Page 93 of Shut Up and Score
The kind that makes my stomach twist and my pulse hammer.
“Good,” he finally mutters. “Hate yourself. Because I sure as hell did.”
The air between us snaps. I don’t even see him move—one second he’s glaring at me like he wants to put me through the wall, and the next his mouth is on mine.
It’s not soft. It’s not careful. It’s a collision. A crash of teeth and heat and two years of rage and want boiling over scalding us both.
I groan against his mouth, my hands catching his hoodie, needing something to hold onto before I fall apart. He tastes faintly of lime Gatorade, and it’s so Micah, my knees nearly give out.
He fists my shirt, dragging me off the wall and into him. Our chests collide, and the single queen bed creaks when the back of my legs hit it. He doesn’t stop kissing me, trying to erase me and claim me all at once.
I gasp for air, and he bites my bottom lip, just hard enough to make me hiss.
“This…” he mutters against my mouth, our foreheads crashing together. “This doesn’t make it better.”
“I know,” I pant, my hands already in his shirt, dragging up heat and muscle I’ve dreamed about and hated myself for. “I know.”
He kisses me again, harder this time, shoving me backward until I collapse onto the bed. He follows, a knee on either side of my hips, and I can feel just how much he wants this, too, pressed hard against me through our clothing.
Two years of silence, of betrayal, of pretending we were strangers—boiling down to this moment where we’re clawing at each other like enemies and addicts all at once.
Micah’s mouth crashes into mine, done holding back. This isn’t the stolen, angry kisses from before; this one is hungry. Starved. Two years of silence and fury condensed into a single moment where his tongue tangles with mine and my spine bows to meet him.
I barely get a breath in before he grabs the back of my neck, tilting my head, taking what he wants. My body betrays me instantly. I whimper into him, fingers clawing at his hoodie, holding on as if I might drown without him.
He shifts, pressing me down into the mattress with his weight, his thigh sliding between mine. My hips jerk up on instinct. A sharp, pleased sound rumbles in his chest, vibrating against my mouth.
“Third time,” he mutters against my lips, rough and mocking, “and you still melt like this for me. Pathetic.”
I should be mad at him for insulting me, but the way he says it makes heat coil low in my stomach. My nails dig into his sides as he drags his teeth along my jaw, down to the soft spot under my ear. I shiver, body arching without my permission, every cell in me begging for more.
“Say it,” he demands. “Say you want me.”
I choke on a sound that’s part groan, part surrender. “Micah…”
“Yeah. Like that,” he says, hips grinding down. His weight, his heat, his sheer presence has me pinned and helpless. Two years of guilt and want spiral together until all I can do is give in.
Micah’s mouth claims mine again, hot and unrelenting, and I swear I can feel two years of tension snapping like rubber bands between us. His day-old scruff scrapes my skin as he drags his mouth along my jaw and down my throat, and I gasp at the sharp, electric sting.
It’s not the same as kissing Jasmine. Not the same as any girl I’ve ever kissed. This is rougher, hungrier—real. Every scrape of his stubble makes my skin light up like a live wire. My fingers fist in his hoodie, desperate for something to hold on to while my hips jerk up without permission.
“Fuck—” I hiss through clenched teeth as my hard-on presses against him, straining against the thin fabric of my shorts. I can feel the solid muscle of his thigh between my legs, the heat of him, and I can’t stop the involuntary grind. My brain is screaming,Don’t, but my body’s already betraying me, rubbing against him as if I’ve been waiting for this since the day he walked back into my life.
He growls—a low, dark sound—and shifts his leg higher, pressing up into me. “Yeah,” he mutters against my ear, voice rough enough to make me shiver. “Go on, Colton. Show me how bad you want it.”
A choked sound leaves my throat as I rut against his thigh, the friction dizzying. Every move drags the rough mesh of my practice shorts over my aching cock, and I can feel the heat pooling low in my gut, winding me tight. My balls tightening and ready for release. Pre-cum making my boxers damp.
He grips my hip, guiding the motion, controlling the pace. Dominant. Certain. I’ve never let anyone have me like this—not really—but my body is already his, bending under the weight of his anger and want.
Micah nips at my earlobe, the scrape of his teeth and scruff sending sparks all the way down my spine. “So fucking needy,” he murmurs, and it’s both a taunt and a reward. “I could make you come like this…grinding on my thigh like the desperate little Golden boy quarterback you are.”
I moan into his shoulder, humiliated and burning and so, so close to falling apart under him.
“Yeah, that’s it,” he murmurs against my lips, his voice rough and filthy. “Grind on me, pretty boy. Show me how bad you’ve been craving this.”
A helpless whimper escapes me as I rut against his leg, friction sparking every nerve in my body. My shorts are damp, clinging to me, and every move drags me closer to the edge.
“Fuck, look at you,” Micah says, sitting back just enough to watch me move for him. His hand grips my hip, guiding me. “Star quarterback, hometown hero…and right now you’re just a desperate little bottom, huh? My perfect fuck-toy.”
