Chapter 22 Rafe #2
My fingers press in. One, then two. No teasing, no warning. He screams, raw and broken, and I bite down hard on his neck to muffle it.
“Quiet,” I mutter against his skin, grinding my cock against him as I fuck him open on my hand—fast, deep, merciless. “You wanted it. Now take it. Let the whole fucking compound hear what a good boy you are.”
He sobs—his cock jerks violently, thighs trembling around my waist—and throws his head back so hard it cracks against the tile again. “Please—oh my god—fuck me!”
I pull my fingers out, slick and ready. I line myself up, and then I slam into him—hard, so fucking hard his scream shatters against the walls like glass.
His arms fly around my neck, body locking up tight as the tile thuds behind him again.
His heels dig into my back, sharp and desperate.
He’s not ready, not fully stretched, not fully braced—but I don’t give him time. I take him like he’s mine.
Because he is.
“Rafe—Rafe—Rafe—” Just my name, over and over, a litany, a fucking prayer spilling from his lips.
I growl into his mouth and drive in to the hilt—full, deep, claiming. “Yeah, halo,” I whisper, starting to thrust with slow, deliberate force. “You stayed clean for this. You waited.”
He nods frantically, sobbing. “I did, I did, I did—”
I slam in again, harder. “I know. So now…” Another thrust rips a wail out of him. “…you come when I say.”
He’s sobbing, shaking, voice shredded to ribbons—but he’s not breaking.
Not really. He’s thriving. Every time I slam into him, his spine arches like I’m dragging his soul straight out through his skin.
His cock is trapped between us, smearing slick against my stomach, twitching helplessly with every brutal thrust. He’s so fucking tight I can feel my own heartbeat pulsing inside him, buried deep, over and over and over again.
I growl into his neck and rut harder, water crashing over us like the roof’s caving in.
And then he says it—he screams it. “Harder!”
It detonates in my chest. Not the word, not the volume, but the tone—like he needs it to survive, like he’ll die without it, like this is the only thing still anchoring him to the goddamn world.
“Rafe—please—fuck—you feel like home—”
And I lose it. I fucking snap. All the restraint, the pacing, the reward, the punishment—it rips away like wet tissue paper.
“Home?” I snarl, grabbing his thighs and slamming him harder against the wall, his ass smacking tile, cock crushed between us. “You think I’m your home?”
He nods, wrecked and crying, head pressed into my shoulder. “Yes—yes—fuck—yes—”
“Then fucking take it.” I drive into him with full force—the kind of rhythm that makes grown men crawl.
He screams. No filter. No control. Each thrust lands deeper than the last, faster, rougher, until the only sounds are skin on skin, water slamming tile, and Julian sobbing into my neck like I’m his goddamn religion.
“You’re mine,” I snarl into his ear. “Say it.”
“I’m yours—I’m yours—I’m yours—”
“Fucking mean it.”
He wails, and I feel him clamp around me—perfect—as he explodes between us, soaking both our stomachs, cock jerking wildly while his whole body goes rigid in my arms. His scream is wet, raw, and utterly mine.
And I come with him—deep, so deep inside I see stars, so hard I have to bite his throat just to stay tethered to reality.
The world narrows to nothing but steam, sweat, and him—wrapped around me, sobbing, still chanting my name like it’s the only word that ever mattered, the only thing keeping him here.
When I stop moving, I realize I’m still holding him off the ground, his arms looped around my shoulders, head slumped forward against my chest like all the bones in his body gave out.
Julian’s breathing comes in short, choked gasps against my skin.
At first I think he’s still riding the comedown, but then I feel it—the tremble, the hitch, the broken, breathless sob spilling out of him, followed by another, and another.
He’s crying—not sharp or loud, just quiet little gasps pouring from him like his ribs have finally unlocked and everything he’s been holding together is falling through the cracks.
I slide down the wall slowly, carefully, dragging him with me—still joined, still buried deep inside him, still mine—until we’re both slumped on the tile floor in the spray, his body collapsed against mine like he’s been rebuilt wrong.
His hands grip my soaked shirt like they don’t know how to let go; his mouth stays open and wet against my collarbone, trying to breathe around the sobs he can’t swallow.
I press a kiss into his drenched hair. Then another. Again. My voice cracks when I finally speak. “I’ve got you, little halo.” Another kiss, this time to his temple. “I’ve fucking got you.”
He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t have to.
I feel it in the way his whole body curls tighter into mine—like he’s trying to climb under my skin, like he’s trying to live there forever. And maybe I’d let him. Fuck, maybe I’d carve a hole in my chest just to keep him somewhere safe.
He cries harder, and I let him. He’s earned that too.
