Find My Way Home [m×m; mpreg]

fifteen

My nose scrunches up a bit as I feel warm breath fan over my heated face, soft lips brushing against mine.  The furrow to my brow is smoothed away, a soft voice whispering my name reverently.  I moan tiredly, burying my face in the pillow.  It's hot, so hot.

"Ian," I mumble breathily, "Ian."

I gasp awake, sitting up in bed with my heart racing just so.  My body is covered in a thin sheen of sweat, my lips tingling.  My erection strains against the confines of my jeans and I close my thighs together in embarrassment until I realize that I'm alone.

I raise my fingers to my lips, tracing them as my eyes close.

That dream... that voice.

A shiver runs down my body.

And I'm painfully aware that it was just that, a dream.

I sigh when the illusion breaks as my stomach growls, the hunger pangs a reminder of skipping out on lunch and dinner.

But it's then that my eyes narrow in suspicion when I catch a whiff of food.

I glance toward the night table and I find my self crawling to the edge of the bed where I reach for the plate.  I dig in immediately, humming and moaning at the delicious tastes exploding on my tongue.  For a moment forgetting the pleasure I felt minutes ago with the welcomed distraction.

But just as I'm on my third bite, an amused voice startles me, "Glad to know you like it."

I glance toward the door and glare at my brother who's leaning casually against the the frame of the entrance.

"It's good, thanks," I mumble, shifting discreetly where I sit and trying to hide my hard on from view.

"Here, I brought you some juice," he smiles.

I reach out, making grabby hands for the glass but refusing to move.

He raises a brow, but approaches the bed nontheless.

"What?  Can't walk now?"

I roll my eyes and exaggerate a cough, "'m still sick."

He looks at me, his brown eyes peering straight into mine.  His expression is one of seriousness, it's the poker face he uses for conducting business, the one that doesn't give anything away.

And I'm suddenly feeling warmer. 

My cheeks heat up and my breath hitches in my throat as I look away.

I shouldn't have said that.

I shouldn't have reminded him of what happened, what I did.

"We need to talk," he whispers, voice soft but firm.

"No, I don't think so," I refute.

"It's not about what you think, Morgan, it's abou-"

"How about we forget about it?" I interrupt quickly, "Please."

"Morgan," he sighs.

"Please," I beg, voice cracking and on the brink of tears.

He caves.

His hand reaches out and he cups my cheek before reluctantly agreeing, "Okay, but we will talk about this, just not... not today."

I feel like I can breathe a easier, the grip on my heart loosening bit by bit.

"Thank you," I smile tentatively, grabbing the cup and taking a sip.

"Eat," he smiles back, "then come downstairs, let's have a movie marathon."

"Okay."

He closes the door when he leaves and I scramble out of bed.

I place the plate on top of the covers and the glass on the nightstand before I hurry toward the bathroom. 

Once in there, I close the door and press my back against it, breathing harshly as I reach for my aching cock inside my sweats.

A small choked moan rips from my throat, my eyes fluttering closed as pleasure wracks through my body.

"Fuck," I curse softly, back arching when I finally spill.

And I wonder how I'm going to survive this week, let alone this night.