14. Mik

CHAPTER 14

MIK

My head still hurts, but it's manageable. The more pressing issue is how badly my chest aches. The bombshell Jason dropped on me before he walked away has me reeling.

"I would have begged you to run away with me instead."

For all these years, I've assumed he left because he was disgusted with me, because I'd betrayed him, even if I didn't know it. It seemed a given that he wouldn't want to be with me, that I wasn't worth the trouble. The way I'd felt with him that last week, that last night, being together was too good to be true. It felt impossible that he could truly feel as strongly for me as I did for him. And while every time we'd touched or kissed had been mind-blowing for me, I realized after the fact that it might not have been good for him. I probably just came across as overeager and unexperienced. And the sex? Fuck, that night was—there aren't big enough words to describe what it was to me. Fucking transcendental.

But maybe it wasn't the same for him.

More than anything, I thought he didn't want to deal with the mess I'd unknowingly made of his life, and that might still be true, but knowing that he still wanted me changes everything.

Even after I'd screwed up everything. Even after knowing I'd knocked up his sister. Even after I froze him out, unable to do more than stare at the wall for a good hour after Janel finally left. He still wanted me.

Or maybe it changes nothing, after all these years.

I'm frozen to the couch, my head and heart throbbing as I rethink everything and try to make sense of my life. Part of me feels relieved. Vindicated, even. Another part of me hurts more than ever before. Because I know now that it absolutely could have been different if I'd shaken off my shock before he left, if I'd chased him down and confronted him. If anything, I wouldn't have lived the last eighteen years thinking he left because he hated me.

The rain feels amazing. It's cool and soothing against my skin. After a migraine, I often feel sensitive and overstimulated. Something as simple as the texture of a fabric, a tag, or someone touching me can feel like sandpaper. When this happens, water is usually my go-to relief. I especially like to put my hands and feet under the faucet in the tub and feel the water hitting them, but it's a terrible waste of water.

When it's raining like this, steadily but not too hard, I don't need to waste any water at all. I just stand in the middle of the yard, look up at the sky, and let it wash away my pain. It could only be better if I could be naked, but I don't want to get the cops called on me. As it is, my neighbors are probably wondering who the fuck the half-naked tattooed man standing in my yard is. It's just dark enough that it's possible they could mistake me for Jason. Tattoos on Janel's professional athlete brother would be far less scandalizing.

A few years back, I was in the garage with the doors open, because the weather was perfect. An older couple that lives down the street was walking their dog, or rather, pushing it in a stroller, and saw me working out in the garage. Imagine my surprise, and Janel's mortification, when a police cruiser pulled into our driveway to investigate a potential break in. I don't see what the big deal is about the tattoos, and I couldn't care less what a bunch of snooty old twits think about me, but it's important to Janel, so I keep the door closed and my sleeves down for her sake. Even when we were young, she'd have me cover up and take my lip ring out every time we visited with her parents, even though they'd seen them before. Everyone just pretended I didn't have them.

I wonder if they know about Jason's tattoo? Is that the only one he has?

As though he's been conjured, Jason yells out at me from the covered porch. "What the actual fuck are you doing?"

"Taking a shower," I snark. "Have you seen my rubber ducky?"

"Good to know you haven't gotten less weird," he mutters.

"I heard that."

He snorts, and then he's next to me. I'm looking up at the sky with my palms turned up like I'm receiving some kind of gift from the heavens, clearly enjoying the rain shower. Jason is just watching me, though. I keep my eyes closed, not wanting to read into his expression or remember how much his blue eyes remind me of the clearest summer days. I never considered how interesting it was that I loved them so much, when I've always preferred the rain.

"Feeling okay then?"

I nod, careful not to open my mouth too much lest every thought in my brain spills out.

"I would have begged you to run away with me instead."

Fuck it. Talking isn't what got us into this mess. Maybe if we talked more, we'd make fewer stupid decisions .

"All these years, I thought you left because you hated me."

"I do hate you."

Ouch.

"Tell me how you really feel," I deadpan, determined to hold on to my humor.

