WICKED BOY (61 & 62) ⚠️ mature content (Patreon)

(WARNINGS FOR:  mild(ish?) NSFW.  We broke the dam that leads into more mature scenarios between the leads.  They're two adults in their late twenties, so I really feel like this is to be expected (for these two characters, obviously not everyone!) Don't worry, Milan is still on his path to healing, he's just also very attracted to Ezra.

CW:  for Ezra being gross.  😂 I love him, but his character is definitely the type to be a little more vulgar/talkative/or to shove fingers into mouths during sexual encounters — so he's a warning on his own...

very mild and unexplored dom/sub undertones)

—

"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?"

I hesitate. My nerves are still radiating — wanting. I cross my arms tight, and unwind them, fiddling with the strap of my watch.  I don't care if he's joking, flirting, or teasing.  I don't think...

I want a stopping point.

"Stop?" I ask, slow and careful.

"You said just kissin'." Ezra's grin, shameless and treacherously flirtatious, armed with teeth that I can still feel against my neck, grows wider.  It's different from any grin I've seen him wear before.  He sinks back, elbows against his sheets, foot against the floor.  His leg bounces, like he's itching with unused energy,

"No?"  He offers, palms on the sheets, rucking them up between his fingers.  He squeezes them, voice still rough around the edges, "not interested?"

I stare at him — him lounging there, feigning composure, though he simply looks ready to seize any opportunity to touch.

My regard shifts from his dark, mussed hair to his eyes, his dimples that lay deep within a winding Cheshire grin.  My gaze works over the line of his jaw, the art on his throat, and where it disappears beneath the collar of his shirt and starts again at his forearms.

His shoulders and chest look broader, like this, pushed up at an angle, and his rings glint invitingly in the sparse light, one thin, loose chain around his wrist.  The power flickers, the rest-stop sign's reflection, and its coinciding street lamps faltering.  There's another gust of audible wind.

I've never had to draw a line like this with boyfriends.  I just never — never wanted more.  But I think of Ezra's ringed thumb and the way it felt on my lip, pressing — holding my jaw open.  I think of him, holding me in that grip, so confident to take what he wanted with the swipe of his tongue.

Ezra's so confident.  He's handsome.  He's so kind — but.

The way he touches me is...

Have I ever been touched in a way I haven't hated?

Is that why I crave this?

Ezra's grin falls away into a leer, fingers knotting in the dark duvet cover.  I watch as his eyes narrow, as he pushes himself up slowly, cautiously, as if he wants a better look — as if I'm a bird on his windowsill who may just startle away.

"... Look at me like that, and I'll think you want more than a kiss."  He murmurs.  His voice is caught beneath what he intends to be a tease, but it sounds rather captivated, intrigued, and off-center.  He watches me, curious, and I step closer to him.

"Milan,"  Ezra warns — but I feel something working its way through my chest, something hot.  It spools with nervous energy, threading up to where I chew the inside of my bottom lip absentmindedly. I pull off my glasses, setting them gingerly down against his duvet, my hand trembling.

"... I like the way you touch me. I want,"  I mumble, unsure.  I'm skeptical with each step, uncertain as one knee dips onto the mattress, the other swung around him.  He grunts — and heat spreads between my thighs.  Ezra's heat.  Always warm, always inviting, and,  "I don't want to — come off greedy.  I don't always know what I want.  But you — I just know."

My arms wrap around his shoulders like leverage.  I pull myself into place, centered on his lap, and Ezra inhales, a heavy sensation in my stomach as his breath hits my neck.  I don't dare to look at him.  My arms feel thin. I feel fragile, stretched over taut muscles,

"... You don't know what greedy is." Ezra counters, low, quiet enough that it might have gone disregarded, but we're too close.

He sits fully upwards, our chests meeting, his palms cupping each of my thighs just to push them wider, then rounding under my knees to pull me closer.

"... Should I show you?"  He whispers.  The blunt edges of my nails find his back as our middles meet with the force of his tug, and I muffle a moan into his shoulder just a second too late — vision spotty with the sudden, intimate contact.

