Chapter 50 #4
“You are,” he pants. “You are, Miggy. Every time I move, every sound I make? That’s you. That’s us.”
His words hit almost as hard as his body.
“My brain tried to kill me,” he gasps out, hips stuttering. “I’m not—fuck—not fucking letting it take this from me too.”
“Good,” I groan. “Good. Take it all, baby. Take everything you want.”
Eyes squeezing shut, his rhythm falters, then redoubles, something fierce and determined in every thrust.
“I want to stay,” he says, like a vow. “I want this,” thrust “you,” thrust “us,” thrust “this stupid treehouse,” thrust “all of it.”
Emotion punches through me so hard it’s almost painful.
“Then stay,” I rasp, wriggling my wrists like hell to untie myself so I can touch him. “Stay. With me. Right here.”
He makes a strangled sound that’s half sob, half moan.
“Color?” He chokes.
“Green,” I say, tears pricking hot at the corners of my eyes. “So green, baby. You’re okay. We’re okay.”
His hand finally—finally—wraps around my cock and the combination of him being inside me and his fist wrapped around me is too much.
The orgasm tears through me like someone yanked a live wire.
I shout, back arching off the bed, wrists straining against the rope, every muscle locking.
Heat floods my gut, then pulses of hot cum shoot out over his fingers, my stomach, and our chests.
For a second there’s nothing but bright, hot static.
When I come back, he’s watching me, eyes wet, hand still working me through the aftershocks.
“Fuck,” I croak. “I…fuck, Caleb.”
His hips stutter, “Yeah?” he gasps. “You with me?”
“Yeah,” I say, blinking away spots. “Now you. Come on. Take it. Come inside me, pretty boy.”
“Fuuuck,” he squeezes his eyes shut and lets go. His rhythm goes wild, unsteady, driven more by sensation than control now. He’s muttering under his breath, Spanish and English, half curses, half prayers.
“I love you… I fucking love you, Miguel—”
Then he breaks, coming with a choked-off cry, hips slamming into me, nails digging into my shoulders. I feel him tense, the heat of him pulsing deep inside me, and it sets off a whole new cascade of pleasure, even through the oversensitivity.
Slumping forward, chest to chest, both of us panting, sweat slick, hearts racing. For a second, the only sound is our breathing and the wind in the trees.
“Baby?” I manage because someone has to break the silence.
He laughs weakly against my neck. “I’m good,” he says. “So fucking good.” Lifting his head, eyes searching my face. Whatever he sees there makes his shoulders loosen.
Instantly, his attention shifts.
“Okay,” he mutters. “Rope off.”
Caleb unties me carefully, fingers a little clumsy with spent adrenaline, but still gentle. The knots come undone cleanly, the rope slithers away. He rubs my wrists with his thumbs, checking for marks, frowning when he sees the faint red bands.
“Any tingling?” he asks. “Pins and needles?”
“A little,” I admit. “In the good way. Not in the ‘we have to go to the ER’ way.”
Brings my wrists to his mouth, kissing each one like an apology. “Jackass.”
“Mmm, I would have slayed on that TV show.”
When he tries to climb off me, his knee slips in the mess on my stomach and we both slide sideways, landing in a heap. We burst out laughing, the tension snapping completely.
“Sexy,” I wheeze.
“Shut up,” he says, grinning.
We do the usual post-game routine, carefully disengage, wince at the sensitivity, and shuffle to the bathroom.
The shower is quick and practical this time, more about washing away the sweat, lube and cum than any sexy steam.
He fusses over me the whole way, asking if anything hurts in the bad way, massaging my hips where they are cramped, and pressing a kiss to my shoulder.
Back in bed, wrapped in clean blankets, my body finally starts to come down. The rope marks have already faded to faint pink and my muscles are pleasantly heavy. Caleb curls into my side, head on my chest, hand splayed warmly over my ribs. He’s quiet in that thoughtful way, not the empty kind.
“What’s the volume?” I ask, fingers tracing idle patterns on his back.
“Three?” he says. “Maybe two. I feel… full. In a good way.”
“Good,” I say, kissing his hair. “Me too.”
He’s quiet for a second.
“Thank you,” he says eventually, voice small but steady.
“For what?” I ask.
“For letting me do that,” he says. “For letting me… take control. Take you. And for… saying all that stuff. About choosing.”
I swallow past the lump in my throat. “Thank you,” I say back. “For choosing. For playing. For… staying.”
He hums, satisfied.
“Partner route?” He murmurs, sleep already tugging at the edges of his voice.
“Partner route,” I agree. “We should totally get t-shirts made.”
“Shut up, Miggy.”
I smirk. “Okay, hermoso.”
His weight sinks heavier against me as he drifts, breaths evening out.
Outside, the trees whisper, the ocean hushes, and my own heart, traitorous and stubborn, keeps beating.
I look at the discarded mask on the floor, neon grin upturned, and feel something uncoil deep in my chest. We’re not healed.
We’re not safe forever. We’re not magically fixed because we had hot, therapeutic rope sex in the woods.
But tonight, for a few hours, his brain didn’t win.
We did.
I wrap my arm tighter around him, pressing a kiss to his head and let my eyes close, holding onto that as long as I can.