Michael Finally Grows Up © 2006 by Rowan McBride. All rights reserved. This story may not be reproduced in whole or in part without author's permission.

*****

I sat in front of my blank canvas, waiting to be inspired.

"Omigod! What time is it?"

My mouth crooked. "Relax, sleeping beauty. You're not late for work."

On the other side of the room, I heard Michael shift around on the couch. "Avery?"

Keeping balance on my stool, I leaned to the side just in time to see him sit up. "Here."

He smiled, brilliantly. "Good morning."

"Morning," I said, straightening to look at my canvas again.

"Did you sleep well?"

I picked up a brush, twirled it around in my fingers as I remembered our journey from the floor to the couch. "About the same."

His voice softened. "You didn't push me off of you like you usually do."

The brush stilled in my hand. He... He knew I did that to him? Why hadn't he said anything before today? Why wasn't he upset?

Because I didn't want the answers, I forced my tone light. "Yeah, well, pushing you off would have landed you on the floor. Figured you had enough of that yesterday."

"You caught the worst of that. Did I make it up to you?"

I cocked an eyebrow, but kept my gaze on the canvas. "I'd say so."

"You're sure? We were only able to make love two times." Embarrassment crept into his voice. "Well, two and a half times, I guess. Sorry about that."

He'd had a personal best last night and was still ashamed. "Hey, you came through on that 'half,' sucking me off." I leaned to the side again. "Where'd you learn to do that thing with your tongue, anyway?"

Michael crossed his arms and leaned against the back of the couch. "Spent a lot of time fantasizing about all the different ways I wanted to drink you." He laid his head on his arms. "I love the taste of you. Just had to have it."

I saw him there—smiling innocently, talking dirty—and the brush twitched in my hand. "Think you can hold that pose for a while?"

His brow furrowed. "What?"

"So I can paint your portrait."

He made some kind of... squeaking noise before ducking out of sight.

Jesus. You'd think I'd pointed a camera at him, he'd dropped so fast. "Fine," I said, returning my attention to the canvas. "Whatever."

"Avery, you mad at me?"

"No, I'm used to it." I painted a swirl of gold against the white. "You'd better get your ass in the shower, though, or you really will be late for work."

He jumped up, and I caught a flash of nude skin just before he disappeared into the bathroom. Shaking my head, I studied my paints, my palette, searching for just the right color. Not finding it, I set on creating my own.

Barely noticed when the shower turned off. Was a lot harder to miss Michael running back into the room with only his slacks on, though.

"Avery!"

My body jerked and my head snapped up. "What's wrong?"

He skid to a stop in front of me, thrust his chest forward. "Look!"

His nipples were begging at me, so I put down my brush and gave them a tweak. "Nice."

Michael's entire body shuddered with pleasure, which took me by surprise. Usually he wasn't nearly so responsive.

After taking a deep breath, he seemed to come back to his senses. "No. Look."

Sighing, I leaned closer. It took me a few seconds, but I spotted what had him so worked up. "You have a hair." Without thinking, I plucked it from his skin. "There, all smooth again."

I glanced up. "What?"

"You pulled it out!" He snatched the hair out of my fingers, cradled it in his hand like it was a diamond. "I can't believe you did that."

"Wasn't that what you wanted me to do?"

He met my gaze, his brown eyes brimming with tears. "It was my first chest hair."

Those tears had me sliding off my stool, grasping his shoulders. Although I'd fucked up a lot with Michael over the years, I'd almost never made him cry. I didn't do well with that kind of emotion, and so I scrambled to set things on track. "I'm sorry. I didn't realize."

His breath hitched, and my hands went to cup his face, as if that could stem the coming tide. "Hey hey. If you pluck one, two grow back in its place."

Michael's face lit with hope. "R-Really?"

In a flash, I realized I'd just fucked up again. "Ah hell." I dropped my forehead against his. "I have no idea. But you'll probably get more."

"It took me twenty-eight years to get this one," he murmured, and the first tear slipped down his cheek.

His gaze started to dip, and I gripped his chin, forced it up again. "I'll make you scream tonight." I forced my voice low, husky. "I'll hurt you bad."

As I'd hoped, his eyes darkened with arousal. "You promise?"

"Oh yeah." I tightened my grip to drive my point home. "You won't be able to walk a straight line for a week."

He leaned forward, capturing my mouth.

Something felt... off. Something big. But I kept kissing him, because I was damned if I was going to give him another reason to cry. Knowing what he needed from me, I twisted my hand into his hair, yanked at his locks as I crushed my lips against his. And, for good measure, I gave him a sharp bite just before pulling away.

Michael groaned, looking into my eyes.

Looking directly into my eyes.

I glanced down, saw that he was barefoot. Michael was an inch shorter than me, so what the hell was going on?

He slipped his arms around my body, rubbed his chest against mine. It felt... harder.

"Mmm," he crooned. "Maybe I should call in sick today?"

Shoving him back, I studied his torso. Subtle changes had happened under his skin—soft swells of muscle in his shoulders, his chest, his stomach. All overnight.

Michael slid his hands along my forearms, caressing them as he waited for me to say something.

So I said something. "Are you feeling sick?"

He grinned, shook his head.

I snatched my hands away from him, trying to process what I'd seen as I walked back to my easel. "Then go to work," I told him, distraction making my voice sharper than intended.

Making a soft sound of disappointment, he hugged me from behind. "You're so cruel to me," he said, in a tone that let me know he loved me for it. "It's torture waiting for you."

He didn't seem to realize what had happened to him. Which had me wondering if there was something wrong with his head.

Or mine.

Before I could figure out which it was, his arms left my body and he bounced around me to look at my canvas. "Gold?" He turned his head, his chocolate eyes wide and excited. "Are you starting another Gold Period?"