"Sorry,"  I exhale, a mild embarrassment settling in, the desire to rock down against him an inebriating impulse.  I shift onto my knees, pulling my hips upwards, in an attempt to dissuade myself from the thought.

"I just — I don't know why I can't calm down."  I cut myself off, burying my face further into skin and cotton, my ears scorching red. Something about how Ezra handles me — pulling this way and that and...

What am I thinking? I squeeze my eyes shut, mortified.  What am I —

"... You think I'm calm?"  Ezra tilts his head back until our gaze meets.  His burns with words unsaid, and his expression turns to something far more sultry in its hunger.  "... Why don't you just try it?"

"Try what?"  I mumble, breathing him in, my palms dragging over his back, fingers pushing against places just because I've never really had the chance to touch him — and I want to, and, what is this?

What is this heady, all-consuming craving of mine — that has me first looking for a therapist, then crawling into another grown man's lap?

"Try me," Ezra's words sound more like a request than an offer; he arches in my grasp, beneath me, but his hands slide into my back pockets, and he tugs me down to meet his hips.  I feel him then, a heavy, thick epiphany that strains beneath denim — one that digs into my arousal, slides against it with ambition.

I grip him tighter with realization, pushing down, thighs tightening, meeting his cadence with a jumbled smatter of words — a broken pant.  Ezra groans, another steady, practiced roll of his hips — and my arms lock around him, his feet pressed to the floor.

I cup his face, my thumbs against where his dimples often sit. Our teeth tap, separate, and then Ezra's fist gathers in my short, loose curls — righting us.

"Grindin' like fuckin' teenagers," he breathes, but it's unsteady, and it might be funny — another day.  But today, I just nod, then nod again, kissing him desperately.

"No.  Feels good,"  I mumble, and Ezra's grip tightens with a jerk of his thighs,  "I didn't do this — as a teenager.  I don't do this,"  I admit, breathless, my head swimming.  Ezra nips at my lip, his only acknowledgment, tongue sliding in against mine, pulling away for the briefest attempts to listen to my insecure ramble, "I don't really — know what,"

"How does my dick feel?  Uninterested?"  Ezra's voice is like woodsmoke, low and lost, and his arm comes around my middle as he rolls me down to meet him again, forceful, that same surge of dominance that eats at my nerves resurfacing.  "I think about fuckin' you on a regular basis.  So what are ya' tryin' to explain?"

"You're so vulgar,"  I try to slow my breathing, a soft sound of desire taking over.  But I nod, kiss him again, frantic, my hands tangling in his hair.  Ezra rocks into me with an insistent, rough dig of his hips, single-minded in his desire for friction.  I pull away to catch my breath,

"I don't know what I'm,"

"No.  It's simple.  Hold onto me.  Make space for me," he whispers, arching between the spread of my legs, bullying my hips down against the curve of his erection. "Moan your goddamn lil' moans," I squeeze my eyes shut, knees opening wider — the newness of the sensation of his body heat overwhelming. He smells good, even this close, lips tucked against my ear.  He chuckles, "and grind against my cock until you cream your fancy fuckin' pants."

My hand comes up, unexpected — even to me, over his mouth, my eyes wide and cheeks hot.  My stomach swims, vicious and overrun by lust, and for what?

"Stop talking,"  I inhale, trembling, my hips bucking between us, "so filthily."

Ezra's brows arch with a snicker.  He grins beneath my palm, tongue sliding out and between the gaps of my fingers.  His eyes lid, tongue-ring bobbing over my knuckle. I flush, stricken, snatching it away,

"Hmm,"  he flips me. Suddenly, my back hits the mattress, and I gasp at the impact.  Ezra reclaims his spot between my legs and drags his thumb against the part of my lips — pressing forward, past my teeth, propping them open.  I inhale, eyes lidded — watchful, "I think you're lyin' to me."

Butterflies tumble in my stomach when two of his fingers replace his thumb, thrusting forward into my mouth, hooked over my tongue like evidence of his suggestion, and I stare up at him with blurry vision — watching the way that he watches the wet slide of his fingers, and then shyly avert my eyes,

"Looks like you like filthy,"  Ezra tuts.  I flush, eyes on the pillow next to me, body hot when Ezra says, "look at me when I'm talkin' to you."

