Reluctantly You (Our Exception Book 3)

Mitch

Ican hear him snoring softly in the other room, his presence overwhelming, stifling. I hate that he’s here because he thinks that I’m going to off myself, but I can’t help the twinge in my chest that someone cares enough about me to stay. To make sure I’m okay.

Not even my brothers did that.

They’d never do that.

That’s not how we operate, which is why I didn’t reach out when I knew I was at an all-time low. That’s not something we express or discuss. We’re men, we just deal with it, stuff it down and repress. And to be honest, I don’t know if they even like me enough to come.

In a matter of weeks, I’ve been reduced to nothing, a rock bottom of sorts.

I’ve never been this depressed before.

I’ve suffered from lows, the abject disgust with my thoughts, my feelings, my yearnings. I know it’s not at all what my parents would want, not my mom and especially not my dad.

But he’s not my dad anymore. What do I care what he thinks?

I rub at my eyes, punch my pillow and turn to my side.

I shouldn’t care. He’s not even related to me and he abandoned me after all this time. He should be dead to me. And yet still, I yearn. I yearn for the approval I’ve never gotten, for someone to love me just as I am, anger and all.

Damnit. I can’t fucking sleep.

Little Shit doesn’t have that problem though. It’s snoozing on my pillow, purring loudly and drooling.

I should probably give it a nicer name, but honestly, I can’t be bothered. I don’t really give a shit. It’s fitting.

I snort at the thought and then sit up, walking into the kitchen to grab some water. I see Gideon asleep on the sofa, his large form draped across the cushions. He’s wearing a thin shirt that accentuates the lean muscles in his chest and arms, and I can’t help that my eyes drag down to his groin, where I can see the outline of his cock through the fabric.

I tear my gaze away and make my way quietly to the kitchen, grabbing a cup and filling it with water from the tap. I could have done this in my bathroom, but here I am, trying like hell to keep it together and failing miserably.

I don’t like him. He’s taken my life away from me, and he’s even been cruel about it. And yet my eyes still see what’s in front of me and something aches deep inside of my chest.

But I’m not…

I can’t be…

I glug the rest of the water down and then refill it, making my way over to the living room and stopping where he sleeps. My eyes scour him, lapping up every detail, storing it away for later. Something I can use against him, I whisper to myself, but really, my mind knows better.

My heart does too.

He was there to help pull me out of that dark hole, the spiral I was drowning in. The walk, the bath, the company, it all helped ground me and bring me back to the living.

I shuffle back to my room and slide under the covers, pulling out my phone and messaging each of my brothers. Magnus too. I don’t know why, or if I’ve been subconsciously thinking of doing this for some time. I don’t even expect a response, but I send it anyway.

I miss you.

I wake up to the sound of my phone buzzing. Sitting up quickly, Little Shitty Pants meows at me in frustration. By moving, I’ve disturbed its sleep. Apparently, I’m to lie here for the next hundred years until I’m permitted to move.

“You invaded my home, you can deal,” I snark as I swipe at my phone and stare down at it.

Magnus. Oh fuck. He messaged me back.

My heart thumps, my chest squeezing.

Magnus

I’m not sure if I’m hallucinating from the mushrooms Sem put in my pasta last night or my oldest brother just messaged to say he misses me.

I blink down at it. He replied. Out of all my brothers, he replied.

I don’t know what to do, frozen here in my bed, staring at my screen.

I should reply back, but what if I say the wrong thing? What if I ruin it all over again?

Little Shitty Pants stares at me, and I rub under its chin. I should probably find out if its a boy or a girl. Not that it matters. It’s a cat after all—but just in case.

“What should I do?” I whisper.

It just stares up at me and yawns.

“Mitchell?” Gideon calls out. “You up?”

“Yeah, I’m fucking up,” I grumble and walk out into the other room, just as the blender turns on. I stare at my boss, his hair slightly mussed, his clothes rumpled as the machine churns loudly behind him. He looks…good. Warm. Inviting.

Nothing that I want. Nothing at all.

When the blender is done, he pours the green concoction into two cups and hands one to me.

“Get changed. We’re leaving in ten.”

“Yeah, yeah,” I murmur.

I sip at the smoothie as I make my way back into the bedroom. It’s good, healthy, something I’d normally make for myself. I hate that he’s here doing this for me, that he’s here at all, but I still change my clothes and make my way out to his expensive car. I bite my tongue, not saying anything about the vehicle with the plush leather seats and the fancy screen. What he buys is not my business. None of it is.

“Do you play basketball?” Gideon asks as he pulls out of my driveway and drives us to the gym.

“Sure, but only if you like losing,” I reply back.

Gideon lets out a small, dark chuckle. “We’ll see about that. I never lose.”

“Yeah, there’s a first time for everything,” I say as I pull my phone out and stare at the screen. I’m still not sure what to say back to Magnus.

The message sits there, taunting me, teasing me, and Gideon must see it in the set of my lips because he asks, “What? What’s that face for?”

“Nothing,” I reply, flicking my phone off. I don’t want to tell him my insecurities, my fears. I already disclosed far too much last night. What must he think of me?

That I’m a pussy, weak and afraid.

We ride in silence, my body clenched tightly, squirming with the need to say something, to tell someone something.

Fuck it. He already hates me. What’s one more point against me?

“I messaged my brothers last night. Magnus is the only one to respond. I haven’t talked to him in years.”

