2. Dead Weight #2
“Come here.” He’s already grinning like he knows exactly how much I’m about to hate enjoying this. “I’m not rushing you just because you finally stopped being an idiot.”
I move over him and immediately discover there are still new ways for Rafe to make me regret having nerve endings. My hand braces against the floor as his mouth finds me.
“Oh. Fantastic.”
Apparently I like this too. Add it to the growing list of things I could have learned about myself years ago if I weren’t committed to suffering recreationally.
Rafe grips my hips and keeps me where he wants me.
“Oh fuck. Yes. Right there.”
My entire body tightens as he works his tongue against me. I reach for my cock because apparently one humiliation at a time is no longer the rule tonight.
Of course he’s good at this.
That feels personally offensive.
He changes the angle and nearly takes whatever control I thought I still had with it.
“Fuck you, asshole, for being so damn good at this.”
He laughs.
“Practice makes perfect.”
“Don’t stop playing with yourself, preacher boy.”
I don’t.
His fingers replace his tongue, slick and deliberate, working me open while I stroke myself above him. He stays unhurried even though everything else about this feels overdue enough to make patience offensive.
“I’m going to come.”
He doesn’t tease me about it.
That gets me more than teasing would have.
The orgasm catches hard enough that I lose the next few seconds completely. When I come back to myself, Rafe looks entirely too pleased with the state he’s put me in.
I wipe at the mess I got on him. He catches my wrist before I can pull away and cleans my fingers with his mouth just to watch my expression change.
Fuck him.
I hate that he knows exactly what he’s doing. I hate that some part of me has apparently been waiting for him to prove it.
He lets my hand go and pulls me closer. I kiss him, biting his lower lip hard enough to make him hiss because aggression is easier than admitting how much I’m enjoying myself.
Why do I want him this much?
Because he lets himself be exactly what he is?
Because he gets to want her without turning it into a rule first?
Maybe both.
“I know you’re not ready yet,” he says, the teasing finally gone from his voice. “Tell me what you want.”
There it is.
The part where I either say the thing or hide behind another rule.
“Ask for it, tiger.”
I swallow.
“Make it hurt.”
His expression changes immediately.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“If it gets too much, say pineapple and I stop. Immediately.”
I stare at him. “Pineapple?”
“Memorable.”
“You’re an idiot.”
“And?”
I hold his gaze.
“Keep going.”
The first real push of him steals every clever thing I might have said. Pain flashes bright enough to make my hands lock around his shoulders, and Rafe stops immediately.
“Too much?”
“No.”
“Ash.”
“I said no.”
He studies my face long enough to make sure I mean it, then continues.
He kisses me before I can start thinking again, which is probably strategic. There’s nothing graceful about it, all teeth and breath and too much sensation, both of us rougher than we probably need to be because neither of us has ever been particularly good at doing anything important gently.
The wanting is easy.
Everything underneath it is the problem.
Rafe’s grip tightens.
“You’re killing me, Vale. This ass is so tight.”
“Good.”
He laughs once, breathless, then takes over.
After that, I stop pretending I’m the one setting the pace. Every movement drags another sound out of me I’d rather not hear myself make, and Rafe hears every one.
Of course he does.
“Fuck. It’s about time we gave in to this thing,” he says against my mouth. “You’re unbelievable.”
“Fuck you and then fuck me, asshole.”
“That’s currently the idea.”
I laugh despite myself. That should not make any of this hotter.
It does.
I reach for myself again because dignity has already left the building and there’s no point chasing after it barefoot. For once, I let myself want something without immediately calculating what it costs.
“I’m close.”
“So am I.”
Rafe catches my face.
“Look at me.”
I do.
That should be the difficult part.
It isn’t.
His eyes are steady on mine, too familiar to hide from and too close to pretend this means nothing. We come close enough together that neither of us gets the clean victory of pretending it happened separately.
Afterward, he holds me.
That is somehow harder than everything before it.
Eventually the urgency burns itself out and leaves us with the much less convenient problem of still being ourselves. Rafe reaches for his shirt and starts cleaning us up.
I stare at him for a second. “What the fuck was that?”
“Sue me,” he says. “I want to feel held for a minute.”
I roll my eyes, then take his hand and pull him back down.
We lie there without speaking, Rafe’s head on my chest, my hand moving down his spine without me telling it to while early evening turns the garage windows gold.
For one stupid, unguarded minute, I let myself believe we fixed something.
“Didn’t solve anything,” Rafe says eventually.
“No.”
“She’s still not talking to you.”
“No.”
“And I’m still gonna keep doing exactly what I was doing when you walked in.”
“I know.”
We’re quiet for a while.
Then he says, softer, “I’m not sorry wanting her out loud comes easier to me. I just wish you’d let yourself have it too instead of standing in doorways doing math on what you think you’re allowed to survive.”
I don’t have anything useful to give him back yet.
Somewhere across the property, Lorelei laughs.
Half of me wants to follow the sound.
The rest stays exactly where it is, with Rafe’s weight against my chest and my hand still moving slowly along his back.
I hold him a little tighter.
Neither of us asks me to explain it.