"I don't think you really want that."

Finally, I turn my head to face him and open my eyes. He's already soaked, water streaming down his face and bare shoulders. His grey tank top is plastered to his defined chest. Water droplets trickle over the curved muscles of his biceps, which tighten as I look him over. Did he just flex for me? Surely not. I fight a grin, but I'm not sure I'm successful hiding it.

"Why not? It's not like we can do any more damage," I say, shrugging like it doesn't mean much. Which is total bullshit. It means everything. And I don't know if I'll ever get true closure, but this seems as good a time as any to get it all out in the open. "Hit me, big guy."

Jason's eyes narrow and then he huffs, turns on his heel, and storms inside. I count to ten in my head to not appear too eager before I follow him inside. There's a towel waiting for me, and a topless Jason in my kitchen, wringing his shorts out over the sink. The towel around his waist isn't doing much to hide the shape of his cock, bobbing heavily with each movement. I tear my eyes away from it and have a silent conversation with my dick, which is getting ideas again.

I wrap the towel around my waist and shuck off my shorts before stepping onto the hardwood floor. The drying streaks on the gleaming surface tell me Jason knew better than to leave wet footprints on the floor. Then again, he's probably used to it, seeing as Janel's parents have always been strict. It took a couple years for Janel to ‘properly train me', as she calls it. Before marrying her, I would have done little more than throw a towel down to soak up the water. Now I know that polished hardwood floors require special treatment, and I'll need to come back with a microfiber towel and the special cleaning solution so she doesn't have to come home and clean up after me.

Most of the time I can find value in her high standards and appreciate how she helps us maintain them, because things do stay clean and orderly. But sometimes I wish she'd relax. Like when Jase was little, and we'd bake together, I always felt like she was more concerned with the mess than the process. No matter how much I told her I'd clean the whole kitchen from top to bottom after we were done, she couldn't stop herself from interrupting the process to wipe a single crumb. Even while he was enjoying his freshly baked chocolate chip cookies, she constantly wiped his face and hands instead of just waiting until he was done.

I hated that Jase and I couldn't just be messy sometimes. Sometimes I just want to throw shit on the ground and make a mess. I've had full adult tantrums in my imagination, but it's important to her, so I do my best.

Jason watches me as I cross through the kitchen to the utility room, where I toss my wet shorts into the washer and grab what I need. Once I spray the floor around the entryway with the cleaning solution, I rub the microfiber towel around with my foot. Honestly, it's not perfect. But I don't feel secure enough to get on my hands and knees and do it properly when I'm only wearing a towel and I can feel the heat of Jason's stare as I work.

"Have something to say?" I ask, turning towards him once I've deposited my cleaning supplies back into the utility room.

He doesn't answer me, so I feign nonchalance, grabbing a bottle of water before heading towards the stairs to get a dry pair of shorts. I consider putting on a shirt, but skip it. It's hot. It's definitely not because I want him to look at me. That would be stupid. I'm a married man, and he's my brother-in-law, and he just admitted that he hates me. The way he looked at me last night after the colossal mistake we made was enough to never let it happen again. I have more self-respect than that. I have stronger morals than I've let on these past couple of days.

With my internal pep talk still running through my brain, I head to the basement, bypassing him entirely. I'm going to get my e-reader from my office, lounge on the couch, and lose myself in someone else's fictional problems until I pass out. It definitely won't be a gay romance novel about a rockstar that cheats on his fiancé with a K-pop idol. Probably not a romance at all. My dick doesn't need encouragement. I've got a nice thriller that will be fun to read in the dark. I'll read that.

When I step out of my office with my e-reader in hand, Jason is halfway across the room. He freezes like I just caught him doing something, and he looks surprised to see me.

"You were in your office?" Then he blinks like he can't believe he just stated the obvious that way. Especially when we're both clearly trying to forget what happened.

I hold up the leather case I keep my e-reader in. "I was just grabbing this. Thought I'd read for a while."

