I got issues, but you got them too - Mike Wheeler
summary: Mikeâs a control freak. Youâre⊠not. So yeah, all that fighting? Itâs only a matter of time before hate turns into something way messierâand way harder to ignore.
warnings: enemies to lovers, explicit sexual content, degradation & hate sex, emotional angst, arguments, reckless behavior/near injury, all characters are 18+
wc:Â 5.6k
main masterlist | stranger things masterlist
You donât even remember how it starts.
One second youâre leaning against the counter in Dustinâs basement, half-listening to Max talk, the next Mikeâs voice cuts in, tight, precise, already irritated.
âCan you not do that?â
You look at him. Slowly. Deliberately.
âDo what?â you ask, even though you know exactly what he means.
Mike gestures vaguely toward the mess youâve left behind, your jacket tossed over a chair, your boots kicked off wherever they landed, the open soda can sweating onto a stack of old D&D books. His jaw tightens like it always does when things arenât where he thinks they should be.
âJustââ he exhales sharply. âLeave your stuff everywhere.â
You laugh, short and humorless. âOh my god. Iâve been here ten minutes.â
âThatâs not the point.â
âItâs always the point with you,â you snap, pushing off the counter. âEverything has to be exactly how you want it. Lined up. Clean. Controlled.â
Mikeâs eyes flick to you then, dark, sharp, familiar. Too familiar. Like heâs been watching you do things âwrongâ for years.
âSome of us like things not to be chaos all the time,â he says.
Max mutters, âUh-oh,â under her breath.
You tilt your head. âRight. Because Iâm chaos.â
âYou said it, not me.â
You step closer, invading his space without even thinking about it. âYouâve had a problem with me since day one, Mike. Donât pretend this is about a jacket.â
He straightens, matching your posture, refusing to back down. âMaybe because you donât take anything seriously.â
Your laugh this time is sharper. Meaner. âSays the guy who thinks the world will fall apart if someone breathes wrong.â
Lucas clears his throat. âGuysââ
âNo,â Mike cuts in, eyes never leaving yours. âShe just does whatever she wants and expects everyone else to deal with it.â
You feel it then, that familiar twist in your chest. The one that always shows up when he looks at you like that. Like youâre a problem to be solved instead of a person.
âAt least IÂ live,â you fire back. âYou just spend your whole life bracing for impact.â
His nostrils flare. âThatâs rich coming from someone who doesnât think before acting.â
âAnd you think too much,â you shoot back. âGod, youâre exhausting.â
For a second, the room goes quiet.
Dustin stares between you like heâs watching a tennis match. Will looks uncomfortable. Maxâs eyebrows are practically in her hairline.
Mike swallows. His voice is lower when he speaks again. âIf you hate me so much, why are you always here?â
The question lands heavier than it should.
âBecause this is my friend group too,â you say, jaw tight. âNot everything revolves around you, Mike.â
Something flashes in his eyes then, something hot and unreadable. Hurt, maybe. Or frustration. Or something neither of you want to name.
âWhatever,â he mutters, grabbing his jacket. âIâm going for a walk.â
He brushes past you, shoulder bumping yours just barely, but itâs enough. Electricity snaps between you, sharp and unwanted and familiar.
The door slams behind him.
The room exhales all at once.
Max looks at you. âSo⊠same time next week?â
Because all you can think about is the way Mike looked at you before he left.
And how much you hate that it still gets under your skin.
You werenât always part of them.
You came to Hawkins later, slipped into the town like an afterthought, like something the place hadnât planned for. A new house, a new routine, a life already shaped by things you never bothered explaining. By the time you arrived, they already had history stitched into their bones. Inside jokes. Shared trauma. A rhythm you werenât meant to interrupt.
It was Max who pulled you in first, easy, fearless, unapologetic. She liked the way you didnât ask permission to exist, the way you took up space without flinching. Lucas followed. Then Dustin, who talked too much and welcomed you like youâd always been there. Will was quieter, but kind. Observant.