And I do.  I look up at him, instantly— a soft pop when the slick side of his fingers pull from my swollen lips, then slide back in, his other hand leaving its place behind my thigh, rolling in between where our hips meet, and he cups me — a sudden squeeze of a deft palm.

"See?  Bet vulgar would send ya' right over the edge."

I huff — moaning over his fingers, tongue in the way, so I sweep it down, over, sucking his index finger in deeper as Ezra's hold on me tightens, and the door swings open.

"Jesus Christ, Ezra,"  Daphne hisses, and I jump — trapped under Ezra, turning quickly to face the wall, "the fucking power is out, but your door still has a goddamn lock."

And Ezra laughs.

—

"Milan?"   Tamela's voice, ripe with the edge of sleep, curls with a familiar fringe of concern.  It's the first thing she says.   "Jesus.  It's pouring.  Which shitty little bar are you at?"  And that's — that's the first thing that she assumes.

On any other night, perhaps, it would've dug down deep and festered inside me.  Maybe the first thoughts of another would've taken the deep insecurity of my faults and wounded me — made me small and angry, a feral, nasty thing.

Now, I think I can see it for what it is.   I smile.  I pat the wrinkles from my shirt, one that was pressed into odd trim lines from my impromptu fall from grace— and where it landed me on Ezra's bed.  My cheeks still feel hot with embarrassment.

"I can't believe anyone is working their employees in this weather."  Tamela's ramble cuts through my thoughts,  "I can't believe you're supporting their cruel business practices — and, what?  What happened to spending time with Ezra?  I'm sure he didn't —"

"I'm not partying."  I laugh quietly, ironically sitting in a booth in Huxley's empty bar, one that's connected to Ezra's red-doored room.   I haven't had a drop to drink.  My urge tonight is different — and now, past the outrageous surge of lust, it stinks of self-reflection.

Something about this scenario — well.  I should only be thinking; I've kissed Ezra.

We've kissed.

We almost did more than that because I decided to climb him like some sort of spur-of-the-moment county fair ride.

But.  Instead of thinking about that — well.  I sat in a booth.  I listened to the sounds of the storms, to a sister and a brother fighting.  And —

Instead, I thought of the thin line of Ezra's pursed lips long before any of this, the warning in his eyes when I leaned in and pressed, when I begged to know what he felt — why he felt that way.  I think of the emptiness, the sting of rejection when he couldn't tell me and —

I found myself left with a different thought.  A thought that wondered:  how many times have I bruised Tamela that same way?

That was just one moment.  It bothered me so much — for just one, singular interaction.  I sit outside Ezra's door, the murmurings of he and Daphne lost between wood and over the sound of thunder and wind.  I don't know what they say.  I can't really hear them.

I can, however, hear my pulse in my ears, my heartbeat unsteady with uncertainty.

Why, of all people and matters to settle, did I think of this?

"... and I'm not drinking,"  I murmur.  I lift my feet onto the seat, leaning my ear and phone against my knee.  I blink tiredly.  "I just wanted to call.  I made it out to Huxley.  The weather is bad, so..."

I inhale, gaze sliding up over the different shades of bottles locked just beyond a glass case.  Then my attention shifts to the rain on the dark window.  It spatters.  It isn't silent like it is in Pennbrook.  The buildings feel older here, and though this one, in particular, has likely seen several renovations in its lifetime, its walls give just enough to ache with the sound of a storm.

"Well, I suppose."  I start again, head tilting further — past the rush of tonight's excitement, like I could fall asleep here.  "I just wanted to know if you made it home in one piece."

"Obviously.  Where would I be sleeping?  The side of the interstate?"  Tamela hesitates for long enough that I wonder if she's fallen asleep instead.  Then her throat clears.  There's a rustle of fabric.  Maybe she's sitting up in bed, or her room is cold with night, and she's burrowing in deeper.

"I know how to drive if that's what you're implying."  She says.  It's oddly soft.  I hum in recognition.  There's a beat between us and then an awkward, "... Well?  How was your ride out?  I assume Ezra didn't put-put up on his ludicrous motorcycle."

