Chapter 31: The Kitchen Counter
The chill of the tile seeped into his bones, a grounding counterpoint to the heat still swimming in his veins. Michael sat for a long time, the rough cloth held loosely in his hand, listening. The house was silent now, a different silence than before.It felt charged, like the air after a lightning strike.
Slowly, he used the cloth to clean himself, wincing at the tenderness between his legs. The evidence was stark on the pale tile. He ran the cloth under the sink, watching the water run clear, and wiped the floor clean.The action was methodical, calming. He rinsed the cloth again, folded it neatly, and hung it over the faucet. His pajama pants, when he pulled them up, felt alien against his oversensitive skin.
He found Nathan in the studio, but Nathan wasn’t working. He was sitting in the middle of the room, on the floor, his back against the base of the mixing console.His head was in his hands. Discarded pages of lyric sheets were scattered around him like fallen leaves.Michael stood in the doorway, uncertain. The studio, usually a sanctuary of creative energy, felt like a crime scene. Nathan didn’t look up.
“I can’t get it out of my head,” Nathan said, his voice muffled by his palms.“The way they’ll listen to it. The way they’ll pick it apart. They’ll say the second verse is about my dad, and the bridge is about your trials, and they’ll be right, and they’ll be so fucking wrong it makes me sick.”
Michael moved into the room, his steps quiet on the plush carpet. He sat down a few feet away, drawing his knees to his chest. “It’s ours,” he said softly.“They can’t change that.”
Nathan lifted his head. His eyes were red-rimmed, haunted.“They change everything. You know that better than anyone.” He picked up a crumpled page, smoothed it out.“I wanted it to be a fortress. Something they couldn’t touch. But it’s just another thing to be consumed.”
The sunlight through the soundproofed window was a narrow, bright bar, cutting across Nathan’s profile. Michael watched the dust motes dance in it.He understood the despair. It was the same despair that had driven him behind high walls and veils.The fear that nothing, not even your own pain, was truly yours.
“I’m sorry,” Nathan said, the words abrupt.“For before.In the kitchen. That was… it was too much.”
Michael shook his head.“It was real. You said it yourself.” He hugged his knees tighter.“Sometimes… I need to feel real. Even if it hurts.”
Nathan stared at him, his expression shifting from anguish to a kind of raw, focused intensity.He pushed himself up from the floor and crossed the space between them in two strides. He didn’t kneel.He loomed over Michael, blocking the light. “Show me,” he said, his voice low.
Michael looked up, his heart beginning a slow, heavy drumbeat against his ribs. “Show you what?”
“Show me you’re real.” Nathan’s hand came down, not rough, but insistent, on his shoulder. “Get up.”
Michael let himself be pulled to his feet. Nathan’s grip was firm, guiding him not out of the studio, but towards the large, leather-upholstered listening couch against the far wall. It was wide, low, scarred from years of use.
“Bend over it,” Nathan said, his tone leaving no room for question.
A shiver ran through Michael, part apprehension, part pure, undiluted want. He turned, placing his hands on the cool, cracked leather of the couch’s back. He heard Nathan move behind him, the sound of a zipper, the rustle of clothing.
Nathan’s hands landed on his hips, thumbs pressing into the dips of his pelvis. He didn’t bother with Michael’s pajamas this time; he simply yanked them down to his thighs in one swift, efficient motion. The air in the studio was cool against his exposed skin.There was no spit this time. Nathan’s fingers, dry and slightly rough, touched him, probing, circling his hole which was still loose and sensitive from earlier. Michael gasped at the direct contact.“You’re still open,” Nathan murmured, almost to himself. He pressed a fingertip inside, just to the first knuckle.Michael pushed back against it, a silent plea.
Nathan withdrew his finger. He used his own saliva, spitting into his palm once, twice, slicking his hard cock with a few rough strokes.The sound was obscene in the quiet room.
He positioned himself, the broad head nudging against Michael’s entrance. “This is ours,” Nathan growled, and pushed forward.
The burn was immediate, a bright, sharp line of pain as his body was forced to accept the intrusion without proper preparation. Michael cried out, his fingers digging into the leather.Nathan didn’t stop. He pushed steadily, relentlessly, until he was fully sheathed, his hips flush against Michael’s ass.
He held there, not moving, buried to the hilt.Michael could feel every inch of him, a stretching, claiming fullness. He panted, trying to relax around the invading thickness.
“Tell me,” Nathan commanded, his breath hot against Michael’s neck. “Tell me what this is.”
“It’s… it’s real,” Michael choked out.
“Damn right it is.”
Nathan pulled back almost all the way, then slammed back in.The force drove Michael forward, his chest scraping against the couch back. Nathan set a punishing rhythm, each thrust a deep, hard piston stroke that stole the air from Michael’s lungs.The leather squeaked under their combined weight. The sounds were filthy: the wet slap of skin on skin, Nathan’s guttural grunts, Michael’s high, desperate whimpers.
One of Nathan’s hands snaked around his waist, finding Michael’s cock, which was hard and leaking. He gripped it tight, his thumb smearing the pre-come over the head. He started jacking him, his strokes rough and out of sync with his thrusts, creating a disorienting, overwhelming cascade of sensation.
“You’re gonna come,” Nathan said into his ear, his voice ragged. “You’re gonna come all over this couch because I’m fucking you so good.Because I own this. I own you right here.”
The words, the brutal possession, the frantic stimulation—it tore the orgasm from Michael. It erupted from him with a force that bent his spine, a raw, broken shout tearing from his throat as he came, stripes of white painting the dark leather. His body clamped down violently around Nathan’s cock, milking him.
Nathan swore, a low, continuous stream of filth, as his own control shattered. He drove in one last, deep time, his hips stuttering, and emptied himself inside Michael with a shuddering groan, his forehead pressed between Michael’s shoulder blades.
They collapsed together onto the couch, a tangled, sweating heap.Nathan was still inside him, softening now. His arms were locked around Michael’s chest, holding him close. For minutes, the only sound was their labored breathing gradually slowing.Finally, Nathan pulled out.A wet, warm trickle followed. He shifted, pulling Michael back against him so they were lying spooned on the narrow couch. Nathan’s arm rested over Michael’s waist, his hand splayed on his stomach.Outside, a bird called. The sunbeam had moved, now illuminating the dust on a speaker cabinet.
Nathan’s voice was quiet, hoarse. “It is a fortress.”
Michael closed his eyes, settling into the solid warmth at his back. “It is.”