraged and horrified by his own coaching. He moved to the other breast, his hand kneading the full weight of it as his mouth drew out another trickle of milk. Micah’s whimpers filled the room, a symphony of degradation that made his caged length jerk painfully against its confines.
Xavier released him, both of them breathing heavily. Milk smeared Xavier’s lower lip. He didn’t wipe it away.
“Now,” he said, standing up, his own arousal evident. He guided Micah to lie back on the rumpled sheets. He climbed over him, not touching, just looking down at the wrecked, beautiful form beneath him. “The most important part. When he’s deep, when he’s giving you what you begged for… you look him in the eye. You don’t hide. You let him see everything. The pleasure, the shame, the thanks. You tell him without words that his seed is taking root. That you’re his.”
He lowered his hips, aligning their bodies but still separated by fabric. He mimicked the motion, a slow, grinding roll. “You move with him. You take him deeper. You say… ‘Papi, right there. It’s so deep. I can feel it making a home.’” Xavier’s voice was a hoarse mimicry of devotion, a corrupted prayer.
Micah’s eyes were wide, filming with tears. He nodded, frantic. His hips lifted, meeting Xavier’s phantom thrusts. The sounds coming from him now were exactly what Xavier described: low, moaning, open-mouthed expressions of total surrender.
“Yes,” Xavier hissed, caught in the fiction, his hands braced on either side of Micah’s head. “Just like that. You’re his good wife. You’re his.”
He collapsed to the side, breaking the charade, heart hammering against his ribs. The silence that followed was deafening, broken only by Micah’s ragged breathing and the soft, almost inaudible drip of milk onto the sheets beneath him.
Micah turned his head. The desperation in his eyes had softened into something else—a dawning, terrifying understanding. “You want it too,” he whispered.Not an accusation. A revelation.
Xavier looked away, at the rose, at the wall, anywhere but at the truth he’d just fed with his own mouth. He had shown Micah exactly how to be a wife. And in doing so, he had shown himself the hidden, hungry shape of his own desire. The lesson was over. Something far more dangerous had begun.