Gideon’s thumbs tap on the steering wheel. “Hm.”

“I was a shit brother back then, but now, I don’t know what to say,” I admit, feeling suddenly small. I hate how I always feel like this around Gideon, that somehow he brings it out in me. Or maybe I’m just a small man and that’s to be my legacy.

I sure as fuck hope not.

“Well, I’ve always said, the truth never hurts and a good apology works as well.”

“Yeah?” I ask, my voice tinged with snark. “You like to apologize, huh?”

He peers over at me. “When warranted.”

He doesn’t apologize to me for all the shit he spewed at me though, just parks the car and gets out without a backward glance. I follow along, his words ringing in my ears. He may not practice what he preaches, but he’s not wrong. I should apologize.

As we shove our things in lockers, I quickly type out a response, hoping that I don’t regret it later.

Me

You’re not hallucinating. I’m sorry for being an asshole.

I don’t know what else to say, I don’t like any of these feelings cropping up inside of me. So, I shove my phone away and stride out to the court.

Gideon is a better basketball player than he’s led me to believe. His body is quick and nimble, moving the ball around the court with a precision even I can’t manage. I’m winded and frustrated thirty minutes into the game, my heart rate picking up dramatically as he pushes his chest into mine, his strong, sweat-covered body pressed so damn close to me.

“This isn’t the fucking NBA,” I murmur, and he winks at me.

“I know, but you just kinda suck at basketball.”

My eyes narrow, and I feel rage pool in my belly, hating that he’s better at this than me, that he domineers me not only in the office, but on the court, too.

“Don’t be such a sore loser,” he says, shoving me with the basketball.

I grab it, my fingers skimming his, and I feel something flare inside of me, deep inside my skin. Something that makes me shift and itch, a need buried so deeply, I can’t fucking think.

Yesterday, I was comatose with sadness, and now I’m back to just being angry.

Better that than dead, I suppose.

“I’m not a loser,” I spit.

“Hm, isn’t looking that way right now,” he says with another one of those smug grins.

I frown and shove at him, our sneakers skidding loudly on the floor.

He chuckles, and I do it again, trying to best him with my strength. But he outmaneuvers me, putting me in a headlock, the basketball casually slung under his other arm.

“You give up?” he asks, and I sock him in the stomach. It’s rock hard, the abdominal muscles flexing where my fist lands. Fuck, I can’t even get him there. He’s impenetrable.

I do it again, and again.

Suddenly, the ball drops and he kicks my feet out from underneath me. I fall onto my ass, my back hitting the hard floor, and then he’s on top of me, his hand around my neck, his knees pressing into my thighs. He’s put me in this position before, and I find myself blushing, my chest heaving. My fingers wrap around his wrist, but I don’t remove it. I don’t want to remove it.

“When will you learn?” he asks, his fingers flexing against my pulse point. I can feel the embarrassment bleed through my skin.

And then I feel it. The hardness of my cock, pushing against my athletic shorts.

Fuck. Fuck!

I try and move away, but he’s still on me, restraining me. He has to feel the pounding of my heart in my throat, has to know what this is doing to me. He has to see it, too. It’s so obvious.

Something deep and feral slips up my spine, and I find my lips parted in a low groan.

His lips twitch at the sound, but he doesn’t say a word. He just pulls off me, hopping onto his feet and running a hand through his hair. Then he grabs the basketball while I stand up, adjusting my cock and cursing him for being such an asshole.

“Alright, another game? Or do you forfeit?”

I want to quit, want to walk out with my shoulders slumped and my dignity vaguely intact. But I can’t take that smug smirk, knowing he’s bested me.

He aggressively tosses the ball at me, and I catch it in my trembling hands. We get back to the game, our bodies brushing as we move, the ball bouncing off the floor and swooshing through the net. When we’re done an hour later, both of us are sweating and panting. He still kicked my ass, but I gave it to him good. He had to work for those points.

“Good game.”

“Fuck off.”

We shower in the locker rooms, my cock very aware that he’s right next to me. Not that I look. I can hear the scrape of the shampoo on his scalp, the squelch of the soap on his skin. I imagine the suds sliding down his body and swirling down the drain.

I turn slightly to keep my erection away from his eyes while he flaunts his body for everyone to see. He’s hung, long and thick, half hard, the length pressed out from his body. And his chest is sculpted, as are his arms and legs. A work of art. I don’t blame him for showing off.

“Care to take a picture?” he asks when he catches me peeking while we get dressed.

“Fuck off. Just wondering how long it’s going to take you to get ready. That’s all.”

He scoffs and pulls on a pair of boxer briefs.

“You know,” he says as he sprays some deodorant on his pits. I can smell it, a tangy, masculine scent. It makes my cock positively throb. “If you were anyone else, I’d think you want to suck my dick.”

My cheeks flame, and I glance away. “Fuck off. I do not.”

He chuckles and pulls on a clean shirt.

“Yeah, I know, who am I kidding? It’s you. You’re not gay.” He smirks at me and then pulls on his pants. “And anyway, even if you were, you’re not my type.”

I grab on to the handle of my gym bag tightly. “Thank fuck for that. I’ll see you outside. Smells like shit in here.”

He grins at me as I turn my back and stomp out. Suck his dick? Not on his fucking life.

I don’t do that. I don’t suck cock, and I sure as fuck won’t be sucking his.