Chapter 28: The Morning After the Storm
Michael woke to the peculiar stillness that follows a decision. The world hadn’t ended. The walls of Nathan’s bedroom, papered in faded blue constellations, were still standing. The light was a soft, gray wash, rain tracing silent paths down the windowpane.
He was on his side, facing the door. Nathan was a solid, warm weight behind him, chest to back, one arm draped heavily over Michael’s ribs. And pressed against the cleft of his ass, Nathan was already hard. A thick, insistent heat that cut through the morning haze.
Nathan’s breathing hadn’t changed, but his hand shifted. It slid down Michael’s stomach, over the soft cotton of the borrowed sleep pants, finding the shape of him beneath. Michael was soft, but not for long. Nathan’s fingers curled, stroking him slowly, deliberately, through the fabric. Michael gasped, arching back into him.
“‘Morning,” Nathan’s voice was gravel, sleep-roughened, right against Michael’s ear. He nipped the lobe, not quite playful.
“You’re…” Michael began, but the words dissolved as Nathan’s hand slipped inside his waistband, skin on skin. His calloused palm was a brand.
“Thinking about that track,” Nathan murmured, his fingers tightening. “Thinking about what happens when it leaves this house.”
He rolled Michael onto his stomach before he could answer. The movement was swift, definitive. Nathan shoved the sleep pants down to Michael’s thighs, then yanked them off completely. The cool air kissed his exposed skin. Nathan’s hands gripped his hips, lifting his ass into the air, pulling him back until he was on his knees, face pressed into a pillow that smelled of Nathan’s shampoo.
Michael heard the rustle of Nathan’s boxers, the soft thud as they hit the floor. Then the blunt, slick head of Nathan’s cock was nudging against him. It was dry. No lube, no spit, just the brutal, honest friction of skin on skin.
“Nathan…” Michael whispered, a tremor of apprehension threading through the desire.
“Shhh.” One broad hand splayed across the small of Michael’s back, holding him in place. “You took me in the kitchen. You’ll take me now.”
He pushed. The initial stretch was a bright, searing ring of fire. Michael cried out, his fingers clawing at the sheets. It hurt. It was a dry, aching breach that stole his breath.
“Fuck,” Nathan groaned, his voice strained with the effort of control. “You’re so fucking tight every time. Like you heal up just to let me tear you open again.”
He didn’t stop. He pushed deeper, an inexorable, inch-by-inch conquest. Michael’s body fought, then surrendered, then accepted, the pain blurring into a devastating, full feeling. Nathan bottomed out, his hips flush against Michael’s ass, his balls tight against his skin. They stayed like that, joined, Nathan letting him feel every millimeter of the invasion.
“Tell me you feel it,” Nathan demanded, his hand moving to fist in Michael’s hair.
“I feel it,” Michael gasped. “I feel you. All of you.”
Nathan pulled out almost entirely, then slammed back in. The force drove Michael up the bed. He set a punishing, rhythmic pace—deep, deliberate strokes that felt less like fucking and more like inscription. Each thrust was a word being carved into Michael’s flesh: Mine. Here. Real.
The dry friction burned, then melted into a shocking, deep pleasure. Michael’s own cock hung heavy and leaking between his legs. He was achingly hard, untouched. He pushed back, meeting Nathan’s drives, a silent plea for more.
“That’s it,” Nathan grunted, his breath coming in harsh bursts. “Take it. This is what you traded the world for. This right here. My bed. My cock.”
His hand left Michael’s hair and snaked underneath his body, finding his neglected cock. Nathan’s grip was rough, perfect. He stroked him in time with his thrusts, a twisting, tight friction that coiled the tension in Michael’s gut into a spring.
“You wanna come?” Nathan’s voice was a dark promise in his ear. “Come all over my hand. Show me you like being my little secret. My kept thing.”
The words, filthy and possessive, unraveled him. The orgasm exploded from his core, a silent scream tearing from his throat as he pulsed into Nathan’s fist, streaks of white painting the rumpled sheets beneath him. His body clamped down viscously around Nathan’s cock, milking him.
That tight, fluttering grip was Nathan’s undoing. With a final, brutal thrust, he buried himself and came, a raw shout ripped from his throat. Michael felt the hot, insistent flood fill him, a claiming that went deeper than skin. Nathan stayed lodged inside, throbbing, until he was completely spent.
He collapsed onto Michael’s back, a sweaty, heavy weight. For minutes, the only sound was the rain on the window and their ragged attempts to breathe. Finally, Nathan softened and slipped out. He rolled off, onto his back.
Michael didn’t move. He felt raw, used, profoundly settled. The come was leaking out of him, onto his thigh, a messy, physical truth.
Nathan’s hand found his again, lacing their fingers together on the sheet between them. He brought Michael’s knuckles to his lips, a kiss that was startling in its tenderness after the violence of their joining.
“The album,” Nathan said, staring at the ceiling. “We finish it. We mix it. We master it. And then we send it out.”
Michael turned his head on the pillow to look at him. “And then?”
“And then we see what comes back.” Nathan turned to meet his gaze. His eyes were clear, certain. “But whatever it is, it comes to us. Not to you alone in some fucking castle. You’re here. In my bed. In my life. They don’t get to pull you apart anymore.”
Michael saw the protective fury there, the same intensity that had just fucked him into the mattress now forming a shield. He understood. This was Nathan’s logic. He couldn’t sterilize the world for Michael, so he would arm him. The track was the first weapon. This… this anchor in the sheets, was the second.
“Okay,” Michael whispered.
Nathan shifted, pulling him closer, tucking Michael’s head under his chin. The scent of sex and sweat and lavender hung in the air. The rain slowed to a drizzle.
“Go back to sleep,” Nathan said, his voice already blurring with exhaustion. “We’ve got studio time at noon.”
And Michael did. For the first time in memory, he drifted off without wondering who he’d have to be when he woke.