Chapter 21 #2
But I wasn’t watching anymore. I was focused on the steady rhythm of Griffin’s breathing, the warmth of his body against mine, the way his thumb traced absent circles on the back of my hand.
The simple domestic intimacy of sitting together on his couch, watching a movie, existing in the same space without urgency or worrying about public image.
This is what I want. Not just the physical affection or the fleeting moments we didn’t have to look over our shoulders. This. The quiet comfort of being together. The ease of his presence. The way being near him makes everything feel more manageable.
Griffin shifted, and I looked up to find him watching me instead of the screen. His blue eyes held an intensity that made my breath catch—not the hungry desire I’d seen before, but something deeper. Softer.
“Wesley,” he said quietly, my name a question and a statement all at once.
I reached up and cupped his jaw, the scruff rough against my palm.
“Thank you for coming over. For knowing I needed you.”
“Always.” The word came out with certainty, a promise I wasn’t sure I should be making. “I’ll always come when you need me.”
Griffin leaned down, and I met him halfway. The kiss was slow, exploratory, lacking the desperate urgency of previous encounters. His mouth moved against mine with deliberate tenderness, like he was trying to communicate something words couldn’t express.
I repositioned myself to face him more fully, my hands sliding up to his shoulders, then brushing through his buzz cut. Griffin’s arms came around me, and he pulled me closer until I was straddling his lap. Our bodies pressed together in ways that made rational thought difficult.
But this wasn’t about rushing toward something. This was about savoring—the taste of him, the feel of his hands spanning my back, the small sounds he made when I kissed along his jaw, the way he pulled me impossibly closer, like he couldn’t get enough contact.
We made out slowly on his couch while the movie played, once again forgotten in the background.
His hands explored territory with new reverence—sliding under my shirt to trace patterns on my skin, mapping my body like he was memorizing every detail, claiming me in ways that felt significant beyond the physical.
I did the same, letting my fingers discover the landscape of his shoulders and back and chest, feeling the solid muscle and the rapid beat of his heart, trying to show through touch what I couldn’t articulate with words.
I rocked my erection against his, eliciting a moan. We kissed languidly, thoroughly, with an attention that suggested we had all the time in the world, even though we both knew that wasn’t true.
Griffin’s mouth moved from my lips to my jaw to the sensitive spot behind my ear that made me gasp. His hands were warm and possessive against my lower back. I lifted his T-shirt over his head, exposing skin I kissed with careful attention.
With fumbling, maneuvering, and a little laughter, we managed to release our hard cocks from the confines of our sweats and jeans.
Griffin took us both in his large, callused palm and stroked us until my vision sheeted white.
I came in long ropes of cum onto his tight abs, and he soon followed with a long groan from deep within his chest. I kissed him with an intensity that betrayed my growing feelings.
After I cleaned up in the bathroom and found a washcloth to wet for Griffin, that intensity mellowed into something softer.
We rearranged ourselves—Griffin stretched out along the couch with me tucked against his side, our legs tangled together, my head on his chest. His arms came around me, holding me securely, and I let myself sink into the warmth and safety of his embrace.
The movie had ended at some point, transitioning to the menu screen, where the haunting score played on repeat. The soft music provided a gentle soundtrack to our breathing, to the quiet intimacy of just being together.
“This is nice,” Griffin murmured, his voice rough and quiet. “Just this. Being here with you.”
“Yeah.” I pressed a kiss to his chest, right over his heart. “It is.”
We lay in comfortable silence, and Griffin’s breathing gradually slowed, his grip on me loosening as exhaustion caught up with him. I should have suggested we move—that he go to his bedroom to sleep properly before tomorrow’s game, that I leave so he could rest without distraction.
But I was so comfortable, so content wrapped in his arms, that I couldn’t make myself move. Just a few more minutes. Then I’d get up, let him sleep, head home.
Just a few more minutes…
A door slammed in the neighboring apartment, jolting me awake.
Griffin’s apartment was dark except for the glow from the TV, the music still playing softly. Griffin’s arms were still wrapped around me, his breathing deep and even with sleep, his body warm and solid beneath me.
I carefully extracted my phone, squinting at the brightness… 2:07 a.m.
Shit.
Panic cut through the comfortable haze immediately. I’d fallen asleep. Griffin had the most important game of his season in less than seventeen hours, and instead of sleeping properly in his own bed, he’d passed out on the couch with me draped across him like a blanket.
I needed to leave. Now. Before this got any worse.
I carefully extracted myself from his embrace, moving with agonizing slowness to avoid waking him. He stirred slightly when I shifted my weight and made a small sound of protest but didn’t wake.
I stood beside the couch, looking down at him in the dim light. He looked peaceful in ways I rarely saw—his face relaxed, the tension gone from his shoulders, the perfect captain’s mask completely absent. Just Griffin, sleeping deeply after finally finding some rest from his anxiety.