Mike was the only one who didnât move.
From the beginning, he watched you like a variable he couldnât account for.
You were too loud in the wrong moments. Too careless. You laughed when things were tense, shrugged when things felt heavy, lived like the future wasnât something to be terrified of. You didnât organize yourself around fear. You didnât brace for disaster.
You noticed it immediately, the way his eyes tracked the mess you left behind, the way his shoulders tightened when plans changed last minute, the way he looked at you like you were a loose thread threatening to unravel everything he worked so hard to keep together.
A look. A sigh. A correction that felt unnecessary.
You pushed back without even trying. You hated being managed. Hated being told to slow down, be careful, think it through. Youâd already lived through enough to know that thinking didnât always save you.
Over nothing. Over everything.
The more time you spent with the group, the worse it got. You became unavoidable. Permanent. Your jacket on their chairs, your presence folded into their routines, your laughter echoing through rooms Mike thought he understood.
And somewhere along the way, the annoyance sharpened into something else.
Because for all the ways you were wrong to him, you were also impossible to ignore. Your recklessness terrified him because it mirrored the part of himself he kept locked down. And his need for control infuriated you because it looked too much like fear pretending to be logic.
You knew his tells. He knew yours.
You learned how to push each otherâs buttons with surgical precisionâhow to escalate without ever touching the real reason behind it. It was easier to argue than to admit the pull. Easier to call it hate than to acknowledge how his presence made your chest tighten, how his disapproval felt personal in a way no one elseâs ever did.
By the time anyone noticed, it was already too late.
The fighting wasnât random. It was ritual. Predictable. Inevitable.
You and Mike didnât just dislike each other.
And every time, it left a mark.
But what no one ever saw, what you refused to admit even to yourself, was how the fighting changed as you grew up.
Somewhere between arguments that used to end in slammed doors and arguments that ended in long silences, something shifted. Your bodies changed. Your voices deepened. The space between you started to feel charged instead of empty.
You noticed it first in moments that didnât make sense.
The way your stomach flipped when Mike stood too close.
The way your attention snagged on his hands, his jaw, the tension in his shoulders when he was trying not to lose control.
The way his eyes lingered a second too long when you walked into a room, like he was cataloging damage before it happened.
You told yourself it was just irritation. Just resentment. Just heat from arguing too much.
But irritation doesnât settle low in your stomach.
Resentment doesnât make your pulse trip.
Hate doesnât make you hyperaware of someoneâs breathing.
Every year, the fights got sharper. Less about rules and recklessness, more about you. About him watching you too closely. About you refusing to be managed. About neither of you backing down even when it wouldâve been easier to walk away.
Youâd catch him staring sometimes, when he thought you werenât looking. Jaw tight. Eyes dark. Like he was bracing himself against something he didnât want.
And youâd look back, defiant, heart pounding, daring him to say something.
That was how it started, not with a decision, not with an agreement, not with understanding. Just pressure. Years of it. Built up and unspoken and vibrating between you until one night it snapped.
No apologies followed. No conversations. No rules.
You didnât stop fighting.
You just started ending the fights differently.
Still angry. Still sharp. Still convinced you couldnât stand each other. But now there was something else underneath, something raw and reckless and impossible to pretend away.
So itâs no news when after another one of your fights Mike escaped his house basement right to his room hoping you would come up to finish it exactly how he liked it.
Surprise, surprise you storm into Mike's room without knocking, slamming the door behind you. He looks up from his computer, irritation flashing across his face before morphing into a smirk.
"Well, well, well. Look who decided to grace me with her presence."
"Shut up," you snap, advancing on him. "I didn't come here for your attitude."
He leans back in his chair, assessing you with a look that feels like a physical touch. "Then why did you come?"
You want to punch that smug look off his face. Instead, you yank him up by his shirt and crash your lips against his in a bruising kiss. He hesitates for a split second before kissing you back just as roughly, hands fisting in your hair.
