Chapter 12 #2
When we part, it’s barely an inch. His eyes are stormy again, but not with anger. With something he hasn’t named yet.
I grin, small but certain. “Yeah. You can.”
He doesn’t laugh, but his chest loosens against mine. And for the first time tonight, Ollie Marshall looks like maybe—just maybe—he believes it.
His forehead rests against mine, our breaths tangling, hot and uneven. His hand at my thigh finally tightens, gripping like I’m the only thing keeping him upright.
I don’t give him a speech this time. No words. I just slide my other hand up and cup his jaw, thumb grazing the stubble along his cheek. His skin is warm and flushed.
“Rafe,” he whispers again, like he’s testing how it feels in his mouth.
That’s all it takes. I close the gap.
This time the kiss isn’t soft. It’s all hunger. His lips crash against mine, desperate, like the dam he’s built just gave way. I open for him, teeth scraping, tongues tangling, and the sound he makes—half growl, half groan—shoots straight to my dick.
He pushes me back onto the bed, clumsy but strong, his weight covering me in a rush of heat. The mattress dips under his knees, his hands braced on either side of my head. He kisses like he plays—controlled at first, then explosive once he lets go.
I fist his hoodie, dragging him closer, needing every inch of him pressed against me. His chest is a solid wall, his thighs anchoring me in place. When his hips shift—barely, just enough to grind—I gasp into his mouth. He swallows the sound like he’s starving.
“Ollie,” I breathe when we break, my lips swollen and slick.
He shakes his head, like words will ruin it.
His hot, wet mouth finds my throat instead.
Teeth scrape against the edge of my jaw, and I swear under my breath.
I roam my hands under his hoodie, up the ridges of muscle, the hard planes of his back.
He’s trembling, not weak but wound tight, every nerve buzzing.
“You don’t—” he starts, voice raw.
“Shut up,” I cut in, dragging his face back up to mine. I kiss him hard, deep, until he can’t do anything but feel. Until the words stop.
He groans into it, the sound vibrating against my chest. His hand finally leaves the mattress, sliding down my ribs, across my waist, anchoring at my hip. He presses in, slow but deliberate, and fuck—I can feel how much he wants this, wants me.
It’s fire and restraint all at once. His weight holding me down, his mouth devouring mine, but there’s a tremor of hesitation under it, like he’s terrified of what this means once the lights are back on.
I pull back just enough to murmur against his lips, “It’s okay.”
His eyes open, dark and wild. For a second, he searches me, like he’s looking for permission written on my skin.
And then he dives back in, fiercer than before.
We kiss until breathing feels optional, until my chest aches, until his control frays and his hips roll harder into mine. The friction rips a sound out of me I don’t recognize. His answering groan nearly undoes me.
I grip the back of his neck and hold him to me, letting him know without words that I’m here, that I want this, want him.
When we finally pull apart, both of us panting, his forehead drops to mine again. Sweat dampens his hairline, his breath hot against my lips.
“This…,” he whispers, voice shaking. “I want—”
“Yeah,” I say, cutting him off with another quick kiss. “Don’t think. Just feel. Take want you want.”
His chest shudders against mine. His grip on my hip tightens. And he finally lets go.
His mouth is on mine again, but different this time. Less desperate, more focused, like he’s found a rhythm he wants to learn. His tongue slides slowly against mine, his teeth catch on my bottom lip, and the low sound in his throat tells me he likes the way I gasp.
Then he pulls back just enough to look at me. His pupils are blown wide, his chest heaving. He swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing.
“Rafe,” he says, rough, shaky. “I—fuck.”
“What?” I ask, brushing a hand over the side of his face, my thumb catching the damp line of sweat at his temple.
His jaw clenches, then releases. He looks away, then back at me, like he’s wrestling himself into a decision. “I want to—” His voice cracks, but he pushes through. “I want to try something. With you.”
My pulse spikes. My mouth goes dry.
