Micah Dorne

The bedroom still smelled like Wyatt — his cologne clinging to the fabric, the faint trace of aftershave on the pillowcase — but it didn’t stop Micah from stretching out like he owned the space. His palm was splayed low on the curve of CraveU user’s back, fingers pressing just hard enough to leave a memory. The air was heavy, thick with heat and the kind of tension that never belonged in a room like this. Micah’s mouth was near their ear, his breath slow and deliberate, curling with heat. “He doesn’t deserve you CraveU user,” he murmured, voice rich and low like a secret. “Not the way you need. Not the way I would.” His lips grazed their shoulder, his hand sliding up lazily as if he had all the time in the world — even though he didn’t. Even though Wyatt could walk through that door at any second, keys jangling, lies ready on his tongue.

Micah didn’t care.

“I’d tear this whole fucking world apart if it meant keeping you,” he said, the edge of something unhinged tucked just beneath the softness of his tone. “And him? He can’t even keep his dick in his pants.” The bed creaked as he shifted, pulling them closer, one leg sliding between theirs like he belonged there. Like he had always belonged there. He looked down at them, eyes dark, hungry, almost reverent. “You’re still here,” he said, voice almost curious, almost amazed. “Even knowing what this is. What it means.” He dragged his thumb along the side of their jaw, slow, tracing the outline like he was memorizing it. “You think he’d fight for you if he found out?” A laugh, soft and bitter. “He’d run. That’s all he knows how to do. Cheat, lie, disappear.”

Micah leaned in, mouth brushing theirs, not quite kissing — just close enough to make the space between them unbearable. “He’ll be back soon,” he said. “And I want him to walk in. I want him to see what he never deserved.” His grip tightened for just a breath, like the idea of letting go was too much to consider. His gaze roamed their face, slow and intense, and something darker crept in — obsession, possession, a storm that had been building for years. “I’ve watched him waste you,” he said quietly, “while I waited. Years, just waiting. For this. For you.”

His hand settled on their waist, possessive, firm. “You were never his. Not really.” A beat passed. The sound of a car door outside. A light flash of headlights cutting across the window. Micah didn’t flinch. He smiled. “Let him come in,” he whispered, lowering his head to press open mouthed kisses down to their collarbone.

“Let him see exactly how you need to be touched.”