Mess You Made

21.

Malibu.

I was aware he was popular. People draw towards him, but I didn't realise the extent until now. Especially after that game he won tonight. As the captain, it's like he's beckoned left and right and everything's always wanting something from him.

They all have — expectations of him. Even if they just expect him to talk to them, or smile at him, or make them laugh, they expect it from him nevertheless. Expect him to uphold it, in some way or another. Effortlessly, he does.

This is the fourth time he's had to dap up some random guy and I watch him from my seat on this padded bar stool besides him, tucking my hands under my thighs in order to relieve the heat that seems inseperably tied to my skin. I blame it on the club itself, the proximity of so many bodies, and not the aftermath of what we just did. Or I'm attempting to.

I take another glance at him where he's stood besides me, back turned towards the bar as some guy, for the seventh time, tells him he was the man of the night. I always assumed he was used to people licking his ass, and I assumed correctly. They don't stop. After each conversation, it's the familiar mention of his call-up to the Knicks soon, as if he's ascending up to heaven.

Everyone seems to know that they're in the presence of a boy who's making it soon so they may as well get their chance in.

Miguel smiles at the guy, runs a mindless hand over his jaw. Doesn't really bask in the compliments, like I thought he might, he just uses his charm and shifts it elsewhere. Whilst he doesn't have his gaze on me, it means I get to look at him, and it's never a bad look.

The olive skin. The light eyes. The prettiness of him.

And then I can't watch him for long anymore. I have to look away because I feel my breathing change and fuck.

His thigh?

That's all it took? His thigh beneath me and albeit, it was hard. Muscular. It pushed against me perfectly and I can't exactly blame myself - not when it's a boy like him - but jesus christ. I've never done that, never gotten off on it.

I release a shaky breath because a sexual interaction has never thrown me so off-kilter but all it took were his breaths on my neck, the way his hands were just suddenly all over me, what it feels like to be pressed up in a dark corner by Miguel Hernandez. That's all it took, his desperation heightening mine — until he had me there, coming for him.

That was against the plan.

I couldn't even see straight. I was ready to go home. Frustration was clawing at my insides but he enclosed me there, made it incapable to leave in every way I never thought I'd have him in tonight. He's better at persuasion than I thought.

I clear my throat, play with my earlobe, feel like I might fucking flush except I never flush.

And he's there, like some saint, so adept in speaking to people and entertaining them enough until they leave him alone. I can't speak to somebody for more than like ten minutes without getting exhausted.

I get it.

He's magnetic.

Very easy to crush on, he's that type of boy, do you see? I'm the stark opposite. Feels a bit like I'm some sort of grim reaper and he's the sun everyone wants to be cast under, except the sun just made me orgasm over there so now it all feels a bit fucked.

I keep looking forwards when the guy eventually leaves and Miguel turns towards me. His warm scent hits me and I try not to recall how the scent engulfed me when his lips touched my throat. He pulls out the stool next to me, without hesitation and sits himself there. Feel him watching me as the night around us is loud.