You break away with a gasp, already tugging at his clothes. "I need it. I need you. Now."
Mike groans, helping you shove his pants down. "You're such a goddamn brat. So mouthy and disrespectful."
"Only because you piss me off," you pant, pushing him onto the bed and straddling his hips. His hard cock presses against your clothed pussy and you grind down on it, desperate for friction.
"Fuck, you're wet already." His fingers dig into your thighs as he bucks up against you. "Such a dirty girl, getting turned on by fighting with me."
"Shut up and fuck me, please" you taunt, leaning down to bite at his throat.
Mike flips you over onto your back, pinning your wrists above your head. "Gonna ruin this tight little cunt. Show you who's boss."
He rips your pants off and drives into you in one brutal thrust. You cry out, back arching off the bed as he pounds into your slick heat. It hurts so good, the way he stretches and fills you.
"Fucking take it," he snarls, angling his hips to hit that spot inside you that makes stars burst behind your eyelids. "This is what you need, isn't it? To be split open on my cock like a bratty little slut you are."
"Yes!" you scream, clenching around him. "Harder, Mike!"
He hammers into you, grunting with exertion. The headboard slams against the wall with each powerful thrust. "Look at you, desperate for my dick even though you hate me. Such a filthy little slut."
You meet his punishing rhythm with your own frantic bucking, chasing your release. "Shut the fuck up" you gasp out. "I hate you."
"You hate me so much but you fucking love it when I wreck this pussy, don't you?" He pistons in and out, sweat beading on his forehead. "Love feeling me use you like the bratty little toy you are."
"God! I'm so close, Mike! Don't stop!"
He leans down to bite at your neck, marking you, claiming you. "Come on my cock. Now. I want to feel this greedy cunt milk me dry."
The filthy words push you over the edge and you come with a scream, vision whiting out as ecstasy crashes through you. Mike follows right after, slamming home and emptying himself deep inside your spasming pussy with a guttural moan.
He collapses on top of you, both of you panting and twitching with aftershocks. You lay there for a moment, reveling in the feeling of his weight pressing you into the mattress.
Then reality comes crashing back and you push at his chest. "Get off me."
Mike rolls away with a frustrated sigh, tucking himself back into his pants. "Still a brat even when I'm balls deep inside you."
You stand up on shaky legs, pulling your clothes back on. "Better than being a control freak who can't stand anyone not doing exactly what you say."
He scoffs. "Someone's gotta keep order around here. Can't have everyone running wild."
"Spoken like a true asshole," you mutter.
Mike smirks at you, and there's a glint in his eye that makes your stomach flip. "But you love my asshole.
That's why you keep coming back for more."
You throw a pillow at his head and storm out, slamming the door behind you. But even as anger simmers in your veins, you can't ignore the throb between your legs. Or the way your heart races at the thought of doing it all over again.
Because for all the hate, there's something about Mike that gets under your skin. Something that makes you want to keep provoking him, keep pushing him until he snaps and takes what he wants.
And maybe that makes you just as bad as he thinks you are.
In public, nothing has changed.
Mike still corrects you in front of everyone, quiet, clipped, like heâs doing you a favor.
You still roll your eyes, still push back, still make a show of not caring.
âDo you ever think before you speak?â he snaps once, arms crossed, jaw tight.
You smile sweetly. Meanly. âDo you ever relax?â
The party groans. Max mutters something about dĂ©jĂ vu. Dustin looks between you like heâs watching a tennis match he didnât ask to attend.
Mike doesnât look at you after that.
But later, when everyoneâs distracted, when the room shifts and thins, your shoulder brushes his.
Except neither of you moves away.
The contact lasts half a second too long.
He clears his throat and steps back like heâs been burned.
Mike hates when youâre late.
Hates when you change plans.
Hates when you donât text back fast enough.
âYou canât just disappear,â he says one night, voice low, controlled, too controlled.