“Ollie—”
“Don’t talk me out of it.” His hand tightens on my hip, almost pleading. “I’ve been thinking about it. And I just—I need to know. I need to know what it’s like.”
For a second, I can’t breathe. Because this isn’t just about sex. This is him, the golden boy captain, the one who lives by rules and pressure and control, standing on the edge of something he’s never allowed himself to touch—and asking me to let him leap.
Heat floods through me, my cock turns to steel, but I keep my tone even, gentle. “Okay. Then we take it slow. You set the pace.”
His eyes burn into mine, fierce and terrified all at once. Then he nods.
I guide him down, easing us so I’m the one leaning back against the pillows, giving him space to move. He shifts, awkward for a beat, then more certain as his hands push under my shirt, palms skating over my stomach. His breath stutters when I arch into the touch.
The first time his mouth dips to my throat, open and hot, my whole body jolts. He’s hesitant, but when my fingers slide into his hair and I whisper, “Yeah, just like that,” something clicks. He kisses harder, tasting, mapping me in a way that makes my chest ache.
He’s not just learning me. He’s claiming this for himself.
When he finally pulls back, his lips swollen and damp, he stares at me like he’s just realized he’s capable of wanting this much. Of giving this much.
“I want more,” he whispers.
The air between us crackles. My body answers before my mouth can. “Then take it,” I tell him, voice low, rough with need.
And the look on his face—the hunger and fear and fire tangled together—burns straight through me. Because this isn’t just a step. This is Ollie Marshall choosing to cross a line I suspect he swore he never would.
His mouth hovers over mine like he’s waiting for a signal. I give it with a kiss, soft but sure, then lean back against the pillows. “Ollie,” I murmur, my chest still heaving, “you don’t have to—”
“I want to,” he cuts in, almost defensive. His eyes dart away for a second, then return to mine. “I’ve thought about it. I want to.”
That admission lands heavy between us, not shameful but charged, like he’s handed me something fragile. I nod once, slow, and let my hand slide from his neck to his shoulder, giving him space.
He moves carefully at first, like a man learning a new play.
His hands push up under my shirt, dragging the fabric higher until it’s bunched at my ribs.
He leans down, pressing open-mouthed kisses to my chest, my stomach.
His breath is uneven, his cheeks flushed, but he keeps going, each touch a little braver.
When he shifts lower, settling between my thighs, I have to bite back a sound that would give away just how much this is undoing me.
His big hands grip my hips, anchoring me, and for the first time, he looks up through his lashes.
There’s heat there, and fear, and something that looks a hell of a lot like want.
“You sure?” My voice cracks.
His jaw tightens. “Yeah. I’m sure.”
I nod, heart hammering.
His fingers fumble at my waistband. When he finally frees my cock, the cool air makes me hiss through my teeth. His gaze flicks down, then back up, and fuck—the look on his face is a mix of awe and determination.
The first touch of his mouth is tentative, soft. My hips jerk despite myself, and his grip tightens, holding me steady. He tries again, firmer this time, his lips sealing around me. The heat of it rips a groan straight out of me, loud in the quiet room.
“Jesus, Ollie….” I fist the sheets before I force myself to reach for him instead, brushing my fingers through his hair. Not pushing, just touching. Letting him know I’m here.
He finds a rhythm—slow, deliberate. He pulls back, then takes me deeper, his cheeks hollowing, and the sight of it nearly makes me shoot my load.
Every breath is fire. Every sound he makes—a hum, a low groan when I curse under my breath—feeds the blaze. My balls draw up when he sucks harder. “Fuck, baby.” A groan follows and seems to spur him on, and he goes deeper, gags, and eases off before trying again.
“You don’t have—fuck!” His throat tightens around my cock, shooting heat down my spine and to my balls. “Nngh!”
His gaze clashes with mine, moisture gathering at the edges, but fuck if I’ve ever seen him look as beautiful with his plump lips wrapped around my cock, satisfaction blazing my way.