I wrap both arms around him and hold him through it, letting the water pour over both of us, washing the sweat and the tears and the ghost of that fucking tape down the drain.
Minutes pass. I don’t know how many, but it doesn’t matter.
When his sobs finally slow—hiccupping—I kiss the side of his face and murmur against his skin. “No more ghosts.” Another kiss, right over the pulse in his throat. “Only me.”
We stay like that longer than we should.
Long enough for the water to cool and the tile to turn slippery beneath us.
Julian’s still in my lap, curled against my chest like something fragile I don’t fucking deserve, breath hitching now and then in the aftermath of tears he’ll pretend never happened.
I don’t move. I hold him like a fucking altar and let the last of it drain out.
But then he twitches—once, then again—a slow, wet wiggle in my lap that pulls a quiet laugh out of me.
I smirk against his temple. “You good?”
He sniffs, mumbles something that sounds suspiciously like “Shut up,” and wriggles again, deliberate this time, chasing the last echoes of sensation.
I shift my grip, sliding one palm to the small of his back, and slowly—carefully—pull out.
He whines, high and pathetic, the sound punching straight through my chest.
“Shhh,” I murmur, biting back the urge to thrust right back in just to hear it again. “It’s okay. I’m here.”
I reach up and shut off the water. Silence slams into the space like a wall.
Steam curls around us, thick and still. I let it settle for a breath before I finally move—tugging my soaked jeans the rest of the way off with one hand while I keep the other locked around his waist. The denim hits the floor with a slap.
I dig into the pocket before leaving them behind and grab the thing.
Then I reach for the towel and wrap it around him, drying him off with hands that remember every mark. Every bruise. Every twitch. Julian doesn’t even protest—just lets me move him, pliant and quiet and blinking slow. His thighs are still shaking. Good.
When he’s dry enough, I lift him again. He doesn’t fight it. Doesn’t even blink. Just folds into me like he belongs there.
I carry him out of the bathroom and into the container bedroom—the lights are dim, the bed’s unmade, the air warm and soft and thick with the ghost of us.
I set him down gently, like I’m afraid the mattress might hurt him.
His hands slide off my shoulders with reluctance, like he doesn’t want to let go.
I stand over him a second longer, then say, “Got you a present.”
His brows pull together—suspicious, defensive. “A what.”
I pull the thing from my palm and hold it out: a small, matte metal box, cold and square, wrapped with a thin, lopsided black bow. I press it into his hands.
He eyes it like it’s ticking. “What the fuck is this?” he mutters, clutching the towel tighter around his waist.
“Open it.”
“Rafe—”
“Open it, halo.”
He glares at me, then sighs, grabs the bow, and rips it off. The box clicks open in his lap. His face crumples instantly.
“Ew,” he whines, shoving back like it burned him. “What the—what the fuck—is this a fucking finger?!”
I almost lose it. Almost fucking crack. My lips twitch—just barely.
He looks up at me, horrified, then back down.
Freezes. “Oh my god,” he breathes, leaning in closer, squinting.
He pales. “Oh my fucking god. Is this—IS THIS NATHAN’S FINGER?
!” He screams and hurls the box across the container like it bit him.
It hits the metal wall with a clang, bounces off the floor, the bow flopping uselessly.
And I laugh—not loud, not hysterical, but real. A sharp, sudden burst of breath I couldn’t hold back if I tried. I watch him shrink into the sheets, sputtering and red-faced, towel askew, eyes wide with disbelief.
“What the fuck, Rafe?!”
I grin—slow, dark, feral. “Figured I’d get you something meaningful.”
He gapes at me. “YOU GOT ME A FUCKING FINGER.”
“It’s symbolic.”
“You’re deranged.”
“You like it.”
He glares. “I love it.”
Julian flops back dramatically against the pillows, arms spread wide like a starfish martyr, the towel barely clinging to his waist and his cheeks still flushed from screaming about a severed finger.
His hair’s soaked, stuck to his temple in messy gold streaks, lips swollen, eyes heavy—but the brat’s not done.
He huffs, then mutters, “I want another present. Preferably one that comes in a syringe.”
I snort.
Fucking junkie.
I drop to my knees at the edge of the bed, sliding my hands up his thighs—slow, wide-palmed—and press a kiss to the damp skin just above his knee. Then another. And another. Until his breath catches and his spine shifts, a subtle arch like he’s already thinking about opening for me again.
Not yet.
I look up at him from between his thighs, voice low and final. “Sleep first.”
He scowls and I kiss the inside of his thigh, right over the faint bite mark I left earlier. “You’ll get whatever you want tomorrow.”
His scowl flickers, cracks, and finally gives way to a quiet, wrecked little smile. “Promise?”
I nod once. “I always keep my promises.”