Jason clears his throat and nods, awkwardly looking around. The tea lights are still going, and we've added a few more battery-operated candles. The humidity in the air heightens the tension between us. It's a little too romantic for all the thoughts I keep having to force down.

He points at the couch. "There it is," he says, pointing to his own e-reader like it's what he was looking for the whole time. But I know. I saw that single-minded look of determination on his face, the same one that he had when he found me last night. The same one he had when he opened his mouth and –

Nope. Not going there. Remember the way he looked at you after . You're better than this. And you're married, for fuck's sake.

That my marriage isn't the first thing I think about when considering all the reasons I shouldn't entertain perverted thoughts about Jason Reinier is concerning. Never mind that guilt isn't even the most overwhelming emotion I have about the shit we've already done.

Fear. Shame. Desperate longing. All of those make the list before guilt, and I think that says something about the kind of person I am. I wonder how many years of therapy it's going to take to come to terms with being this awful? Then again, I've been going to therapy for the past ten years and I've never once mentioned Jason. Maybe this will be what forces my hand.

The silence between us is oppressive. Breaking his stare, I move towards the couch, but Jason's voice stops me in my tracks.

"I hate you."

"Yes. We've established that."

"I hate you because I haven't seen my family in almost two decades. Because I knew I wouldn't be able to bear the sight of seeing you happy without me. I hate you because the moment I arrived and laid eyes on you, I could tell you weren't. I hate you because I thought I was a good person, but the day I saw you holding my sister and comforting her after she told you she was pregnant, I wanted you to bail on her. I hate you because you made me want to break my sister's heart. I hate you because I still want that."

His chest expands with fast, heavy breaths that my body instinctively matches. My mouth gapes open, completely unable to respond or react. I close and open my mouth once, twice, trying to come up with something, but before I can even begin to think of what to say, he holds his hand up .

"I'm not done," he warns me, and then his voice gets lower as he takes a slow step forward, then another one, stalking towards me as he speaks while I'm frozen like a deer in the headlights.

"I hate you because I want you. Because I've never once, in eighteen fucking years, stopped wanting you. I hate you because every time I go on a date or swipe right for a casual fuck, all I can think about is you. And I hate you because I know you want me too, and I know without a shadow of a doubt that you won't say no to me. And that makes me want to do things that will make me hate you more."

He's in my space now, crowding me once more. His face is flushed, eyes hard and filled with rage. And he's right. I won't say no. Not to him.

So when his lips crash to mine and he forces his way inside my mouth, I open for him. I open for him and give back everything he gives me. Every deep swipe of his tongue licking into my mouth. Every clash of teeth. Every moan. I take it all and return it, pouring every ounce of fear and shame and desperate longing that I've been holding onto into this kiss.

When he presses against me, walking me back towards the couch, I go willingly.

And when he pushes me onto my back and stares down at me, I lift my hips and pull my shorts down. He takes control when they're halfway down my thighs and tears them off me completely. His hard eyes watch me lean back and widen my legs, waiting for his next move, practically daring him. Wrapping one hand around my hard cock, I stroke myself slowly, letting my eyes flutter closed. I don't want him to see my internal turmoil, the way I'm debating with myself over whether this is the right thing. I mean, I know it's not the right thing. It's the wrong thing.

It's a very wrong thing. But I've resigned myself to it, justified it in my own mind because it feels so right, like this was how it was always supposed to be. No, my indecision has more to do with how we're doing this.

Do I want him to fuck me when he's this angry? When it looks like he wants to shove his rage inside me and break me?

Yes. I do. I want him to give me all his anger. I want to be absolved of my sins through pain. I want to make us both feel better and worse, because I deserve to suffer. I want to give him everything I have to make up for taking everything from him.

And if it hurts, so be it. I want it to hurt. I want to feel him for days.

When I open my eyes, he's gone. Noises come from my office—the swish and bang of drawers opening and being slammed closed, the rustling of each drawer being ransacked, the crash of items being thrown or poured out on the floor. He stalks out with a bottle of lube in his hands, shucking off his own shorts. I barely have time to contemplate the sheer size of him before he's crawling over me, pressing his wide body between my legs. I wrap myself around him as best I can, moaning into his mouth when his bare cock thrusts against mine.

