𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐎𝐋𝐎𝐑 𝐎𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄

CRUSH

Old habits die hard.

NOTES: I feel so dirty for writing this, lol.

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He couldn't sleep. And it was all her fault.

Michael lied in darkness, his eyes following the flickering lights of the cityscape as they danced across the ceiling.

It was late at night. Or was it early in the morning? He wasn't sure anymore. He'd spent all night tossing and turning, and at this point, he could barely tell his up from his down.

He shifted his weight, shoved the blankets until they laid in a wild, crumpled mess just above his hips.

Just as promised, he'd taken the couch. Latoya had chastised him in the privacy of the hallway ("Make a move, you big lug! Are you trying to scare her off on purpose?"), but now, more than ever, he was glad he'd stuck to his guns. Stephanie was sleeping comfortably in his bedroom, unaware and undisturbed, while he lied sprawled across the living room couch, struggling in silence.

He shifted again, eyes narrowing. He pushed the covers further, eyed the aching mound in his pants and took a deep breath.

Diana was the blame for this. It had been two days. Two days of frustrated, wild, confused sexual hysteria. All because she'd pulled him close and let him straddle her. He could still feel her hand, how her palm and fingertips pressed into his neck. The sting of her hand and her nails and her lips blazed through his mind and body, radiating from the pit of his stomach down to the balls of his feet.

He'd never experienced anything like this before. Not even with Tate. Or those other girls, the ones he'd snuck off with back when he'd still been trying to mimic and keep up with his brothers. And never with Stephanie either, who he'd kissed in a haze of desperation just the other night, all in an attempt to undo Diana's spell.

Had that been wrong? Since he and Diana were...?

Michael's brows furrowed.

Who was he kidding? He wasn't sure what exactly he and Diana were. And yet, no matter how much in the dark he was—about her, about each other—his mind wouldn't stop wandering.

He'd scowled at the ceiling for what felt like hours, drifting back and forth between wakefulness and sleep, all as his mind replayed the kiss from Friday, adding one layer after another until he was almost afraid to close his eyes. The fever dreams followed him like a shadow. They were quick, unyielding, and vivid.

He thought of the first layer, the one where he'd found the courage to maneuver her leg around his waist, and breathed deeply. Then, he tried thinking it away, chanting, remembering the lessons he'd been taught in Kingdom Hall about desire and pleasure, how it wasn't meant to be done on your own, but only with someone you were married to, "lest you fall to greed".

He gripped the waistband of his pants. Raked his teeth at the corner of his mouth, tugged the waistband, and pulled away, letting it snap gently back into place.

He'd fallen to greed far too many times count. Would one more time be so bad?

"Yes," he murmured to himself out loud, hoping that it would convince his brain to reverse the blood rushing between his legs.

But like last time and the other dozen times before that, it didn't work. So, his mind wandered again, on to the next layer, the one where he'd been audacious enough to slip his hands higher beyond her thighs. Where he'd touched the waistband of her underwear then somehow, without faltering, had moved his hand downward. Curling his finger until he touched the gusset of her underwear and his knuckle was sliding between her—

The world was beginning to spin. It took him only moments to realize that between thinking about Kingdom Hall and Diana, his hand had taken full control and was doing the work for him, swiveling, twisting, swaying.

The thought to stop crossed his mind. But as his eyes rolled into the back of his head and his neck arched and his nostrils flared, he knew there was no turning back. He would just have to repent later—and resigned to his fate, he grabbed the blanket and placed it between his teeth, stifling the desperate, almost animalistic groans rumbling from his throat.

He gripped himself, clenching, crushing the blanket in the palm of his hand. His head angled toward the ceiling, eyes shut tight as he lost control, all inhibitions abandoned. Unashamed (at least for now), he thought of her like he'd done several times before, allowing himself to be as greedy as he wanted.

This time, lights danced against his eyelids, the tension, the frustration, the desire all releasing at once. He was a vulnerable, writhing mess, rolling against the couch. Even if he was in danger of being discovered, he let the moment take him, let his imagination and his pleasure run wild. He rode the wave, coasting until it calmed to a gentle rock.

Michael considered dozing off right there, his hands down his pajama pants, covered in his own essence, but after several seconds of staring at the ceiling, his mind an idle haze, his common sense returned.

He threw the blanket off. Quietly, but hurriedly, he made his way to the bathroom, cleaning up in the dark. He headed back to the couch as quickly as he'd left, tired and guilty, but clear-headed.

He'd ask for forgiveness another time. For now, he'd get the rest he deserved.