You laugh, but itâs sharp around the edges. âI donât belong to you.â
âI didnât say that.â
âYou didnât have to.â
Thatâs when the silence hits. Thick. Charged. Dangerous.
Youâre standing too close. You always stand too close when youâre mad.
Mike notices everything, your breathing, your hands, the way your chin tilts like youâre daring him to say one more word.
Instead, his eyes flick to your mouth.
It feels like losing a step on the stairs, like your body realizes something your brain refuses to process.
But Mike grabs your wrist as you try to walk away. He yanks you back against his chest, a hand fisting in your hair.
"I didn't say we were done."
His breath is hot on your neck, his grip tight enough to sting.
You struggle for a second before stilling, heart pounding. "Let go of me."
He doesn't. Instead, he spins you around and crashes his mouth to yours in a brutal kiss. It's all teeth and tongue and anger, a clash of lips and breaths and violence.
You kiss him back just as hard, one hand fisting in his shirt while the other claws at his shoulder. He groans into your mouth, the sound low and hungry, and his hand tightens in your hair until it's almost painful.
When he finally breaks away, you're both panting. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide with want. He takes a step back, releasing you abruptly.
It's a command, not a request. His voice is rough, gravelly, dripping with lust.
For a second, you debate defying him. Just to see how far you can push.
But then he looks at you like that, like he wants to devour you whole, and you can't help but obey.
You sink to your knees in front of him, head tilted back to meet his gaze. Your hands go to his belt, fingers fumbling with the buckle. Mike watches you with heavy-lidded eyes, absently palming himself through his jeans.
When you get his pants open, he springs free, thick and hard and already leaking at the tip. Your mouth waters at the sight.
You wrap a hand around his base, giving him a slow pump. He groans, hips twitching forward into your grip. "Fuck, just like that."
You ignore him, ducking forward to run your tongue along his length. Tasting him, teasing him. Mike curses under his breath, fingers threading through your hair.
The first time you take him into your mouth, he bucks against your face. The second time, he holds you there, guiding your head up and down his shaft with a bruising rhythm.
You take him deeper each time, until your nose is pressed against his groin and he's hitting the back of your throat. It makes you gag a little, tears pricking at your eyes, but you don't stop.
You can't stop. Not when he's looking at you like that, like you're the only thing in the world that matters.
Not when his hand in your hair is the only thing grounding you.
So you take him deeper. Harder. Until he's fucking your face with abandon, hips slapping against your chin.
Until drool is dripping down your chin and your jaw is aching and your eyes are streaming.
And even then, you don't stop.
Not until he's shaking above you, cursing and twisting his fingers in your hair as he comes down your throat. Not until you've milked every last drop from him and he's slumping back against the wall, chest heaving.
Only then do you sit back on your heels, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand.
Mike stares down at you, eyes hazy and unfocused. He looks wrecked. And it's because of you.
The thought sends a thrill through you. A heady rush of power.
He looks at you like he wants to eat you alive. Like he wants to fuck you again right here on the floor.
But then he looks away, and you remember.
This is just two people who hate each other, finding ways to hurt and wound each other even when they're buried inside one another's bodies.
And as Mike tucks himself away and straightens his clothes, you can't help but wonderâwhen does the hate stop feeling so good?
After that, things get worse.
Mike gets quieter around you, but more intense. Like heâs holding himself together with sheer will.
You get bolder. Louder. Reckless on purpose, because some part of you wants to see how far you can push before he breaks.
You donât talk about what happens behind closed doors.
Just looks that linger too long.
Just arguments that end with you both breathing harder than necessary.
Once, you catch him watching someone else talk to youâreally watching. His jaw tight. His leg bouncing. His hand clenched like heâs holding onto something invisible.
Later, you tease him for being quiet.
âI donât care who you talk to,â he says too quickly.
You raise a brow. âDidnât ask.â
The lie hangs between you.
You both pretend not to see it.
