“Thank you for helping them.”
“Anytime.”
His head lowers until his nose touches mine, and then our foreheads meet.
“It was sweet of you.” I inhale raggedly, and his scent drifts right up my nose. There’s still a hint of the soap from his shower earlier, but also the clean sweat that comes from hard work.
My head is hazy. My chest, hot. He presses me back against the side of my car, molding his body to mine as our mouths slam together. I grip his T-shirt in both hands at his waist. The need coursing through my veins makes me woozy and light-headed. Our tongues do battle, thrusting and parrying, and the longer it goes on, the more my body hums and pulses for him.
Micah groans, nips my lip, then soothes the sting with his tongue. He tries to haul me closer, but our pelvises are already grinding together, no space between us whatsoever. With his cock swelling against my belly, I savor every second of his mouth on mine—every wild taste, every stroke of our tongues, every intoxicating moan.
He growls, his face tucked next to mine. “Baby. We have to stop or I’m going to blow right here.”
We take several deep breaths as we ease apart and stare into each other’s eyes.
I point toward the back door we’d exited from. Swallowing hard, I ask the question that’s been on the tip of my tongue since he offered to help my parents. “Why?”
He rubs his hand over his heart, closing his eyes for a few seconds. Quietly, and without ever opening his eyes, he whispers, “Daph, I want your parents to think more of me than mine do.”
Stepping close to him, I settle my hands along his ribcage and rest my forehead on his chest as my heart breaks a little for him. After everything he’d told me this morning, I understand why it’s on his mind. “You don’t have to do anything special. All you need to be is you.”
He skims his palms up and down my arms. At first, I don’t think he’s going to say anything more, but then he murmurs, “That’s why it hurts so damn bad that they can’t see me for who I am. They always assume the worst. They look at me through the lens of their own mistakes.”
His whispered confession reaches inside my soul, putting me on the verge of weeping openly for him. My lungs fill painfully as I draw in a breath. “I’m sorry Micah. What can I do?” When my gaze drifts up to meet his, I witness his excruciating torment laid bare.
“Be there. Just be there for me. Act like I matter.”
The plea reminds me of the day he asked me to watch his football game. I blink up at him. “It’s no act. You do matter to me. You can count on me, Micah.”