I did this. I came over and helped him relax enough to sleep. That’s something.
But I’d also let us both fall asleep, which was reckless and stupid and exactly the kind of mistake that could lead to discovery.
I reached out and gently shook his shoulder. “Griffin. Hey. Wake up.”
He stirred, making a small sound of protest, his arms searching for me instinctively before his eyes fluttered open. “Wha—”
“It’s after two in the morning. We fell asleep on the couch.” I kept my voice soft, reluctant to break the peaceful moment, but knowing I had to. “You need to go to bed. Real bed.”
“Wesley?” His voice was rough with sleep. He pushed himself up on one elbow. His hair was mashed on one side, his eyes heavy-lidded and confused.
“Don’t go,” he said, the words slightly slurred with exhaustion.
My chest tightened at the plea. “I have to. It’s after two. You need proper sleep in your own bed before tomorrow.”
“Stay.” Griffin reached out a hand toward me. “Please stay.”
God, I want to. Every fiber of my being wanted to climb back onto that couch, wrap myself around him again, and sleep through the rest of the night in his arms.
But that was exactly what we couldn’t do.
“I can’t.” I kept my voice gentle but firm. “You have the biggest game of your season tomorrow. You need real rest, not passing out on the couch. And I need to leave before someone sees me.”
Griffin’s hand dropped and resignation settled over his features even as his eyes held disappointment. “Yeah. Okay. You’re right.”
I leaned down to press a quick kiss to his lips. “Sleep. Real sleep, in your bed. I’ll be there tomorrow, watching. Proud of you for everything.”
“Promise?” His voice was small, vulnerable in ways that made my heart ache.
“Promise.” I kissed him again, then forced myself to step back before I changed my mind. “Good night, Griffin. Tomorrow’s going to be incredible.”
I left before he could respond, slipped into the hallway, and closed his door with a soft click. The corridor was empty, silent except for the distant hum of the building’s ventilation system. I made my way to the elevator, hyperaware of every sound, every potential witness.
The parking lot was deserted when I emerged into the October night, the chill air a shock after the warmth of Griffin’s arms. I climbed into my car and sat for a moment, my hands gripping the steering wheel while I processed what had just happened.
I’d gone to Griffin’s apartment because I couldn’t stay away. Had spent the evening wrapped around him on his couch. Had fallen asleep in his arms like that was normal, like we were a real couple who could do domestic things like fall asleep watching movies together.
Had wanted to stay when he asked, wanted it so badly my chest physically ached with the denial.
I started my car and headed home, the streets of Beaverton quiet in the early-morning hours. My mind raced through everything—the tenderness of the evening, the way Griffin had looked at me, the plea in his voice when he’d asked me to stay.
I’m not falling for him.
I’ve already fallen. Completely, irrevocably, terrifyingly fallen.
The realization should have sent me into panic mode. Should have triggered all my Nashville-learned instincts about protecting myself, maintaining boundaries, never getting too attached to someone who couldn’t publicly acknowledge me.
But instead, I just felt… certain. Certain that Griffin was different from Charles. Certain that what we had was real in ways my previous relationship never was. Certain that despite all the very good reasons this was dangerous and potentially devastating, I was exactly where I wanted to be.
Four to six years, I reminded myself. That’s the plan. Four to six years until he retires and can come out. We can survive that. It’ll be worth the wait.
But doubt crept in around the edges of that optimism. Four to six years of hiding. Four to six years of nights like tonight where we had to be apart instead of together. Four to six years of him asking me to stay and me having to leave because the risks were too high.
Can we really do this? Can we survive that long keeping this secret without it destroying us both?
I didn’t have an answer. Didn’t know if anyone could maintain a relationship under those conditions without the strain breaking something essential.
But I knew I wanted to try. Griffin was worth the risk and the years of careful choreography and stolen moments.
Please let him be worth it. Please let this be different from Nashville. Please let us make it.
I arrived home at two thirty, exhausted and wired all at once. My apartment felt empty after the warmth of Griffin’s presence, the silence oppressive rather than peaceful.
I climbed into bed but couldn’t sleep, my mind replaying the evening—the way Griffin had looked when he opened the door, the tenderness of making out on his couch, the peaceful expression on his face when he’d fallen asleep in my arms, the longing in his voice when he’d asked me to stay.
Tomorrow, he plays the home opener. He’ll prove he’s the captain Portland needs. He’ll succeed in front of eighteen thousand fans who believe in him.
And I would be there, watching from the press box, proud and terrified all at once.
Because somewhere between press conference coaching and coffee shop meetings and cooking lessons and that night—somewhere in all those moments I’d been carefully cataloging and treasuring—I’d fallen for Griffin Lapierre.
And that changed everything.