He’s not perfect at it, not polished, but that’s what kills me most. He’s learning me, learning this, giving me all that control he usually clutches in his fists. Each hesitant slide of his tongue, each shaky inhale—it’s raw, real, intoxicating.
“Ollie, fuck—” I grit out, my hand tightening in his hair when he takes me deeper again. He makes a sound, like a growl muffled around me, and my vision whites at the edges.
I can’t last. Not with him looking up at me through dark lashes, cheeks flushed, lips wrapped around me like this. Not with the knowledge that he chose this, that he wanted this.
“Gonna—” I warn, my voice breaking. “Ollie, I’m—”
He doesn’t stop. If anything, he doubles down, grip iron on my hips as he swallows me down again. The sheer recklessness of it wrecks me. I spill with a broken groan, my whole body shaking apart, his name a rough prayer in the air.
When it’s over, I collapse against the pillow, chest heaving, sweat cooling on my skin. He pulls away, lips wet, eyes wild, and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.
For a second, neither of us moves. Then I sit up, cup his face in my hands, and kiss him. Slow, messy, and grateful.
“You were fucking perfect,” I whisper against his lips.
“Yeah?” he asks. There’s something fierce in his eyes—like he’s just proven something to himself, not just to me.
And fuck if that doesn’t make me fall even harder.
I’m still wrecked from what he just did—body loose, chest aching like I’ve sprinted ten flights of stairs—when I realize he’s shifting away, settling back on his heels. His cheeks are flushed, his chest rising like he’s just finished a game.
“You okay?” I manage, my voice sandpaper.
He smirks, quick and sharp. Not cocky exactly, but sure. “Better than okay.”
And that—that—undoes me in a whole new way. He’s not hiding, not panicking. He’s proud of himself. Like he just walked off the court after nailing the winning shot.
But then I see the way his thighs shift, the tight line of tension low in his body, and I know what he’s holding back.
“Hey,” I say, reaching for him. My hand closes over his wrist, warm and strong. “Don’t.”
He blinks, confused. “Don’t what?”
“Don’t take care of yourself later. Do it now. Here. With me.”
He goes still. His eyes darken, lips parting like he’s not sure he heard right.
I tug him closer, pull him half onto me so his knees sink into the mattress. “Please,” I whisper, because I need this—need to feel it, to wear it. “I want you to.”
He searches my face for a beat, like he’s testing if I really mean it. When he finds nothing but raw hunger staring back at him, something in him shifts. He nods once, sharp, and his hand tugs down his pants and slides down to grip himself.
The first stroke pulls a sound out of him that makes me shiver from head to toe. He braces his free hand against my chest, fingers splayed over my skin like he’s staking a claim. His breath comes rough, broken, every movement bringing him closer.
I keep my hands on him—one at his hip, the other tracing slow lines along his skin. “Yeah,” I murmur, my voice rough with need. “Just like that. Let go, Ollie.”
His rhythm falters, hips jerking, and then he comes with a groan that rips straight from his chest. Hot, wet heat spills across my stomach, branding me in a way I’ll never shake. I gasp, limbs clenching with aftershocks even though I’ve already gone.
For a second, all I can do is stare at him—at the way his face twists, eyes squeezed shut, teeth biting his lower lip. At the way he bows into me, like he can’t hold himself back.
And when it’s over, when he collapses half onto me, chest heaving, I don’t care that my skin is sticky, that the sheets are a mess. I want it. I want every part of this, of him.
I drag my hand through the mess on my stomach, smear it between us so he feels it too. His eyes flicker open, catching mine, and something burns there. Not shame. Not regret. Just… possession.
I almost say, “You’re mine,” but I choke it back. Too much, too soon. Instead, I kiss him hard, swallowing the sound he makes, my fingers tangling in his sweat-damp hair.
Inside, though, the truth screams: I’m falling. Hard.
And he doesn’t even know it yet.