12. Mik

CHAPTER 12

MIK

I'm panting—from exertion, from fear, from arousal.

The post orgasm clarity isn't hitting me like it did in the garage the other day. If anything, the amount of jizz covering me and the general area is having an opposite effect on me.

Fucking hell, I really might need a doctor. There's no way my cock is going to even attempt to rally after everything it's been through tonight. I'd already made myself come twice before Jason found me, and then came harder than I ever have in my life. I was so dizzy from it I didn't even realize what he was doing until his cock pressed against my hole. I was terrified he was about to split me in half, but also excited by the prospect. All my morals went out the window the moment he wrapped his lips around my cock. They must have abandoned me with the last of my brain cells, because I suddenly have no scruples against getting railed within an inch of my life. The most fucked up part of it is that his anger is part of what turns me on. I want him to take it out on me, to take me hard and rough, to use me to put us both out of our miseries.

Instead, he came all over me, and now he's staring at me without saying a word .

Is it the shame? Do I have a degradation kink that I didn't know about? Do I get off on feeling bad about myself, and being hosed down, marked like some kind of animal? Apparently, yes. Because the feel of his release cooling on my ass and balls and dripping off me onto the chair is both mortifying and the hottest thing I've ever experienced.

I should be freaking out. I should be crying that this isn't me, that I'm not this person.

Truthfully, I feel more like myself than I have in eighteen years.

I turn my head to look over my shoulder and find him still staring. No, not staring. Glaring. Where before I saw lust and possessiveness, now I see anger. His eyes flit up to meet my confused gaze, and I think I see… disgust. He tucks himself away and steps back, turning away from my eye contact.

Oh, there's some of that clarity I was missing.

What the fuck am I even doing right now? I'm bent over a chair with my legs spread wide, exposed, while cum drips down my ass. What am I waiting for? Permission to get up and clean myself off? Fucking pathetic.

Pushing myself up, I grab the towel I thankfully had the foresight to lie over the chair and wrap it around my waist. Cum still got on the chair in a few places, but I have some upholstery cleaner for that. If I get to it quickly enough, it won't stain.

"What are you doing?" Jason asks in a gruff voice. Yeah, he's pissed.

"Cleaning up. What does it look like I'm doing?"

I walk over to the closet and grab the cleaner, a spray bottle of water, and a rag. I avoid eye contact, because it's very obvious I've done this before and that sense of shame I was missing before is creeping up on me .

Jason makes a dismissive sound, like a cross between a grunt and a huff of annoyance. I feel his eyes on me as I tend to the chair, finding the silence between us more awkward than ever. When I finish, Jason isn't watching me anymore. He's standing in front of my desk, holding a photo up to the candlelight. It's my favorite one, the one I keep on top of the stack. The one that reminds me of the days I was happier than I've ever been or ever will be again. Back when life was easy, and I had my best friend by my side.

Jason looks up at me, and then at the box he pulled the photo from. I sigh, realizing what it looks like. A bunch of pictures of us, of him, next to a box of sex toys. That I clearly use often enough to have an entire process for cleaning up afterward. My box of dirty little secrets. It's not far off, but it's not like I jerk off to those photos. Just to the thoughts of him and what our life would have been like if I hadn't fucked it up. If he hadn't left.

He thumbs through the contents of the box a little, then scoffs. After one last look at me, his expression completely unreadable in the dim lighting, he turns to walk out the door. Before he passes through the threshold, he stops and turns back.

"We should probably keep our distance."

I nod dumbly, because I don't have a response to that. He's right, we should probably stay far, far away from each other. What I don't understand is why he seems so pissed off. Like I was the one that came in here and forced him to my will. If the past few days have shown us anything, it's that I clearly have no willpower when it comes to him. My brain just shuts down and my body complies. My moral compass and my backbone are weaker than I would have ever believed.

"I'll text you a kitchen and gym rotation, so we don't have to cross paths. And I won't come down here again."

"Why did– "

"It was a mistake," he says tersely. "As soon as the roads are clear, I'm leaving."

There's a stab of pain in my chest that radiates to my stomach. I close my eyes, trying to breathe through a wave of nausea, and when I open them again, he's gone. I finish cleaning up, noticing the picture he was looking at is missing. I feel a pang that it's gone, and another that he's the one that took it. That he'll look at it and maybe remember the way we used to be.

By the time I make it back to my room, the reality of everything I've done comes crashing down on me in full force. The look of disgust on his face, the way he spoke to me, the grimy feeling I can't scrub off my skin, it all compounds. My skin is slick with a thin sheen of sweat. Chills rack my body, and I lose the contents of my stomach, the bitter taste of whiskey burning its way up my esophagus.

Barely strong enough to force myself into bed and under the covers, I fall into a fitful sleep. I dream that I'm playing on Jason's rugby team. Only every time I try to get possession of the ball, one of my own teammates tackles me hard enough to knock the wind out of me. When the game is over, both teams converge around Jason in a massive orgy, where he fucks everyone in every which way. The entire time he's fucking all these impossibly hot guys, he looks me straight in the eye with that angry, disgusted look. Then Janel and Jase show up, and, completely ignoring the orgy happening on the field, they both look at me with that same expression.

