Chapter 17 Bastian
BASTIAN
Every sound Taylen makes vibrates through me like guitar strings struck too hard, raw and perfect and slightly dangerous. His fingers tighten in my hair as I take him deeper until my mouth is full of him.
His hips buck slightly, but I hold him steady, savoring the way his muscles tremble under my palms. Each gasp, each plea of my name feeds something hungry inside me.
Not just desire, but a darker need to prove something.
To show him what we’ve been running from, what we could have had if he’d stopped pushing me away.
“God, Bastian,” he moans, the words breaking on exhale. I hollow my cheeks in response, drawing another desperate sound from his throat. His soft skin tastes like salt and winter air.
I pull back slowly, letting him slide from my mouth.
His protest dies as I begin moving up his body, mapping territory I’ve dreamed about since that birthday party years ago.
My lips find the sharp curve of his hip, my tongue tracing the line where muscle meets bone.
“You’re perfect,” I murmur against his skin. “Every inch of you.”
His breath catches as I work higher, paying careful attention to the ridges of his abs, the definition years of physical labor have carved into his frame. A light sheen of sweat makes his skin gleam in the dim light, and I chase the salt taste with my tongue. “So beautiful,” I tell him.
The flush spreading across his chest turns deeper at my words, but he doesn’t look away.
His eyes hold mine as I continue my exploration, marking my path with gentle bites and soothing kisses.
When I reach his collarbone, I pause to admire the way color blooms beneath his skin where my teeth have been.
“What do you want?” I ask against his throat, letting my breath ghost over his sensitive flesh. His body shivers in response, but his mouth curves into that familiar sarcastic smile.
“World peace,” he drawls, the words ending on a gasp as I bite down harder. “Maybe an end to hunger. You know, the usual.”
Something dark and possessive rises in my chest. My hand finds his throat, not squeezing, just resting there with deliberate pressure. His pulse races against my palm as his eyes go wide, pupils blown with want. “Try again,” I growl, watching his reaction closely. “What. Do. You. Want?”
The moan that escapes him sounds like surrender. His hips roll against mine, creating a delicious pressure that makes me gasp. “You,” he admits finally, voice rough with need. “Inside me. Now.”
I lean down to capture his mouth, savoring not only his taste but how his body hums with frustration because he needs more. “Do we need condoms?”
“You tell me. I’m not the one being followed around by roadies and groupies. Someone new in every city. I’ve read the headlines.”
The implication that I fuck every willing body stings, but it’s not like he’d know any different.
The Hall of Fame band members aren’t portrayed as saints for a reason.
But for the last fifteen years, we’ve been hiding Kay.
We were never the wild kids everyone thought we were, but as soon as Kay came along, it was as if we all had permission to not do the wild stuff we were expected to do.
We were protecting Mik and his daughter.
Headlines were carefully leaked by our manager, Daisy.
But Taylen believes it, and that’s not something I’m comfortable with.
“Stop.” The word comes out harder than intended, making him blink. “How long do you think it’s been since I’ve been with anyone?”
His expression shifts, caught between sarcasm and uncertainty. “I don’t… That’s not…”
“Eight years,” I tell him, watching understanding dawn in his eyes. “Eight years since I’ve touched anyone like this. Since anyone has touched me.”
The math isn’t hard. His breath catches as he works it out. Eight years means before Burlington, means no one since that night we almost…since we were interrupted…since everything changed.
“I’m on PrEP,” he says finally, voice smaller than before. “Get tested regularly. Always use protection with…” He trails off, like he’s just realized what he’s admitting. “We don’t need…”
“Good.” I cut him off before he can continue, not wanting to think about who else he’s been with, about all the time we’ve wasted dancing around this thing between us.
“Because I want to feel every inch of you. Want to make you feel every second of those seven years I’ve been waiting to do this with you. ”
His eyes go impossibly darker, surprise and arousal mixing in his expression. For once, he seems to be at a complete loss for words, his usual sharp wit abandoned in the face of my confession.
“I’m sorry,” Taylen whispers, but I silence him with a kiss.
My hands frame his face, thumbs stroking over stubble as I pour everything I can’t say into the contact. When I pull back, his eyes hold questions I’m finally ready to answer.
“I don’t want your apologies,” I tell him, my voice rough and needy. “I want you.”
His response comes as movement rather than words, body arching into mine as his legs spread wider in clear invitation. “Then take me,” he breathes against my mouth, the challenge in his tone softened by the way his hands clutch at my shoulders.
I reach for the bedside drawer, feeling for the bottle I keep there. The lube feels cold on my fingers, but I warm it carefully before touching him. His breath catches at the first press of my finger, his body tensing slightly before relaxing into the sensation.
“Okay?” I ask, watching his face for any signs of discomfort.
His expression holds only want, lips parted on quick breaths as I work him open, showing him what this really means to me. When I add a second finger, his back arches off the bed, a sound escaping him that shoots straight to my core.
“More,” he demands, hips rolling to take my fingers deeper.
I comply, adding a third while my free hand strokes his thigh, soothing the tremors I feel building in his muscles. He’s gorgeous like this. His curls untamed, his blue eyes dark as night, all that control stripped away, leaving just raw need and trust that makes my chest tight.
Time loses meaning as I prepare him, every gasp and moan fueling my own desperation. When he starts riding my fingers in earnest, I know we’re both ready. The loss of contact as I withdraw draws a protest from his throat, but it turns to approval as I slick myself and line up.