Jason lifts my leg, but there's not enough space. I tear the back cushion off and throw it over the back of the couch, and Jason does the same to another two cushions before pushing my leg up and against the back of the couch. He thrusts two thick fingers into my ass, and I barely grunt at the intrusion as my hole stretches around them. I grit my teeth as a third is added, canting my hips to encourage him to keep going. He fucks into me with three fingers, rocking my whole body. Both of our cocks bounce against my stomach with the movement. I grab for the bottle of lube, pouring too much into my hand in my haste to wrap my hand around both our cocks.

Fuck, I missed this. This was my favorite thing. Our cocks pressed together, stroking them in tandem. Feeling his hot, velvety skin against mine. Jason's hips fuck into my hand with each rough thrust of his fingers inside me. Before he can add a fourth finger, I release my cock and guide his towards my entrance. He meets my eyes for a second, his bright blue irises burning into my retinas with a challenge.

"Fuck me," I tell him. "I want it to hurt."

There's little to no hesitation, and then his cock is being shoved inside me in one hard thrust.

" Fffuuuuck!" I grunt, as the breath is knocked from my chest.

"You wanted this," he growls as he pulls back and thrusts into me again.

"Yes," I wheeze out with the last of my breath.

So full. So fucking full, when I've been empty for so long. Nothing can fill me like he does.

Jason presses my thigh hard against my chest, keeping me open. "I hate how tight you are," he says, forcing his fat cock in and out of me, stretching me to capacity. He jackhammers into me so hard I see stars. The initial burn of him tearing into me is dissipating, an ache taking its place as he abuses my ass. Sweat rolls off us both, the already humid room now oppressive, thick with lust and rage.

He doesn't even change his pace to reposition. He simply braces one leg on the ground and pulls my leg over his shoulder, lifting my hips while he pounds into me relentlessly. The tiny shift puts him at exactly the right angle to peg directly into my prostate, and sounds pour out of me involuntarily. There's barely room to breathe, but a low, guttural moan manages to slip out in a continuous stream of intense urgency with every punishing thrust. I try to move, to lessen the severity of the angle, but Jason only pushes my other thigh up, holding both of my legs against my chest, pistoning into me with merciless strength and speed .

His brow is furrowed with concentration, sweat pouring off his body and dripping onto mine as his massive thighs flex. He meets my eye and some unknown emotion flashes there before he hardens his gaze.

"I hate how good you feel," he says through his clenched teeth. "And I hate that you're about to come all over me."

My breath catches, and if I had any control whatsoever, I'd stop myself from coming just to maintain any kind of dignity. But those words and three slow, brutally hard thrusts and I'm exploding all over us both.

Jason grunts as every muscle in my body tenses. The force of electric pleasure that zings up my spine has me bowing off the couch.

" Mmmmmmmphfffffuuuuuuuc– Oh God, Jay!" I cry as Jason keeps fucking into me, each brutal thrust pushing air out of my chest and stabbing at my prostate until it forces another spurt of cum to fountain out of me. It's never-ending, rolling into another wave of intense sensation every time I think it's over, until every drop is wrenched from my body and I'm sucking air into my body, coughing and cussing.

Boneless, I fall back and hand my body over to be used.

"I'm not fucking done with you," Jason growls, reaching between us to grip my softening cock.

I hiss as he jerks me roughly, gasping through the pain of overstimulation.

"I can't–"

Shit, I can't even get a full sentence out before I'm keening. It fucking hurts. It feels impossible that I could get hard again after an orgasm that intense, but with his tight grip stroking me so perfectly, his slick palm rolling over my piercing on every few strokes, and his cock still hitting my prostate, he manages to beat it into submission .

I'm straddling a thin line between pleasure and pain. My neurons are firing every which way. My muscles and bones ache, and my ass feels bruised. My cock is sore, throbbing with an influx of blood flow that I don't think has anything to do with ejaculation. Even the zings of pleasure shooting through me from every hit against my battered prostate feel crossed, and I can't tell what hurts or feels good. He doesn't relent, only fucks me harder.