The worst moments are the quiet ones.
Like when youâre sitting on the floor, back against the couch, and Mike hands you a drink without looking at you, already knowing what you like.
Like when he fixes something for you without being asked.
Like when you laugh at something stupid and his face softens before he remembers himself.
Those moments scare you more than the fighting ever did.
After, you donât stay, you never do.
After, he doesnât ask you to.
You pass each other like nothing happened.
Still sharp. Still sarcastic. Still pretending.
âThis doesnât mean anything,â you say one night, more to yourself than to him.
Mike nods. Too fast. âYeah. I know.â
You believe it because you need to.
Because admitting otherwise would mean admitting youâre not in control anymore.
And Mike Wheeler hates nothing more than losing control.
But the truth lingers, in every almost-touch, every look held too long, every moment that feels too intimate to be nothing.
And the lie, weâre fine like this, is starting to sound thinner every time you say it.
The idea starts the way most bad ideas do.
Dustin, sitting cross-legged on the floor with a map spread out like he actually knows how to read it.
âThereâs this spot,â he says, tapping a finger dramatically. âRiver, small waterfalls, cliff jumpsââ
âNo,â Mike says immediately, not even looking up from tying his shoes.
ââperfect for camping,â Dustin finishes, ignoring him.
Max grins. âCliff jumps? Iâm in.â
Mike finally looks up. âAbsolutely not.â
You glance over from where youâre stuffing clothes into a backpack, eyebrow raised. âYou donât even know how high it is yet.â
âI donât need to,â he says. âThe answer is still no.â
Lucas snorts. âYou realize youâre not the boss of the trip, right?â
Mike glares at him. âSomeone has to be the responsible one.â
Will, quietly rolling up a sleeping bag, mutters, âWeâve survived worse.â
That earns him a look from Mike. You bite back a smile.
The drive out feels like muscle memory.
Windows down. Music too loud. Dustin and Lucas arguing about who forgot the marshmallows. Maxâs feet on the dashboard until Mike tells her, again, to put them down.
You sit in the back, shoulder brushing Willâs, watching trees blur past and feeling that familiar sense of belonging. You werenât here at the beginning. You know that. But youâre here now, and somehow, that makes it sweeter.
When you pull up to the clearing near the river, everyone spills out at once.
âShotgun tents,â Max declares.
âThatâs not a thing,â Mike says, already unloading gear with practiced precision.
You hop down last, stretching, eyes immediately drawn to the sound of rushing water nearby. Itâs louder than you expected. Closer.
Dustin notices your stare. âWait until you see it.â
Setting up camp is chaos in the most familiar way.
Lucas insists he knows how to pitch a tent. He does not.
Dustin tries to help and somehow makes it worse.
Will quietly fixes it while no oneâs looking.
Mike moves around the campsite like heâs conducting an orchestra, adjusting tent stakes, reorganizing coolers, muttering under his breath when things arenât aligned just right.
âYou know,â you say casually, crouching to help Max with the firewood, âif you relax your shoulders maybe a centimeter, the world wonât end.â
Mike shoots you a look. âIf I donât do it, no one will.â
âYouâre welcome to not do it,â you reply lightly.
He scoffs. âAnd let things be a mess?â
Max smirks. âYouâre proving her point, Wheeler.â
He opens his mouth to argue, then stops. Glares. Walks away.
You grin into your sleeve.
As the sun dips lower, the group settles in, snacks passed around, laughter echoing off the rocks, Dustin telling a story heâs already told three times like itâs brand new.
The river glints in the fading light.
You wander closer, peering over the edge of the path that leads down to the water. Itâs beautiful. Wild. A little dangerous.
Behind you, Mikeâs voice tightens.
You glance back. âDonât what?â
You tilt your head, pretending innocence. âI donât know what youâre talking about.â
He watches you like heâs bracing for impact. âI know you.â
You smile, not unkind, not teasing. Just honest. âThatâs the problem.â
The sound of the river swells between you.
