Chapter 14 RAFE #2
“I want you to remember this,” I murmur, my lips brushing his, each word a threat dressed up as worship. “I want you to feel my hands every time you think about watching that video again.”
He squeezes around me, helpless, and I press a kiss to the corner of his mouth, slow and filthy. “I want you to remember who’s inside you right now… and who never fucking deserved to be.”
Julian chokes on a moan, clutching at my arm like I’m the only thing keeping him from falling apart. Maybe I am.
I push in deeper, voice breaking into a growl against his lips. “And if you ever miss him again, Jules… I swear I’ll fuck the memory out of you.”
Julian shudders beneath me, every inch of him trembling, thighs taut around my hips as I curl my finger deeper. His chest is rising too fast now, sweat shining on his skin, his mouth open like he wants to say something but can’t get it out. He’s never looked smaller. Never looked more mine.
I drag my teeth along his cheek, whisper against his ear, low and slow. “You think he ever made you feel like this?” I curl my finger again, just to hear the sharp little sound he makes. “You think he ever touched you like you were his?”
Julian gasps, almost a sob, almost a moan. His hips twitch again, his entire body trying to grind down, take more, give in.
“No,” I breathe. “Because he didn’t give a fuck. You were a secret. A hole to fuck and forget.”
“Rafe…” Jules pants, voice shaking, head pressing back into the pillow like he can’t take it.
I add a second finger and he screams into my mouth like I reached something too deep, too raw, something buried under years of pretending he didn’t want to be wrecked by someone who saw him. Who knew him. Who would never, ever leave him.
“Feel that?” I growl against his lips, “That’s mine. That’s you, sobbing on my fingers, not his. You hear me?”
He nods. Fast. Frenzied. Tears slipping again and it’s perfect. He’s so fucking beautiful like this. “Say it,” I order, curling again, punishing him with softness. “Say it’s mine.”
“It’s—fuck—Rafe, it’s yours,” he chokes out, high and trembling. “Please—”
“Please what, Jules?” I bite at his throat, kiss the mark after. “Please stop? Please keep going? Please fill you until you forget that fucker’s name forever?”
“Yes.” It comes out strangled, broken. He’s shaking. Melting. Begging.
I keep going—slow, deep, unforgiving—until I find that spot. That perfect, buried nerve that makes him seize under me, back arching, mouth falling open in a ragged scream.
There he is.
Julian shatters.
“F–fuck—Rafe—please,” he gasps, voice so wrecked it barely sounds like a word, just need wrapped in a cry.
His hands scramble for something—my arm, the sheets, the air—and when I push again, right there, he howls.
Eyes rolling back, tears streaking down his face, thighs quivering like they’ll give out under the weight of the pleasure tearing through him.
I keep my face against his, my mouth against his jaw, breathing him in like the only fucking drug I’ll ever need. “There it is,” I growl, curling my fingers again, dragging them over that spot with all the precision of a killer. “You feel that, pretty boy?”
He whimpers. His whole body bucks.
“Answer me, Jules.”
He nods, desperate, delirious. “Y-yes, yes, fuck, yes—”
I grind the heel of my palm down against him while my fingers stroke deep and relentless. He screams again, sobbing now, filthy and perfect and mine.
“You feel that in your fucking soul, don’t you?”
“Yes!”
“Good,” I murmur, biting down on his throat just hard enough to leave a mark. “Because I’m gonna ruin you with it. I’m gonna make you forget every touch before mine. Every hand. Every lie.”
He chokes out a sob and nods—so frantic, so fucking pretty like this.
“Rafe—I can’t—” he gasps, hips jerking, back curling off the mattress.
“You can, Jules,” I growl, kissing his cheek, dragging my teeth across the shell of his ear. “And you will. Cry for it if you have to.”
He does. Christ, he does. He cries, moans, begs. “Please, Rafe—please, I’ll be good, I’ll—fuck, don’t stop—please—”
I fuck him slow with my fingers like it’s a goddamn art, like the only thing I was ever born to do was drag him back from the edge of whatever hell he keeps locking himself in—and show him what it means to belong.
To be claimed.
To be fucking wanted.
He’s so fucking close I can feel it—every breath, every twitch, every time his hips buck up like he’s trying to ride my hand.
He’s soaked in sweat, pink-cheeked and wrecked, mouth open in silent screams as my fingers keep dragging over that spot inside him, over and over, mercilessly.
I slow down just enough to make him sob again, just enough to tease, and the sound he makes isn’t even human.
His hand slams against my shoulder. “Rafe, please—” he cries, voice shredded.
“Please what?” I murmur against his throat, licking up the sweat pooling at the curve of his neck. “Say it.”
“Please let me come—fuck, I need—Rafe, please—”
“My name,” I growl. “Say it again.”
He gasps, shaking. “Rafe—Rafe—please—Rafe—”
I press down with my palm, thrust my fingers deep, curl them just right, and he screams. His back arches like he’s being electrocuted, body shaking so violently I have to throw my weight on top of him to keep him from jolting off the bed.
He comes hard, full-body, ripped open, sobbing my name. It’s not graceful. It’s not pretty. It’s fucking devastating.
The orgasm wrecks him. He’s still crying when it’s over—shaking under me, a mess of spit and sweat and tears and cum, gasping for air like he just got dragged out of the deepest part of himself. His hands clutch at me like I’m the only real thing left in the world.
I pull my fingers out slow, keep my mouth close to his ear, whispering nothing, just breath and heat and mine.
“Next time,” I murmur, licking a tear off his cheek, “you beg for me before you watch that fucking video.”
He nods, trembling, utterly spent. He’s still shaking.
Little aftershocks twitch through his thighs, his stomach, his ribs.
He’s flushed and gasping, tears still wet on his lashes, breath a mess of hitching sobs and stubborn silence.
And he’s so fucking beautiful like this—smeared, undone, trembling under my hands like he forgot how to lie.
I push the hair off his face, rough and slow. Dirty blond and sweat-damp, curling at the edges like it wants to be touched. Like it was meant to be held in a fist or dragged behind teeth.
He winces when I brush his cheekbone. Still tender. Still fucked.
“Easy,” I murmur. Not for him—for me. My jaw’s tight as a vice. My throat burns. And I still haven’t let myself think about the video or the fact that I watched it twice. I’m too busy watching him try not to fall apart.
I reach for a clean towel, dampen it with water from the bottle, and start cleaning him up. He tries to flinch away, weak little groan of protest like he’s got any fight left in him.
“Don’t,” I growl.
“But I—”
“You don’t,” I snap, sharper than I mean to be, dragging the towel across his stomach. “Stay still.”
He tries to huff like he’s annoyed, but it’s ruined by the way his voice breaks. Still sniffling, still too wrecked to argue, and when I clean between his legs he gasps and turns his face into the pillow.
“Don’t hide,” I mutter, wiping the sweat from his chest, down his hip, careful around the bandage on his thigh.
He stays quiet this time. Just blinks up at me, lashes stuck together, lips parted, mouth pink and swollen from biting back screams. “You shouldn’t have to clean me up,” he whispers.
“You shouldn’t have to beg for someone to see you,” I say.
That shuts him up.
I finish and toss the towel aside. My fingers linger on his jaw, thumb brushing his lower lip, slow. He’s so warm. So alive. And fuck, if the urge to crawl back into bed and never let go doesn’t threaten to gut me.
But I can’t. Not yet. Not until I know what Leonardo’s going to do. Not until I decide if killing Nathan is going to be quick or art.