"Jason," I whine. It's the only word I'm able to force out—to beg him to stop, to let me rest, to take it easy on me. But this is what I wanted, I remind myself as Jason swiftly pulls out of me. I gasp at the withdrawal, feeling my hole go slack with relief, yet at the same time missing that full feeling the very second it's gone.

I'm not left unfilled for long, though. Jason flips me over and pulls my hips back. His fingers brush lightly over my worn-out hole, drawing a whimper from me that turns into a cry when he tugs on my guiche piercing.

He pushes my shoulders down until my chest meets the couch. I hear the lube cap open, and cool liquid is squirted directly inside me before his cock is lined up again. It squelches as he pushes in slowly, my aching muscles trembling around him.

"That's right, let me in, baby. I'm going to fucking wreck you like you wrecked me."

He slams home, fully seating himself and holding himself flush against my ass, rocking against me while he runs his hands up and down my lower back and over my ass and thighs. The change in sensations, from rough to soft, is bruising me in an entirely different way that is somehow more painful than the overstimulation. My breaths are shaky and shuddering, tears pricking the back of my eyes. The pull of his long, hard cock withdrawing from my body and then pushing in slowly is excruciating. With each slow drive, Jason changes the angle just enough to be barely noticeable. But then he brushes over my spot just right, and I let out an involuntary whimper.

"There we are," he purrs, and rolls his hips into me at that same angle again, drawing out a full body shudder. "I hate," he says, barely above a whisper, "that you take me so good." He thrusts into me again with a grunt. "I hate that you feel like you were made to take my cock." Grunt. "I hate that you feel like home." Grunt. "I hate that I won't be able to fuck you out of my system." Grunt. "And I hate that I'll fucking dream of this ass for the rest of my miserable life."

His pace gradually increases, this time working me up to those powerful thrusts until I'm pushing back on him. My ass bounces off his pelvis, the sound of skin slapping against skin and intermittent grunts filling the room. Pressure tingles in my spine, and I feel myself grow close to another impossible release. I try to reach under me to jerk myself off, but Jason snakes his hand around my waist and pulls me up so my back is against his chest. I moan as his hand wraps around my cock and his breath hits my neck.

"You moan like a whore," he rasps into my ear. "I hate it."

I nearly laugh, but it's cut off by another whorish moan when his tongue licks up the side of my neck. He jerks me in time with his hard thrusts, his free hand snaking up to tug on my nipple ring. I feel my balls draw up, the slow build of my climax reaching a peak but not able to tip over the edge.

"I can't."

"You can, and you will. You're going to give me one more. I want this ass so sore it hurts when you're squeezing the cum from me." A mewl escapes me at his filthy words, and I can feel the orgasm edging closer. "I'm going to fill you with my cum and plug you up so you stay wet for me so I can bend you over and fuck you whenever I want. By the time I leave, your pretty little hole is going to be so used up you won't be able to sit without remembering who this ass belongs to."

"Oh, fuck."

"That's fucking right," he growls, pumping my cock hard and fast. Goosebumps erupt over my skin. "Now fucking come for me and tell me what I want to hear."

Electric tingles spread over my skin, and my words come out on a harsh moan. "I'm fucking yours, Jason," I pant, quickly losing the last of whatever control or humility I have left. "Jasoooonnnnnn!"

My breath leaves me as the orgasm tears through me and my cum sprays wildly. Jason doesn't try to keep it from making a mess all over the couch, instead pushing me down on my stomach and fucking into me hard, rubbing it into the fabric with each rough thrust.

"Fuck, yeah," he groans as I contract around him. He drapes himself over my back, slowing his thrusts to long, slow rolls of his hips. "Tell me I can fuck you again. Tell me I can have you as much as I want until I leave."

"As much as you want. Use me, Jason. I'm yours."

Jason muffles a moan into the back of my shoulder, and then his teeth sink into my flesh as heat jets deep inside me.