blackheart ➵ m. clifford

➵ fifteen

➵ jett

"Me too," He breathed, his fingers clasped in front of my abdomen as his eyes drank in our reflection. "Just about you."

I remembered how his entire body had tensed, and how his eyes had slipped closed as he buried his head in the crook of my shoulder. What Michael didn't realise was that his words had flipped a switch inside me, and I had the idiotically late brainwave that every single one of my efforts to push Michael away was absolutely for nothing. Really, what did I have to lose? My sanity? That was far too much of a distance away for me to even try to grasp. My heart? He already had it, so what was the point of trying to get it back when he had his grip fastened around it. I was stupidly and pathetically crushing on Michael Clifford and there was absolutely no way that I could stop that.

Not after watching him fall apart beneath my fingertips.

I was far, far beyond flattered at the state of him as his hands caressed my body, eliciting gasps from my chest that were beyond silent and seemed to fill the entire room as he treated my body like I was art within myself. He had worked the nervousness right from my bones, creating a burn below my belly button as his fingers traced the outline of the pretty swirls of pink lace that rested beneath my jeans. When his fingertips trailed across my shoulders and traced the dip between them, I knew that Michael would never be something as simple as a friend.

Months and months of thinking about this boy, seeing him in my most vivid and magical dreams, had lead me to believe that Michael was a creature of magic, to be more specific, the magic that my brain conjured up with all the pretty colours that came up on that MRI scan. And he was, God, was Michael magical. He was kindhearted and humorous, and he was a talented boy who just happened to have a beautiful face. After just months, Michael had learned more about me than I had learned about myself in seventeen years. He paid attention and he adored everything he learned. He treasured his knowledge like it was sacred to him, and maybe it was. Maybe Michael knew more about me than I ever would about him.

My hand snaked down under the duvet, and I felt him flinch as I inched his jeans down his thighs, until he could kick them off himself. I lay back against his chest, my own pressed against his side as I tucked my head under his chin. Catching in his throat was his breath, already haggard as he looped his arm around my waist and ran his fingers over the fabric of my shirt. His chest was heaving, and I could hear it in his lungs that he was trying to calm himself down. A whimper left his mouth as I pushed his boxers down just enough, not daring to look under the covers for the fear that he would get even more embarrassed.

He was hot in my hand, and wet from the ridge to the tip, where dribbles of I don’t know what were leaving his skin slick. I could feel his abdomen tighten as I cupped him, his jaw going slack as I slowly moved my fingers to the root. My fingers wrapped around the thickness of it, and with one stroke came another, and another, his fingers were weaving through my hair and strangled sounds were falling from his plump, red lips. He was wriggling against the sheets, his spine jolting off the bed as my fingertips rubbed against the dip under the head. His legs fell open against mine as my thumb brushed a circle over the liquid that beaded at the tip, and I crushed my thighs together to stop the flush between them as I listened to every desperate sound that fell from him.

My name cascaded out from between his lips with a moan and a hoarse please as he pleaded for me to move faster. His fingers tightened in my hair, pulling gently on the roots and he became an absolute mess beneath me. I wanted to watch his face, pulling myself up on to one hand to hover above him. His face was pale, his Adam’s apple bouncing with every groan and he looked like he was about to pass out. His teeth sank into his lower lip, and his eyes locked with mine as my lips parted, intrigued by his expression as he began to gasp for breath, his hand moved down to clutch my shirt in his fist. My ears felt like they were fine-tuned to every noise he made, from the high-pitched whimpers to the deep groans that rumbled his entire chest, and they twitched as a long, low sound tore through his throat. His expression changed, his jaw falling right open and his head rolling back onto the pillow. Red hair was sticking up in every direction, some of it lying flat against his forehead, plastered with sweat, and his eyes were squeezed shut as his body started to shudder. His fist began to clench my shirt so tight that the material was pulled taut over my chest, and his moans became muffled as he pressed his teeth to his lip and a noise that sounded an awful lot like a choked sob ripped through him.