Not crashing, not violent, but constant. White water spilling over smooth rock, mist hanging in the air, the kind of place that makes everything feel bigger than it is. You love it instantly. The height. The drop. The way the water churns below like itâs daring you.
âYouâre not seriously thinking about that,â he says, already tense, already scanning the edge like he can calculate every possible outcome if he looks hard enough.
You grin, toes curling over wet stone. âRelax. People do this all the time.â
âThatâs not comforting.â
You glance back at him, hair damp, eyes bright. Reckless. Unapologetic.
Everything that drives him insane.
âItâs not fine,â he snaps. âYou donât know how deep it is. You donât know whatâs under there. You could slip, you could hit somethingââ
You roll your eyes. âYou worry too much.â
The cold hits first. Sharp. Stealing your breath.
You plunge deeper than you expect, your feet clipping rock hard enough to send a jolt of pain up your legs. The current twists you for half a second, disorienting, knocking the air out of your lungs.
No splash coming back up.
Seconds stretch. One. Two. Three.
âHeyââ His voice cracks. âHey!â
He doesnât think. Doesnât plan. Doesnât care whoâs watching.
The jump is clumsy, desperate. Water swallows him whole as he dives, eyes stinging, limbs burning as he searches blindly. Panic is a physical thing nowâtight in his chest, roaring in his ears.
You break the surface coughing, sputtering, pain written all over your face. Hands clawing at the water like youâre trying to remember how breathing works.
Mike reaches you in two strokes.
âIâve got you,â he says, voice shaking, hands gripping your arms too tight. âIâve got youâhey, hey, look at me. Breathe. Just breathe.â
You cough again, water spilling from your mouth as he drags you toward the rocks, hauling you up and out with strength you didnât know he had. Youâre trembling. Heâs shaking harder.
The party is there now, voices overlapping, someone asking if youâre okay, someone else staring like theyâve just seen a ghost.
Mike doesnât hear any of it.
âWhat the hell were you thinking?â he snaps, but his voice breaks halfway through. âDo you have any ideaâany idea what couldâve happened?â
Your feet throb. Your chest burns. You look up at him, dazed. âIâm okay.â
âYou werenât,â he says immediately. âYou werenât coming up.â
His hands are still on you, your arms, your waist, like if he lets go youâll disappear. His jaw clenches, eyes glassy with something that looks terrifyingly close to tears.
âDonât do that,â he says, quieter now. âPlease. Donât ever do that again.â
Because this isnât control.
âI canâtââ He swallows hard. âI canât watch you do this to yourself. I canât keep pretending I donât care when every stupid, reckless thing you do feels like it might be the one that takes you away.â
The words spill out before he can stop them.
âI canât lose you.â
Silence crashes down around you.
Your heart stutters, not from adrenaline this time, but from the weight of hearing it out loud. The thing you both refused to name, finally dragged into the open.
Mike realizes what heâs said the second it leaves his mouth. He freezes.
And then he leans in and kisses you.
His lips are warm, steady, like heâs grounding himself in the fact that youâre here. Alive. Real. Your hands curl into his shirt without thinking, and for a moment the world narrows down to the sound of water and the feeling of being held.
Somewhere behind you, someone gasps.
Dustinâs voice cuts through the quiet later, delighted and smug. âPay up.â
Lucas groans. A twenty-dollar bill changes hands.
The campsite is quieter now. Night creeping in. Youâre curled in your sleeping bag inside the tent, legs aching, body exhausted in that bone-deep way only fear can leave behind.
Mike ducks inside, careful, hesitant, like heâs not sure heâs allowed to be here.
âYou okay?â he asks softly.
You nod. âYeah. Just sore.â
He exhales, sitting beside you. His knee brushes yours. Neither of you moves away.
âI meant what I said,â he admits, staring at the tent wall. âAbout not being able to lose you.â
Your chest tightens. âI know.â
You turn toward each other slowly, like sudden movement might shatter something fragile.
