WICKED BOY (60) ⚠️ mature content (Patreon)

⚠️ WARNINGS FOR:  mature content.  Ezra is NOT perfect.  This is basically the gist of past chapters and coming chapters.  Please understand he and Milan will make mistakes here and there!  (Especially together, haha) Their relationship growth isn't linear and is a love story within a story that’s REALLY aimed at mature audiences in general.  Also, for some reason Patreon takes away all my double spaces so SORRY ⚠️

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"...I won't," Ezra stares at me curiously, considering, before he adds, "But I wasn't. Shuttin' you out."

I shake my head, weary and tired,

"Come on, Ezra."

He mimics the movement, his nose wrinkling, small, stray beauty marks gathering in creases with the motion.  He drops my arm,

"No.  Look,"  he sighs, his palms connecting with his thighs, ringed fingers towards his pocket — stopping only when he likely remembers that there's no pack of cigarettes there to await his reach,  "You can't be readin' into every move like this.  I don't want you upset 'cause I handle things my own way."

"What does that mean?"  I frown,  "how do you handle things?"

Ezra doesn't say anything for a moment, keeps his eyes trained on my face, ignoring the closeness between us,

"It's your first night here.  I don't want ya' worked up. You can't be puttin' emotions on every action of mine."

The quiet of his room is oppressive and new. It's easy to feel silly when it's worded that way — without anywhere to run from my embarrassment.

"But I do,"  I whisper.  "I can't help it."

"I know."  Ezra steps even closer. I can hear the rustle of his jeans. The sound of his feet against the floor.

"But, I'm tellin' ya' not to read into anythin' I do.  I'm a straightforward guy.  Alright?"

I snort, indelicate and brash.

"... Am I really reading into things?" I wonder, frowning as Ezra comes to a slow stop before me, close enough that I have to tip my chin up to hold his gaze.  "You don't have to always do — or say the right thing when it comes to me, Ezra.  That isn't being as straightforward as you think."

I could play pretend for my own comfort, and return to normalcy by sweeping his initial irritation under the rug.  But that concept seems to fall apart under my unwillingness to play along with him. And I'm — alright with that.

"Between your appointments, Daphne, and the weather, are you upset? Don't you have a right to be?  It's normal for friends to complain — to vent to each other.  It's not a big deal to talk to me.  Right?"

There's a dark look in his eyes when I glance at him, an apprehension that could be mistaken as a threat,

"Being close to me.  It's not a big deal, is it?"

But I know better.

I might want him close.

But does he want to be close?

"... I was a little irritated by circumstance," Ezra says, not looking away from my gaze – his always bright, always reflecting a hidden light, even when there's none to find, a shade impossible to mistake as anything but unique. He smirks down at me, lazy and false like he's ready for the subject to drop. "But I'm tired. The weather's shit. Withdrawals and all that jazz. That's all.  Nothin' more to complain about."

I bite the inside of my cheek. The wind howls just outside his window, a gust picking up, a creaking in the distance,

".... You know that I'll listen to you. If you want to talk about anything," I inhale, tone clipped, icy, despite how uncomfortable it all feels, "I told you. You don't have to tell me everything. Or all the bad. But if you want me to know you, let me know you."

Ezra leers then, his head cants to bare the long line of his neck and down where his arms cross slowly along his broad chest.  The wind howls again, rain spattering hard against the glass pane,

"... Why?" His grin, already unfitting and treacherously telling, grows wider. His brows lift, and he leans in — slow and careful and tempting. "So we can date?"

I fluster, a heat curling in my stomach, just beneath my collar, and the tips of my ears. The lights flicker.  They whirr, struggling to stay on.

My chest feels tight.

"Don't talk to me like I'm obsessed with the idea," I bristle, glaring at the insinuation, and Ezra's expression softens. A shift of his shoulders, a slight slack to his jaw that conveys regret. "I'm already embarrassed and — that.  That makes me sound greasy."

"Embarrassed?  I was flirtin', Angel." His brows gather. "Not pokin' at you."

I sneer,

"Don't flirt with me. I can't be friends with you when you're flirting, but you don't mean it."

"Hey."

"Or with a stranger. Or a man who flirts instead of communicating."  I suck a breath through my teeth.  "I — I'd like to be friends, Ezra."

Everything is silent as it can be in a storm.  Moments pass.  They feel awkward and lingering.

"... You sayin' we ain't friends already?" Ezra frowns, and on that face, the lid of his eyes — the playfulness of his voice that diverts us both from a fight, grows more appealing. "You're hurtin' my feelings."

My defenses fall. I scowl, but it's a stern expression to maintain. Especially as he smiles, an apology drawn throughout his expression.

