Chapter 16: The Morning After
The first thing Michael was aware of was warmth. A solid line of heat along his back, the weight of an arm slung possessively over his hip. The second was the insistent, thick press of Nathan’s erection against the cleft of his ass, nestled through the thin cotton of their boxers.
He shifted, a minute movement, and felt Nathan stir behind him. The arm tightened, pulling him closer. A sleep-rough voice mumbled into the nape of his neck, “You’re awake.”
It wasn’t a question. Michael could only manage a soft hum, his body alive with a sudden, liquid awareness. The memory of the previous night—the argument, the confession on the rug, the simple pizza, the tentative piano notes that had slowly unfurled into a shared, wordless song—lay over them like a sanctified silence. Now, in the honeyed morning light, something else was rising, undeniable and raw.
Nathan’s hand slid from his hip, over his stomach, pulling Michael flush against him. He rocked forward, a slow, grinding roll of his hips, the hard length of him a blatant promise. Michael’s breath hitched.
“Nathan…”
“Tell me to stop.” The words were a gravelly challenge against his ear. Nathan’s other hand came up, fingers threading roughly into Michael’s dark hair, tilting his head to expose his throat. He didn’t kiss it. He just held him there, exposed, as his hips kept up that maddening rhythm.
Michael knew he could. One word. Nathan would release him, roll away, bury the need under a joke or a trip to the coffee machine. That was the trust. But the want was a fever under his skin, burning away the last remnants of hesitation. He pushed back instead, answering the grind with one of his own. A low groan vibrated through Nathan’s chest.
In one swift motion, Nathan rolled him onto his back. The morning light haloed his blond hair, his eyes dark and utterly focused. He pinned Michael’s wrists above his head with one large hand, the grip firm, unyielding. He studied Michael’s face—the parted lips, the wide, trusting eyes—for a long, heart-stopping moment.
Then he descended.
The kiss was all consuming. Not the gentle exploration of before, but a claiming. Nathan’s tongue plundered his mouth, hot and demanding. Michael moaned into it, his body arching off the sheets, his legs falling open in blatant invitation. He was already painfully hard, his cock straining against the fly of his boxers.
Nathan broke the kiss, breathing ragged. “I need to see you.” The words were torn from him. He released Michael’s wrists and hooked his thumbs into the waistband of Michael’s boxers, pulling them down in one sharp motion. The cool air hit Michael’s heated skin, followed by the scorching weight of Nathan’s gaze. He felt utterly displayed, every inch of his slender frame, his flushed erection, his vulnerability.
“Fuck, look at you,” Nathan breathed. He shoved his own boxers down, freeing his cock. It was thick, erect, the head flushed and wet. Michael stared, a mixture of awe and sheer hunger knotting his stomach.
Nathan grabbed the lube from the nightstand, the bottle cold. He slicked himself with two rough, hurried strokes, then poured more onto his fingers. His eyes never left Michael’s as he pushed one finger inside him, slowly, his other hand pinning Michael’s hip to the bed.
“Oh—!” Michael’s head fell back. The stretch was immediate, a bright, shocking fullness. Nathan worked him open with a ruthless efficiency, one finger, then two, scissoring, crooking them until Michael was bucking against the hand, chasing a sensation that was just out of reach.
“Ready?” Nathan’s voice was strained, a wire pulled taut.
“Yes. God, yes, please—”
Nathan didn’t wait. He lifted Michael’s legs, draping them over his shoulders, bending him almost in half. The position was deep, obscenely open. He positioned himself, the broad head of his cock pressing against Michael’s entrance.
He pushed in.
Not slowly. Not gently. One relentless, burning inch, then another, filling him in a single, breathtaking stroke. Michael cried out, a sharp, shattered sound. The fullness was overwhelming, a seismic shift inside him. His eyes watered, his knuckles white where they clutched the crumpled sheets.
Nathan didn’t move, buried to the hilt, his own body trembling with the effort of holding still. Sweat beaded on his forehead. “Breathe,” he commanded, his voice rough. “Just breathe through it.”
Michael gulped air, the initial sting receding, transforming into a devastating, full ache. He felt impaled, owned, completely filled. He nodded, a shaky, frantic movement.
Nathan began to move.