A few weeks after Michael moved in, I entered my Gold Period. It made me a legend. It made me a god. And every piece after just kept getting better and better.

My gaze drifted to the swirl of color that had him so happy. "You really loved those paintings, didn't you?"

"I love all your paintings, but..." He paused, suddenly awkward.

"But you love those best," I finished for him.

A blush spilled in to his skin, like dry, red wine. "I do," he said softly, honestly. "They're so beautiful."

I chuckled, knowing if he had any idea what I was really painting when I swept those shimmering waves onto the canvas, he'd be mortified.

"Will you finish it today?" Now that he was sure I wasn't angry, all his excitement had flooded back. "Will you?"

His muscles bunched and flexed in a way they never had before, and my smile faded. "Probably not. Got other colors floating around in my head at the moment."

"Oh..." He came back to me, glided his fingers down my chest, leaned close. "But you will finish it?"

Almost without realizing, I stretched my body taller. "Not if you stay here cramping my space!"

He jumped, and I froze, trying to figure out where the hell that had come from.

Michael's face softened as he pressed a kiss to my mouth. "You're right. My fault. You'll punish me later?"

Swearing loudly, I shoved him away from me.

He grinned, chanced a quick peck to my cheek before running off to put on the rest of his clothes.

I stood in front of my unfinished painting: body stiff, fists clenched. Although I wanted to, I didn't stop him when he rushed out of the loft, because doing so... because doing so would be admitting that something could be wrong with him. And I just wasn't ready for that.

I needed more swirls of gold.

*****

When Michael came home early from work, though, being ready was no longer a luxury I had.

I'd been standing in front of my easel when the door opened, and I spun around, my breath catching when I saw him. "Michael?"

He set his briefcase by the door and tugged at his shirt, obviously uncomfortable. "I must have shrunk my suit in the wash. It's tight all over." He unfastened the knot in his tie and slid it off his neck. "I knew it was a bad idea not to send it to the cleaners, but I didn't have enough time and I thought it would be alright."

Alarm rippled through me as I saw how the material stretched over his muscles, how it was left with no choice but to bunch at his joints. My gaze slid downward—the cuffs of his pants were rising over an inch above his ankles.

Michael exhaled heavily, drawing my gaze back to his face. "It's beyond saving, isn't it? And this was my favorite suit." He bit his lip, hesitated before speaking again. "I know you hate shopping, but do you think you could come with me to pick out a new one?"

I just stood there, staring.

Concern shaped his features. "Avery? Are you alright?" He closed the distance between us, his eyes rounding when he found himself looking down at me.

In addition to the height he'd gained last night, he'd put on another half inch over the course of the day.

"I don't think it's the suit," I whispered.

He lifted his hand, stopped just short of touching my face. "What..."

"Some kind of... growth spurt. I noticed it this morning." My gaze dipped—I'd all but convinced myself that it had been my imagination. "I'd say you're five one and a half now."

He tried to chuckle, but tremors ruined the sound. "You're crazy. I've been five feet flat since the sixth grade."

"Michael..." I lifted my head. "I'm five foot one, remember?"

His lips parted, and he fell back a step.

I closed my eyes a moment, reminding myself that he needed me to be in control. When I opened them again, no trace of the fear I felt showed on my face. "We'll make you an appointment right now, get you checked out."

"No!" Walking away, he shook his hand at me. "No hospitals. No doctors."

Michael was phobic of doctors—I'd never known him to go to one. Even when his law firm required him to carry medical insurance, he chose to pay the higher premium so he wouldn't have to take the physical examination. Given his past, I couldn't blame him, but there was no avoiding it now. "You have to. This is serious."

"Why?"

"Why?" I stopped short, forced myself calmer. "Because people nearing thirty don't grow an inch and a half overnight. Hell, even teenagers don't grow that fast."

He shook his head. "I-I feel fine."

"That doesn't matter. You still have to go." Christ, I felt like a parent trying to reason with a child.

"Why doesn't it matter?" he asked stubbornly, acting like a child. "Only sick people need hospitals."

"Michael! What if this is..." My mouth worked, and I could only go on by lowering my voice. "What if this is some kind of cancer?"

His gaze darted away from me as he rubbed his hands over his chest, his arms, as if feeling his body for the first time. I guess, in a way, he was. "Does this look like cancer to you?"

Okay, he was scared of doctors. I got that. But I had no idea how to handle this with the sensitivity he needed, so I made the current situation even scarier in order to make him choose the lesser evil.

"We've seen this movie, haven't we?" I walked closer to him. "The main character gets hit by a mysterious light, shot up with some drug, or experiments on himself, and then gets stronger or smarter or sexier for his trouble. But it always ends the same, doesn't it? Hair starts falling out, teeth rot away, fingers drop off the hands."

He gasped, and I hated myself.

Until the thickheaded coward didn't take the bait.

Michael's jaw tightened. "If any of that happens to me, then I'll go to the doctor."

Sympathy, concern, reason... all of that burned off to make way for rage. "You will pick up the phone, and you will make that appointment."

"No," he said, straightening to his brand-new height.

"You fucking idiot!" I grabbed his jacket and slammed him against the wall. "You may be a little taller than me, but you're still a skinny sonovabitch and I'm pissed as hell. Don't think for a second that I can't beat the shit out of you!"

Shocked, he didn't fight me. "If I..." He swallowed hard. "If I call right now and make the appointment, do you think you could..."

"What," I growled.

A smile touched his lips as he lowered his head. "Hurt me?"

My hands fell away as I stared at him in disbelief. "That is a distinct possibility, Michael."

Still smiling, he pulled his cellphone from his pocket.