I don't know what time it is when I wake up. There's a little light in the sky. The rain isn't as heavy, and the thunder isn't as loud, but the clouds still make it dark enough that it's impossible to tell what time of day it might be. Not that it matters. I'll be staying right here for the foreseeable future. I feel like shit .

I fall back asleep and wake up two more times before I have to get up to pee. The pressure in my head is intense, and it only gets worse when I stand. I consider getting in the shower and rinsing off. I feel like I've been coated in a thin layer of oil, and the cold water would feel nice on my overheated skin. It's so fucking hot in here, it's stifling. I wish the fan worked, but the electricity is still out.

The longer I stand, the worse my head feels. My heart is beating too fast, and I want to puke again. I fall back into bed, flipping my pillow over and hoping for the fabric to be cooler. It's not.

I can't get back to sleep, but I can't open my eyes. Even the gloomy daylight from outside feels like it's burning into my retinas and making soup out of my brain. I'd think this was a migraine. I have them sometimes, but I have chills despite sweating so much the sheets are soaked. I can't be hungover. I didn't drink enough to even use the booze as an excuse for my idiotic behavior last night.

I should probably get some water. My tongue feels plastered to the roof of my mouth. But the movement sends an intense throbbing through my skull. Later. I'll try again later. The thought of having to get up to do something as simple as go downstairs to search for pills and water makes me unreasonably agitated. I dry heave, not even bothering to lift my head, wincing as the involuntary movement makes it feel like all the blood vessels in my head are exploding.

Sometime later, a loud thudding at the door that rivals the thudding in my head pulls me out of blessed unconsciousness.

"Go away," I mumble, my face half shoved in a pillow, cradling the temple that is throbbing the hardest. The sound of my own voice reverberates through me.

More thudding, then the door handle jiggling. Did I lock the door? Good. Jason can fuck off right now. I'm not in the mood. Besides, what happened to avoiding each other, making a rotation to go downstairs so we don't have to lay eyes on one another? Fuck that and fuck him. He's probably only here to bitch about his schedule idea, but I think I left my phone in the basement last night.

He pounds on the door again, and this time I can hear him shouting. I'm trying to fall back asleep, ignoring the incessant jiggling of the handle, when the door crashes open. I barely crack an eye open, noticing that it's dark except for the fucking laser beam of light coming from his phone.

"Turn that off," I whine, and cover my face.

"What is wrong with you?" Jason asks, but it's not in a combative way. I must be sick, because it sounds like he's concerned.

"I'm fine," I mumble. "Headache," I add, because I know he won't fuck off if I don't give him something.

"You're burning up," he says, touching his cool palm to my forehead. I want to sigh and lean into his touch, but I have just enough self-respect not to. It helps that I can barely move. "It's like ninety degrees in this house. Why the fuck are you wrapped in blankets?"

Am I? I am hot, but I'm also shivering. Was I feeling cold? He peels the blankets off me, and I feel the cooler air hit my skin. It helps me breathe some, but his nearness does not.

"I can take care of myself," I grouse, trying to keep my voice low so I don't worsen the pain in my head. If I don't move at all, don't talk too much, and can keep pressure on the right part of my head, it's tolerable.

"You're soaked with sweat, and you've not left your bed for nearly twenty-four hours."

"So? Not like there's anywhere to go. And you have the house to yourself, so you don't have to be disgusted by me." Oh, great, so I'm going to be loose-lipped as well as woozy.

"Come on, we need to get you up. "

I protest, but the big lug practically lifts me out of bed like some dainty princess. I'm over six feet tall and two hundred pounds, not some delicate invalid. I push out of his arms, but the change in position has a strong wave of vertigo pulling me to the ground and pain shooting through my skull like I was just violently shaken.

"Fuck, man. Sorry. I've got you, okay? Just keep your eyes closed and lean on me."

I want to scoff, but I can't do anything other than hiss slow breaths through my teeth to keep from puking. In the bathroom, Jason strips my clothes off and lets them fall to the floor. I want to tell him to put them in the hamper so Janel doesn't fuss at us, but I don't have the energy, nor do I want to hear his opinions on the matter. I notice that my dick is flaccid for once. I'm not sure if that's a good or bad thing, considering the circumstances.

I keep my eyes closed and pray that I can just lie down again, but I hear Jason turn the shower on. I'm leaning against the shower door while he rustles around, and then I'm being shuffled into the shower. Some of the cold spray hits my side and I tense, but then force myself to relax so I don't make my head hurt worse. Jason positions me against the wall at the back of the shower where the spray isn't hitting me directly, and then I feel a cool cloth on my forehead. I open my eyes slowly. The light from his phone gives off just light enough to see each other, pointed away so the beam of light isn't painfully jarring.

Jason rubs the cloth over my forehead, cheeks, and neck. It's so familiar, a slight, involuntary smile pulls at my lips.

"I know what you're thinking about," he says, chuckling lightly. "I can't believe you remember that."

I sigh and allow myself to lean against him. I'm weak in more ways than one. I'm barely holding myself up, but also, I just want to be close to him.

"I can't believe you remember," I say with a weak laugh.