"... Then tell me something about you, friend."  I counter, sarcastic, unable to let it go — but the edge is gone.  Softer, I say, "... Tell me about your parents. What you were like in school.  Daphne. Her kids.  Something."

Ezra's eyes jump to mine, and he hesitates, coquetry sweeping into something muddier — something vague. His smile purses, thin with tension. I can see it settle throughout his stance, the way it travels down to his jaw, neck, and shoulders.

"Something," I repeat, meeting his eyes, and Ezra blinks like I've slapped him, "anything about you.  I hate — I hate that you don't feel like you can show me who you are."

"... Okay," he says, short and rough, "Okay. Right now?"

I exhale, loud and irate, blinking,

"When?"

"Milan," the man in front of me sighs, rubbing both hands over his face. "There's just nothin' to say."

My throat works, heavy with the sentiment, but I nod.  I understand what this is.  I've done this to Tamela — to Isaac.  To people I didn't really want to let in.

Shit.

"Oh — I.  Well."  I don't know how to handle it when the tables have turned and I'm in their seat. I'm the one pushing, and I don't know what to do with the man in front of me. I think — I, of all people, at least I understand a very solidly built wall.  It's what I've always been very good at doing. "Well.  That's fine.  Maybe another night."

I don't know him.  I keep revisiting that thought, and maybe, out of respect for Ezra, I finally put away the image of him that sits in the back of my thoughts.  This is his door that he's shutting.  This is his boundary that he's drawing.

There's uneven ground between us.  He knows me too well, and I know him too little.  That doesn't mean he owes me.  It doesn't.

Ezra's done so much for me — and that's enough.

Maybe. Another night.

Maybe — another night.  Or maybe not.  What matters is that I'm in Huxley.  I'm going to be happier.  I'm not going to make this town a sore spot, or push.  I can't.

"I'll give you some space. I'm not running — or upset."  I set aside my defeat.  I say it as genuinely as I can.  "I'm just going to stay at the motel until morning, alright?"

"Milan."

"It's just so that you can get all your things settled.  You seem overwhelmed — like you've got a lot on your plate.  We'll drive home together tomorrow.  Okay?" I turn on my heel and move towards the door, but Ezra is already reaching for me.   He catches me by the wrist and hauls me back, unyielding.  I stumble into him,

"Pick a family member," Ezra says, leaning closer, voice hushed.  His arms wrap around my waist.  "I'm not good at this.  So.  Pick one, and I'll tell you somethin'."

"Ezra, I'm not upset.  You don't have to —"

"Pick one."  He repeats, firm, his voice dropping, chest at my back.  "I want to.  I want you to know me."

I want to say, Daphne.  I do.  But I feel like I shouldn't.  I get caught there, in that thought, for almost too long.

"... Your dad."  I swallow.  I say it because it evens the playing field.  He knows about mine.  Maybe — this won't be a war zone.  "Tell me about him.  You don't need to tell me about anyone else.  Not until you want to."

Ezra nods.

"... Pastor." I hear his teeth grit by my ear.  He dips down, settling his chin against my shoulder. "He's got a big fuckin' church in Jameson... Might as well be the epicenter for a conservative shit-stain of a town."

I blink.  Ezra's weight shifts, taking me further against him,

"He's a pastor?"

"Mhm.  Got a big fuckin' house too. All that untaxed revenue, you know."  He whispers it, and I should be overly aware of how I'm trapped in his arms. Still, I only find myself listening, "Got a huge, pretty yard, nice family, golden retriever catching frisbees sort of bullshit — probably plays Carman's greatest hits on repeat."

"Ezra — I don't..."

He hushes me,

"... Standard edition of a white-picket fence wife and kids.  They worship him.  They worship God.  They don't know about me — or Daph.  Or my mom.  Never have."

My heart stops for a moment. Ezra's fingers slip between my own, right at the middle of my ribs, and squeeze tight.

"Ya' ever see a pastor fall for a prostitute?"  He smiles.  I can feel it on my neck.  I shake my head.  Ezra inhales; it feels like he's breathing me in like he's lost in me — while I'm lost in this.  "Sounds like a punch-line, don't it?"

"I don't know."

"Sure it does,"  he hums, "because it's a fuckin' joke.  My dad's a pastor, my mom's a joke, and Daph and I are the punchlines.  And I don't feel anythin' towards it.  Makes me the bad guy, right?"

"No."

"... Then plenty of other things do."  He says, quiet.  "... That enough for tonight?"

He doesn't sound upset.  Just tired.  It's a story as old as he is, so maybe he is tired.  It's quiet.  He holds me against him and presses in until we're melded together.  My heart thumps off rhythm.

"... The pastor is the punchline,"  I say, finally.  I squeeze Ezra's fingers in return.  Gentle.  I reassuring — I hope.  My thumb drifts over his ring.  His chest still rests, down against my shoulder blades, flush,  "He listens to Carman's greatest hits on repeat.  He's a joke."

