(II)

This was the second time.

Micah wasn’t supposed to be here again.

He had told himself that a hundred times, every time he stared at his phone, every time he walked past the building, every time he swore he wasn’t weak enough to crawl back.

But now he was here.

On his knees.

Again.

Roman stood behind him, still in the black coat he always wore like a second skin. He hadn’t said much when Micah showed up, just opened the door, looked him over with those cold, sharp eyes, and walked inside like he’d been expecting him all along.

Now he stood silently, watching.

Micah’s palms were flat on the floor. His shoulders trembled. He was breathing too fast, already shaking, already flushed and humiliated, and Roman hadn’t even touched him yet.

“Why are you here?” Roman finally asked, voice low and unreadable.

Micah stared at the floor. “I don’t know.”

“Liar.”

Roman stepped closer. His boots clicked against the tile. One hand slid into Micah’s hair and gripped it tight—not cruel, just firm. Grounding. Possessive.

“I should turn you away.”

Micah didn’t answer.

“You think I don’t know what this is?” Roman said softly, fingers curling tighter. “You show up shaking, looking at me like you hate me. But the second I grab you—your whole body goes still. Like you’ve been waiting for it.”

Micah’s throat tightened.

“Say it,” Roman said.

“No.”

“Say what you want.”

“I don’t want anything.”

Roman yanked his head back, forcing eye contact. Micah’s lips parted in a gasp, breath catching at the sharp pull. His eyes glistened with shame.

Roman didn’t look angry. He looked bored.

“You’re going to learn not to waste my time,” he said.

Then his hand cracked against Micah’s cheek—fast, sharp, loud. Micah flinched but didn’t pull away. The heat bloomed across his skin, prickling and hot. His eyes shut tight, but he didn’t move.

“Again,” Roman whispered.

Another slap.

Not enough to bruise.

Just enough to wake the part of Micah that begged for this.

He gasped, and the sound betrayed him. It wasn’t painful. It wasn’t fear.

It was a relief.

Roman crouched beside him, one hand sliding under Micah’s chin to tilt it up.

“You like this.”

“No,” Micah croaked.

Roman’s hand slid lower, over Micah’s throat, his chest, down to his waistband. He didn’t unbuckle it. Just pressed his palm flat, feeling the heat, the hard.

Micah’s hips jerked.

“You wore those tight pants on purpose,” Roman murmured. “Like you wanted me to know you couldn’t hide it.”

Micah bit his lip, but Roman caught that too—thumb swiping across the bitten flesh.

“You really think this is about me?” Roman asked. “You think I did something to you?”

He leaned in closer, breath ghosting across Micah’s lips.

“This is your fault. You came to me.”

Micah whispered, “I should go.”

Roman smiled, soft, cruel, knowing. “You should.”

He pulled back.

Micah didn’t move.

Roman waited.

Micah didn’t move.

Then, slowly, Roman unbuckled Micah’s pants. The sound of the leather snapping open was louder than it should’ve been, echoing in the quiet room.

“On your stomach,” he said.

Micah hesitated, just for a second. Then obeyed.

Roman didn’t bind him this time. He didn’t have to. The way Micah held himself, wrists pressed together, face buried in his folded arms, he was already giving it all away.

Roman dragged the fabric down slowly, exposing the skin inch by inch. He didn't speak. Just breathed, knelt behind him, and ran his hands along the curve of Micah’s ass—palms rough, familiar.

Micah whimpered.

Roman gripped him hard.

“This is what you wanted.”

Micah shook his head, but it was a lie, and they both knew it.

When Roman spit and used his fingers, Micah gasped again—high and strangled, like he hated how good it felt to be touched like this. Roman didn’t rush. He wasn’t gentle either. He made Micah squirm, made him sweat, made him cry out with every slow, deliberate stroke.

“You should’ve said no,” Roman said. “You should’ve stayed away.”

“I tried.”

“Not hard enough.”

Then he pushed in.

Micah arched like he’d been burned.

Roman held him down, one hand between his shoulder blades, the other gripping his hip like he owned it. He started to move—slow at first, each thrust precise and devastating. Micah’s breathing turned frantic, hands fisting in the sheets.

“You still think this means nothing?” Roman growled.

Micah couldn’t speak.

“Say you don’t like it.”

He didn’t.

But he didn’t say that either.

Roman fucked him harder.

The rhythm turned punishing, deep and fast, filling the room with skin and sound and Micah’s wrecked voice breaking on every moan.

And still, Micah pushed back against him.

Still, he didn’t tell him to stop.

When Micah finally came, it was without permission, hands trembling, body shuddering under Roman’s weight. He cried out into the bed, half broken, half begging.

Roman followed with a grunt, burying himself one last time, teeth gritted.

Then he stilled.

Micah was shaking.

Roman didn’t pull out. He stayed inside him, his weight heavy, hand still wrapped around Micah’s wrist like a leash.

Neither of them spoke.

After a long moment, Roman leaned in close, lips brushing the shell of Micah’s ear.

“Don’t pretend this didn’t happen.”

Micah nodded slowly, shame thick in his chest, eyes wet.

Roman whispered, “Good boy.”