The first press inside feels like coming home. I freeze, overwhelmed by the sensation. By the realization that this is happening. His fingers dig into my shoulders hard enough to leave marks, and I welcome the slight pain, the proof that this is real, that we’re finally here.
“Move,” he growls, and I obey, starting a rhythm that draws sounds from both our throats.
Each thrust feels electric, pleasure building like storm clouds on summer evenings. My mouth finds his neck, alternating between gentle kisses and sharp bites that make him arch beneath me.
His legs wrap around my waist, changing the angle until we both gasp. One of my hands finds his hip, grip tight enough to bruise, while the other tangles in his hair.
We kiss deeply, messily, sharing every breath. His teeth catch my bottom lip as I thrust harder, the slight pain mixing with pleasure until I can’t tell them apart. Every touch feels like a confession, every sound like prayer, every movement like something we should have done years ago.
When his release hits, it takes me by surprise. His body tightens around me as he cries out, his back arching perfectly, displaying his pleasure like a beautiful show that was made just for me. The sight and sensation push me over the edge, my own climax crashing through.
We collapse together, our hearts racing in sync as aftershocks ripple through us. The silence that follows feels weighted with things neither of us is ready to voice. After a moment, I press a kiss to his temple and slide carefully free, earning a soft sound of loss that makes my chest ache.
The bathroom seems too far, but I force myself to move. The washcloth I bring back is warm, and I clean him with gentle thoroughness, paying attention to any signs of discomfort. His eyes never leave my face as I tend to him, expression unreadable in the room’s dim light.
When I’m done, I throw the cloth on the floor and lie beside him, wrapping my arms around his body until he’s pressed against my chest. The weight of his body feels both foreign and familiar, like a song I wrote so long ago I’ve forgotten the words but remember the melody.
I trace idle patterns across his skin, mapping the art inked there with careful attention.
I’m afraid of saying the wrong thing, of breaking the spell.
He does it first.
“Tell me about this,” he says, tracing the J on my chest. The only tattoo I have.
“I did it after he died. I couldn't come home, and…
let's just say my behavior on the road made me unpopular with the band. Stone was the one who suggested doing something to focus my grief. Every time I look at it, I remember him, his words of support and encouragement. How he told me to chase my dreams.”
He hums as his fingers move back and forth over my skin.
“Tell me about yours,” I murmur, following a particular line that curves around his sides. He shifts slightly but doesn’t pull away, his breath steady against my collar.
“They’re for Jackson too. I get a new one every year,” he says after a moment, his voice quiet in the room’s stillness. “On the anniversary of his death.”
The admission makes my hand still, but he continues before I can speak, “Each one means something different. Memories or inside jokes or things he loved.” His fingers find mine, guiding them to various designs.
“This one’s for the constellation he always pointed out in the sky that he never got right.
This is for the truck he was restoring. This is for the summer we all learned to swim in the lake. ”
My throat tightens as I recognize the memories he’s preserved in ink and skin. Images I recognize from our shared past, and moments I wasn’t there to commemorate with him. Twelve years of grief marked in permanent lines while I was away chasing the spotlight and trying to outrun my own loss.
I trace the palm of his hand with my fingers, noticing a tattoo for the first time.
“And this one?” I ask, touching the design on his wrist that looks like a worn leather band. He tenses slightly, but he doesn’t pull away.
“That was the first one,” he says, voice rougher now. “He had a leather bracelet he never took off. After the accident, I asked about it, but it was never found. The police said it probably got caught on something and snapped off.”
I kiss his forehead and then turn slightly so I can reach the drawer in my bedside table to retrieve the most precious thing I own.
Taylen’s breath catches as I unwrap it carefully, revealing the worn leather darkened with age and wear. The bracelet looks smaller than I remember, though the craftsmanship still shows in every careful stitch.
“How…?” Taylen’s voice breaks on the word, his eyes fixed on the familiar band. “Is it really…?”
“He gave it to me,” I admit quietly, watching emotion play across his features.
“Last time I saw him. He joked that I didn’t come home often enough, and one day, I’d forget about him.
He didn’t want that.” The sound that comes out of my throat is like a weird guttural laugh that sounds foreign even to me.
“Like I would forget my best friend who was like a brother to me.”
Taylen’s fingers hover over the leather, trembling slightly but not quite touching.
“He was everything,” I continue, words spilling out. “The person who grew up with me, the one I came out to before anyone else. The one who encouraged my songwriting, told me singing was the coolest thing.”
Tears gather in Taylen’s eyes. My throat feels tight, and I’m hanging by a thread.
I haven’t spoken about Jackson since he died, and now I realize Taylen and I have both been grieving in our own way.
When he finally touches the bracelet, his fingertips barely brush the worn surface, as though he's afraid it might disappear. Then, suddenly, he’s kissing me, brief and hard, before turning away.
I watch him swing his legs over the bed’s edge, his broad back like a wall between us. “Please stay…for dinner?” I offer, trying desperately to keep my voice steady. “I was cooking before you arrived…”
“Can’t.” The word comes out clipped, final. He stands and begins gathering his scattered clothing. I stay silent as he dresses, watching him rebuild his walls piece by piece, and hopeless to stop it from happening.
At the door, he pauses, glancing back with an expression I can’t read. Then he’s gone, footsteps fading down the hall. The bracelet sits heavy in my palm.
Losing my best friend broke me, but losing Taylen will obliterate me.
I put the bracelet back in its resting place as Gouta’s head peeks through the open door to my room.
“Yeah, yeah, I know. I’ll fix it,” I say, hoping it’s not another lie.