The One-Shots | D.O'B.

Alone Time Is Better With You* | Mitch

Truthfully, you know better. You really do.

Yet that doesn't seem to stop you from finding your place in front of Mitch's door that fateful Saturday night.

You know he's in there. Heard him come back to the compound an hour or so ago. Had decided then that you wouldn't let that night mean nothing. That you wouldn't let what happened in the hallway be forgotten.

For days, you've been arguing with yourself that what he said—what he did—was merely the result of increased adrenaline and the thrill of success. That he was drunk. Drunk with power, drunk with alcohol, and drunk with the knowledge that he'd done what couldn't be done. That's all it was.

But no matter the excuse you create, you can't shake the image from your head. Can't erase the feel of his fingertips. Can't erase the way he looked at you as you brushed the hair back from his forehead. Can't erase the way his lips brushed your ear as he whispered, "It's always been you."

The next, he'd acted as if it had never happened. As if he'd forgotten.

But it did happen. And you don't think you'll ever forget.

With a quick breath, your knuckles rap against the door. You wait for a moment, listening intently for any telltale signs of movement.

You hear the sound of rustling. Perhaps the shift of a sheet. The creak of a mattress.

But no footsteps.

You knock again before calling, "Mitch? It's me, can we...can we talk?"

Another sound. Deeper. You lean closer, ear pressing to the wood as you attempt to decipher. It's his voice, you know that much, but you can't make out what he's saying. Maybe he's inviting you in. Maybe he's inviting you to leave.

You can't really be sure and the anxious hollow in your stomach merely intensifies with each passing second.

So, with a burst of self-assurance, you straighten up, twist the handle, and thrust the door open.

Your eyes find his first. That soft, golden brown you're so used to. Comforting, almost. Familiar.

Then, you notice his hair. The way it's fallen across his forehead, sweaty and disheveled. The way it drapes over his eyebrows as he peers across the room at you.

You notice the slight flush in his cheeks. The heave of his chest. Notice the nakedness of his skin, your gaze traveling down his clenched jaw toward the rapid ripple of his stomach.

And then...you see.

You see his hand, tight around his cock as he pumps up and down in a swift, urgent motion.

For a moment, you're not quite sure what to do. What to think. You stand, frozen in the doorway, eyes wide and heart racing as you watch him.

You expect him to stop. To cover. To feel just as startled as you do.

Yet, he doesn't.

He doesn't stop. Doesn't hide. Doesn't attempt to excuse it away. Doesn't even yell at you for coming into his room.

Instead...he groans.

And not the same groan you're so used to hearing from him. Not a groan of exasperation or disapproval.

A salacious groan. Lust-filled and needy. So desperate and depraved, you feel the way your stomach flips for an entirely different reason.

Now he's not the only one flushed.

Your lips part, ready to call his name. Ask him what he's doing. Maybe apologize for barging in.