Ezra startles with a laugh, genuine and stunned, his breath fanning across my neck.  He smells like gum.  I shrug, inhaling as his cheek slides up the column of my neck,

"I like both of you.  Daphne and you."  I hesitate.  I never say the right thing.  "I don't know much about either of you guys.  But you both...  You were both good to me.  Right away."

My heart beats frantically as his fingers disentangle from mine.  They slide over my ribs, slow — purposeful.  Ezra shifts, hums out a sound of understanding, but his lips are at the shell of my ear,

"Did you mean what ya' said?"

I can feel the edge of metal on bone.  I want to write it off, try to tell myself that he doesn't mean to do it, and bite my tongue as he grasps my waist.  It surely feels deliberate.

"About,"  my voice doesn't sound quite right.  I breathe in, squirm in his hold, then try again.

"About what?"

"About how I don't have to always say — always do the right thing?"

My brows gather.

Did that bother him?

"Yes.  Why wouldn't I have meant it?"  I feel my nose crease, turning in the give of his arms, close enough that I have to tip my chin up to hold his gaze, "how could you possibly always do —"

The kiss knocks me breathless.  Ezra, a relentless, ruthless contradiction of a man, kisses like he wants to sneak into my skin — like he wants to make a home inside of me, just as desperately as I've tried to make a home inside of him.

"I'm feelin' selfish."  He murmurs.  I let out a sound of surprise, pant it out between us, shocked as he spins me towards him, knocks me backward into the red wood of his door before I can process what's happening — licking into my mouth like a man starved.   My hands splay out along his chest, then curl against him, unsure of where to go.

"And I'm not gentle."  He whispers between heady, desperate kisses.  He cups my jaw between his palms, a thumb pressing under my chin, domineering, keeping me pinned there — open for him as his pierced tongue slides over mine.  I inhale, eyes opening to find his watching me, lidded, as he pulls away.  "So tell me if you hate all of that."

I let my head rest against the door with wet lips and a hard pant.  I don't think I can say that I hate it.  I don't think it would be true.

"I don't hate it,"  I say, stunned and flushed.

"Not any of it?"  Ezra hums, teasing, his voice rough.  He keeps pressing into me, almost on the verge of crushing, and I tremble,

"Oh,"  I shake my head, surely red-faced,  "no."

"Then.  How much can we do?" His lips brush mine in another tease — another goad, thumbs slipping under the hem of my shirt to brush skin.  Goosebumps pebble.   He cradles my jaw, again, with his free hand, rubbing a rough stripe against my bottom lip with a ringed thumb, and follows it with his tongue.   "How far?"

"Until — I'm better."  I look down at our feet, timid,  "... Only kissing."

Ez nods above me, says,

"Whatever you want, pretty boy," and captures my lips with something sinful, something rough and full of intention.  My grip falls hopelessly before it reaches to hold on.  He takes the sweetness, the inexperience of my returning kisses, swallows them down into something hot — turns them wicked with his tongue.

He pulls back, only to slide his hands downward, to lift me up by the backs of my thighs, and push me back into the door.  It quakes with the movement, and I moan, yielding beneath him with blunt nails buried in Ez's t-shirt.  My legs spread to accommodate his weight.

"Make that sound again,"  he breathes.  He slides his tongue against mine, wet and warm,

"And wrap your legs around me."  He demands, impatient, caught up, a squeeze to my thighs.  My stomach turns with heat.  If we keep going — I might change my mind.  If he keeps kissing me, I might beg for him to do more.

"We have to — just a kiss or..."  I say, eyes fluttering shut.  My legs do wrap around him, toes curling, and Ezra groans, breath short and hot at my throat, burying a curse there — lips at my pulse point, biting, sucking,  "Ezra.   I won't tell you to stop.  I — I want you."

He drops my legs, pressing his palms against wood, drawing his hips away.  Then he inhales, ripping himself away with a chuckle.  I find my footing with unsteady legs.

"Shit,"  He steps away from me, bites the inside of his cheek, nods, though his shirt is rumpled.  Our gaze continues to chase the other,  "Ya' think I don't want you?  Especially when you say shit like that?"

I blush.  His eyes are roving over me, hard, hungry.  It's not smart — it's not smart, but I want to reach for him again.

"This is only the first night,"  I say, bewildered.  Ezra nods, cheek dimpling with a smirk, staring hot with unsettled lust.  I shake my head,  "we — we definitely can not share a bed."

Ezra tuts.  Disappointed.

"... Why?  All this secret-sharing makes me hot,"  He sits on the edge of the mattress, head tilting with his taunt,  "we'll just say that's our stoppin' point.  Yeah?"

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