It was a hard, driving pace from the start. No tentative rocking, no gentle buildup. He pulled out almost entirely and slammed back in, the force jolting Michael up the bed. The bedframe knocked a dull rhythm against the wall. Each thrust punched a grunt from Nathan’s chest, a gasping moan from Michael’s throat.
“That’s it,” Nathan growled, his composure fracturing. His hands gripped the backs of Michael’s thighs, holding him open, his thumbs digging into the tender flesh. “Take it. You take every fucking inch.”
Michael could only obey, his body a vessel for this brutal, glorious punishment. The world narrowed to the slap of skin, the creak of springs, the ragged symphony of their breathing. Pleasure, sharp and coiling, began to build deep in his gut, tighter with every inward drive.
Nathan shifted his angle, leaning forward, and on the next thrust, he hit it.
A white-hot bolt of pure sensation sheared through Michael. He screamed, a raw, unfiltered sound. His back bowed off the mattress, his cock jerking, untouched, between them.
“There?” Nathan panted, his rhythm stuttering. He did it again, aiming with a predatory precision.
“Yes! Right there, oh God, right there—!” Michael babbled, tears of overstimulation leaking from the corners of his eyes. The pressure was catastrophic, unbearable, perfect. He was unspooling, completely at the mercy of the man fucking him into the mattress.
Nathan’s control shattered. His thrusts became wilder, deeper, a frenzied pursuit of his own end. “Gonna come,” he gritted out, the words harsh and guttural. “Gonna fill you up. You want that? You want me to come inside you?”
“Yes! Please, Nathan, I need it—”
With a final, brutal drive that buried Michael into the bedding, Nathan froze. A harsh, broken groan was torn from his throat as he pulsed, hot and deep, his body shuddering violently. Michael could feel it, the intimate, liquid heat flooding him, and it tipped him over the edge.
His own orgasm ripped through him, silent for a stunned second before a choked cry escaped. Cum streaked up his chest and stomach in hot stripes, his body clenching tightly around Nathan’s, milking him through the last waves.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of their labored breathing. Nathan collapsed forward, catching his weight on his elbows, his forehead resting against Michael’s shoulder. He was still inside him, softening, a heavy, spent weight. Michael’s legs slid from Nathan’s shoulders, falling bonelessly to the bed.
Slowly, carefully, Nathan pulled out. Michael gasped at the sensitivity, the immediate, empty feeling, the warm trickle of Nathan’s release onto the sheets beneath him.
Nathan rolled to the side, pulling Michael with him, tucking him against his chest. His heart was a frantic drum against Michael’s back. He nuzzled into the sweat-damp hair at Michael’s temple, his lips brushing the skin there.
“You’re mine,” he whispered, the words no longer a growl but a raw, exhausted truth.
Michael, spent and trembling, melted into the embrace. He felt shattered, remapped, profoundly claimed. He turned his head, finding Nathan’s lips for a soft, salty kiss. “Yours,” he echoed, the word a vow in the ruins of the morning.
They lay there as the sun climbed higher, painting their tangled limbs in gold. The cat, undisturbed, slept on at the foot of the bed. The world outside, with its vultures and its verdicts, felt galaxies away.
Eventually, Nathan shifted, his hand stroking down Michael’s arm, his fingers gently tracing the faint, promised bruises on his hips. “Hurts?”
“A good hurt,” Michael murmured. He felt Nathan smile against his shoulder.
“Cold pizza for breakfast?”
Michael laughed, a weak, airy sound. “The most romantic thing anyone’s ever said to me.”
Nathan slid out of bed, a study in lean, muscular lines in the sunlight. He looked back at Michael, a possessive, sated warmth in his eyes. “Don’t get used to it. I’m making eggs tomorrow.”
He padded out, naked and unselfconscious. Michael lay amidst the wreckage of the sheets, the scent of sex and sweat and Nathan clinging to his skin. He felt sore, used, and utterly, perfectly peaceful. For the first time in a lifetime of being watched, he felt seen. For the first time in a lifetime of being wanted, he felt needed. It was messy, and raw, and real.
The piano in the living room waited, but for now, the only music was the distant clatter of plates in the kitchen, and the steady, sure rhythm of a heart he was learning to call home.