âI donât hate you,â you say finally. âI think⊠I was just scared to admit how much I cared.â
Mike lets out a quiet, shaky laugh. âYeah. Me too.â
His hand finds yours. This time, it doesnât let go.
You stare at each other across the narrow space of the tent, hands still entwined. The air feels heavy with all the things left unspoken, all the fears and longings tangled up inside you both.
Mike leans closer, thumb rubbing slow circles on your palm. "I don't want to fight anymore," he says softly.
Your heart stutters. "What are you saying?"
He reaches out with his other hand to cup your cheek. "That I can't do this anymore. The back-and-forth, the anger, the pushing each other away. It's not what I want."
You lean into his touch, eyes fluttering shut. "Me neither."
Mike exhales, the sound shaky. "I love you," he whispers. "I have for a long time. I was just too stupid and stubborn to admit it."
Tears prick at your eyes and you open them to look at him. He's so close, his breath warm against your face. "I love you too," you confess. "Even when I hate you, I love you."
He laughs, soft and sweet, and then he's kissing you. It's a gentle kiss, barely more than a brush of lips, but it sends sparks racing through your veins.
Mike pulls back after a moment, searching your face. "Can I stay with you tonight? Just to hold you? I don't want to be alone."
You nod, tugging him down beside you in the sleeping bag. He comes willingly, wrapping his arms around you and tucking your head against his chest.
You both sigh as you settle together, limbs twining, bodies fitting perfectly despite the small space. Mike strokes your hair, his fingers a soothing pressure against your scalp.
"Thank you for not giving up on me," he murmurs. "Even when I made it hard."
"You're worth it," you say back. "We both are."
He makes a quiet noise of agreement, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. You can feel the thrum of his heartbeat beneath your ear, slow and steady.
The rest of the world falls away. The fear, the uncertainty, the anger. None of it matters in this moment, with Mike's arms around you and his breath in your hair.
Here, in this tent, it's just the two of you.
Mike kisses you again, and this time it's deeper, full of all the pent-up emotion that's been building between you. You melt into him, hands roaming over his body, feeling the heat of his skin through his shirt.
He breaks away with a gasp, forehead pressed to yours. "If we keep going like this, I don't think I'll be able to stop."
You nip at his bottom lip. "Then don't."
He groans, hands tightening on your hips. "You're going to be the death of me."
"But what a way to go," you tease.
He laughs breathlessly, capturing your mouth in another searing kiss. His hands slip under your shirt, calloused palms gliding over your skin.
You shiver at the touch, arching into him. Mike takes the hint, tugging your shirt off and tossing it aside before attacking your neck with open-mouthed kisses.
You tangle your fingers in his hair, pulling him closer, desperate for more contact. Your free hand slides down his stomach to palm him through his pants.
Mike curses against your skin, hips rocking into your touch. "Fuck, baby, if you keep that up I'm going to come in my pants like a teenager."
"Promises, promises," you tease.
He growls, a low rumble in his chest. In one swift motion, he flips you onto your back and settles between your thighs.
You gasp at the sudden change in position, heart hammering against your ribs. Mike just smirks down at you, a wicked glint in his eye.
"You're so beautiful," he says softly, tracing your jaw with his fingers. "I can't believe I ever thought I could live without you."
Your breath catches, tears springing to your eyes. "I never want to know what that feels like."
"Then don't." He leans down to kiss you again, sweet and slow. "Stay with me. Stay forever."
"Yes," you breathe against his lips. "Always yes."
He grins, bright and brilliant, and kisses you again. This time it's deeper, hotter, full of all the love and passion and hunger that's been building between you.
You surrender to it completely, letting him take control, trusting him to give you pleasure as only he can.
Because this is Mike. Your Mike. The boy who makes you laugh and drives you crazy and fills up every empty space inside you until you feel whole.
And right now, in this tent under the stars, that's all that matters.
