5. Jason

CHAPTER 5

JASON

He won't look at me, and I think he might be holding his breath. I want him to be pissed off, to push me, to fight back. I want him to rage, to cry. To fucking break .

I want to see anything other than the flat, emotionless robot he's become. I'm tired of seeing this bullshit facade he's built around himself, with his perfect house and perfect lawn, and whatever job has him wearing a long-sleeved tucked in Polo. I don't care how much it pleases my sister; this is not the Mik Sanders I know. He looks beaten down and tired. He looks like a fucking square, and that's not the man I remember.

"What is this?" I ask, pinching his shirt between my fingers to keep him in place when he tries to move away. I crowd him against the wall, but the only contact between us is my fingers on his shirt. I'm afraid if I touch him too much, I'll be the one to break.

"Uh, a shirt?" Surprised by my abrupt change of subject, Mik looks down at his soft cotton shirt and smoothes it down.

Maybe he expects the movement to make me let him go or move away, but I hold my ground. In full caveman mode, I'm using the considerable amount of bulk I have on him to crowd him into a corner of his own damn home. He's flustered, but trying to hide it. I want to get under his skin until I get something out of him.

His hands come together in front of his plaid pajama bottoms. My eyebrow lifts in interest. Hiding something, are we? Not the reaction I expected, but that's very interesting…

"The heat index was one hundred and eight degrees today. Why the fuck are you wearing long sleeves all the time?" I pick at the fabric again before placing my hand on the wall next to his head, still boxing him in.

Mik's dark hazel eyes meet mine, and I marvel at the way I feel grounded to the earth the moment he locks his gaze with mine. Something flickers there, defensiveness maybe, or something darker lurking beneath, and he swallows heavily again. I watch the movement of his throat and the way he licks his lips with such intensity, it takes several moments for me to realize he's talking.

"Maybe you should take your own advice and mind your own damn business. What I wear is of no concern to you. What I do or don't do with my wife is of no concern to you. And while it's interesting to know that you still think about the one time we fucked, maybe you should consider how your actions affect others. I get that you don't give a shit about what happened between us eighteen years ago, but your family has still been living in the real world, picking up the pieces from those mistakes. You might be rich and famous wherever you've been for so long, but here, you're still just Jason Reinier."

His words are biting, but his voice stays steady and controlled the entire time. It's infuriating! I'm struggling to keep from throttling him, screaming, or throwing something. But when I look closer, I see all the evidence I need to know I still affect him.

His jaw ticks, his hands are clenched into tight fists, and his chest is rising and falling with overly measured precision. He's clinging onto control with everything he has .

I bend my arms and move into his space until my mouth is barely an inch away from his. "You're telling me you never think about it?"

"About what?"

His jaw flexes, and I smirk because if I look close enough, I can still see right through him. He never was as stoic and indifferent as he pretended to be. That was just a bullshit self-defense mechanism he learned from moving around as much as he did, and because his daddy didn't pay enough attention to him. Well, boo-fucking-hoo. I know you, Mik Sanders, and I know how to get under your skin.

Inhaling the minty, herbal flavor of his tea that puffs against my lips, I keep my gaze focused on his eyes. My voice drops into a soft growl that used to get him going way back when.

"I see right through you, Mik. I always have. I bet you think about my cock filling you up every time you pretend to be interested in your wife. It might have only been one time, but I know I fucking rocked your world, and I know you still think about it all these years later."

His pupils dilate, and I hear the smallest intake of breath, and my eyes fall to his lips. They're slightly parted, and my tongue aches to push between them.

I step even closer, close enough that my erection bumps against his. Clenching my jaw, I bite back a groan, and he hisses.

"Do you?" My eyes are locked on his lips as he speaks, his voice strained and unsure. He's working so hard to hold himself back. All I can do is grunt in response, my eyes nearly crossing from the flutter of hot breath over my lips when his raspy voice repeats the question. "Do you think about it?"

I can't trust myself not to open my mouth and spill the explicit truth. That I've thought about that night—about him —every single day for the past eighteen years. That every fucking day we've been apart, not a single one of them went by without me thinking of him. That no matter how much I tried to fuck him out of my system, nothing ever compared to how good he felt, or how good he made me feel.

Even now, filled with anguish and anger, I'm harder than I've been in years. It doesn't matter how long it's been, or that it was only one time. My cock remembers every detail of being inside his hot, tight body.

I can't tell him all of that. Instead, I rock my hips forward, pushing him into the wall. My mouth is so close to his, I can feel the heat radiating off his lips and taste his panting breaths as I roll my hips, rubbing my hard cock against his. I press my body closer, so there isn't a sliver of space between us, and roll into him again and again. I'm huffing his exhales like they're the only oxygen in the room, so close to kissing him I can taste it, but I don't. I'll dry hump him into oblivion, but I don't dare kiss him.

His legs widen, making more room for me, and I lean into him, pressing firmly. His body is pliant and willing, and I ache to turn him around, rip his stupid pajamas from his body, and plunge into his tight ass without mercy. I wouldn't exactly call this being in control, but I'm at least mindful enough to not lose my head entirely.

I should stop, but I can't force myself to pull away. I'm chasing my orgasm like a horny teenager humping a pillow, using his body to find release. Part of me relishes using him like an object for my pleasure, and part of me just longs to be close to him.

My cock throbs in the confines of my jeans, and my balls draw up. Then Mik's eyes screw up and he makes a familiar sound, a choked moan that he can't hold back no matter how hard he tries. It tips me over the edge. My head drops to the crook of his neck, and I lose myself, humping him against the wall like a dog in heat. I ride out my orgasm, thrusting our pelvises together .

The moment it's over, clarity hits me like cold water poured over my head, and I step back. His eyes are looking anywhere but me, chest heaving. The front of his plaid pajama pants are dark with his release soaking into them, and I need to get far the fuck away before I drop to my knees and suck on the fabric just to taste him again.

I back away, and he clears his throat. But I'm gone before another word can be said between us.