I snort,

"He didn't.  We took a cab, and — the ride was fine.  It was raining a lot.  Windy.  There's not a lot of big buildings to block it out."

I think about telling her about the cab driver.  Daphne.  The babysitter fiasco — Ezra's elusiveness when it came to both.  I think of telling her about the confrontation — the kiss, what came after.   I swallow it all down, as I usually do, but this time, for a different reason.

"Well.  I checked Huxley's weather report.  It said there was a power outage.  Is that true?"

Oh.

I smile against my knee, plucking at the fabric at the toes of my socks.  I hum again, gaze at the red door, feeling abruptly fond — sentimental towards this storm, the tension, these interactions that make me feel sad and then —  full with understanding, and...

"...You checked the weather report?"  I ask.  Tamela responds with another bout of quietness.  I feel oddly warm and — remorseful.  "For Huxley?"

"Well.  You are living there now.  Aren't you?"

Why didn't I understand?

Why don't I ever really... know when someone cares for me?

I think of meeting Tamela that night, years ago.  We were stuffy in evening, formal dinner attire at my parent's home.  I remember her father, my mother, trying to pair the two of us together as a blue-blooded marriage of both of their dreams.

I think of how that all unraveled so indelicately.  Of my life crashing to another low.  Another disappointment to my father, yet, this time with an audience.

And Tamela stood by my side even then.

Even as two unfortunate strangers.

I feel very lucky.  I've always had a stranger, one that's good to me — one that saves me, right at the edge of my lowest point.  Whether it's Daphne, Ezra, or Tamela.  I've been that lucky.

But Tamela has stood there, on the other side of my wall, without the tools to scale it, for the longest.  I don't understand why, but then, I do understand why.

"Tamela.  I'm happy that we're friends."  I whisper.  "I'm really happy that we met."

"Milan — Milan."  Tamela pauses.  The second time she says my name, it sounds frantic.  There's another rustle, a gathering of keys, her voice breaks,  "Are you sure you're okay?  Don't do anything stupid.  Okay?  This isn't like a — I need my shoes, and I'm on my way."

My heart leaps.  It buzzes in my chest.

Have I scared her that much?

Have I always scared her this much?

"No."  I exhale, and it shudders.  "No.  That's not it."

There's a heavy silence.

"I — I just wanted to say that I'm sorry."

Tamela huffs, impatient and frazzled,

"Why are you apologizing?"  She bites out.  "Don't apologize to me.  Just tell me where you are."

"I'm fine.  I'm with Ezra."  I say.  "And I need to apologize.  For how I've been.  For not letting you in.  I guess — I've never realized how much that could hurt.  How much it means that you stuck around anyway.  How much it means that you — check the weather report."

"I thought that,"  I swallow,  "I thought of that.  Tonight.  I needed to say it.  To tell you, I guess."

Tamela inhales.  I listen to her fuss.  It's harder to read her like this — when she's so far away.  But would I have the guts to say this to her face?  This barrier between us, it's uncomfortable and necessary all at once.

"I guess I just never understood why."  I grit my teeth, continuing, then sigh.  "Or what was in it for you, that made you — I don't know.  Put up with me.  Or drive to Huxley — and, try to break into someone's home for me.  And then I just realized.  Maybe you don't just — put up with me."

"You're my friend."  She pauses.  "Not someone to put up with.  I'm not dawdling around, waiting, or wishing for more of you.  For you to be someone else.  Or waiting to see who you'll become.  We're friends.  Not future friends.  We're friends right now."

I nod.  I nod even though she can't see me.  My eyes feel tired, like I've cried more than my allotted tears for a lifetime.  I rub at them until they feel itchy with warmth,

"... But.  Okay — well,"  my throat feels tight with emotion.  With a lump.  "Has it been lonely?  Being my friend?"

"...Don't be a big baby,"  Tamela whispers.  "I understand  — more and more.  That you're tired.  That it's hard to give parts of yourself to me when you're tired."

She waits.  I let her.

"You only need changes so that you...  Can be happy with yourself.  But I — don't need you to change to like you.  You're Milan.  You're my friend.  I'm not lonely."  She inhales, "because you're my friend."

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