Chapter 07 OLLIE
Even in my too-big clothes, he’s so damn pretty. When I return with our food, he’s sprawled on the floor against my bed, sex-scrambled hair falling in his eyes while he plays on his phone.
“Do you want a beer?“
I offer one of the bottles I’m carrying, but he wrinkles his nose.
“Gross. I’m a vodka-only twink, thank you.”
“Meredith drinks vodka. I could raid the liquor cabinet.”
“That’s okay. I still have to drive home.”
“You don’t have to. I wouldn’t mind if you stayed.”
He startles, fumbling the carton of Pad Thai as I pass it over, and color races up his neck.
“I can’t. I have class in the morning, and I need a shower and clean underwear and a change of clothes. Plus, you don’t want to see me when I haven’t had my beauty sleep.”
We could sleep together. But I’m not ready to scare him off, so I settle on the rug facing him and let it go.
“As much as I like seeing you in my clothes, I guess they’re not exactly your style. Do you always wear fancy lingerie, or only for—“
I almost say me, but he didn’t come here today planning to rock my world, and I’m sure as hell not bringing up Zachary. “—special occasions?”
“Not always. Obviously, when I want to get laid. Or when I’m having a shitty day, or I’m nervous about something and I need a reason to make myself function. I like the way it feels. And the way it makes me feel.“
He tucks his legs under him and opens his Pad Thai, and I hold my breath, hoping he’ll keep talking. It’s the most he’s opened up since he told me his coming-out story, and I’m greedy for all his hidden layers. He’s a fascinating mess of contradictions—fierce and sensitive and sassy and soft.
What would it take to get to the center of him?
“After my parents split up,“
he says around a mouthful of chicken, “I didn’t see my dad for three years. The first time I visited him, he was living in some high-rise apartment with his newest mistress. Although I guess you’d call her a girlfriend, since he was no longer married to my mom. I was fourteen and bored as fuck. My dad was working the whole time, and I was a punk with no interest in giving Niki—the woman—the time of day. She was obsessed with the Food Network, constantly watching Iron Chef and Hell’s Kitchen, even though I never saw her cook, and she was high on Xanax all weekend. I hated her, obviously, but she had this entire closet full of high-end lingerie—garter sets and thigh-high stockings and bralettes with embroidered lace. All of it jewel-toned in velvet and satin and silk so fine it was almost sheer. I wanted to touch everything, and then I wanted it on my skin. She caught me in a sexy little three-piece that must have cost more than a month’s rent back in Missouri.”
“Was she mad?”
“She thought it was adorable. Bundled me up in one of her kimonos and was teaching me how to apply a perfect cat-eye when my dad came home.”
I swallow roughly against that visual. “How did he take it?”
He sets the half-eaten carton of noodles on the floor beside him and leans his head back against the bed. I’m about to apologize for asking when he starts talking again in a low, musing voice.
“He was never an angry person. My mom was the one who would rage and cry. He was always calm, even with her. It wasn’t until years later that I recognized it for the gaslighting it was.“
His shoulders shift in a half shrug, like he’s apologizing for having a shitty dad. I set my own food aside and scoot close enough to knock my knee into his. Opening his eyes, he gifts me a fragile smile. “He sat on the bed, watching her curl my lashes and test lipstick shades on my wrist, and asked me questions about my life—what I liked doing, who my friends were. Stupid, basic stuff. And I knew he was only trying to look good in front of Niki, but it was the most attention he’d paid me in as long as I could remember.”
I lean in and plant a kiss on his knee, and he huffs, reaching down to wind one of my curls around his finger.
“I bought myself a pair of floral panties in tropical teal as soon as I got home, and the first time I wore them was the day I made the cheerleading squad.”
“I like you in pink,“
I blurt, and his whole body brightens. For a warm, suspended moment, we just smile at each other. “Want to watch a show? Meredith has all the streaming services.“
Anything to delay the moment he walks out of my life. Ask for his number. Surely, after all this, he’ll let me see him again, right?
“Dancing with the Stars. There’s a new season on Hulu, and they brought Mark Ballas back.”
I move the take-out containers to my desk and turn off the lights while he settles under the covers and works the remote, then crawl in beside him. Halfway through the second episode, I doze off, lulled by the dubious comfort of overplayed pop hits and the miracle of Fen in my bed.
Way too soon, I wake to him stirring beside me.
“I really need to go.”
I snuggle tighter around him, mumbling a sleepy protest, and he sighs in my arms.
“Ollie?”
“Mmm.”
“Fuck me first? Send me home with the memory of you inside me.”
I’d rather keep him forever and fuck him every day for the rest of my life, but I’m not about to turn down the offer. Except…
“I don’t have any lube,“
I tell him, sleep-slurred and raspy with regret.
“At the risk of sounding like a total slut, there’s some in my sneaker.”
“You keep lube in your shoe?”
“I keep lube in my pocket. And you insisted on throwing my pants in the dryer when you went downstairs to get the food.”
The rain has stopped, and moonlight shines through the curtains, carrying the chorus of a thousand singing frogs. The floorboards creak in sympathy as I pad across the rug to rummage through his shoes.
He shifts in the shadows—a rustle of covers, the soft thump of clothes hitting the floor. I hesitate at the edge of the bed, thumbs in my waistband, then drop my shorts in a rush and reach for the duvet.
“Let me see you.“
He stops me with a hand at my hip and rolls to his knees. “It’s only fair.”
Goosebumps pebble beneath his fingers as he skims over my skin. The weight of his attention is a physical thing, and I shudder while my cock slowly fills. When he leans in to nuzzle the juncture of my thigh, all the air leaves me in a rush, and I clutch at his shoulders, struggling to breathe.
“I knew it would be gorgeous,“
he murmurs, then plants a soft, open-mouthed kiss to the base of my crown. “Now put it inside me.”
With trembling fingers, I fumble a condom from the nightstand and roll it down my shaft.
“What now?“
I ask, when I’m tucked back behind him, packet of lube in hand.
“I’m basically prepped from earlier. Coat that pretty cock of yours, and you’ll slip right in, I promise.”
“And you’ll tell me if it hurts?”
“It’s gonna hurt in the best way imaginable.”
When I frown down at him, his teeth flash.
“Seriously,“
he says. “You should try it sometime.”
Well. Okay, then.
I try to go slow, but he reaches back to grip my thigh, and with one smooth roll of his hips, I—
slip
right
in.
“Don’t break my heart,“
he whispers, or maybe I dream it. The tight heat of him is unreal, an oasis in the scorched desert of my self-denial, and I’m drowning in the sheer revelation of him. My mind is full of crazy, impossible words like love and mine and forever, but all I let fall from my lips is his name.
He turns his head to kiss me and sucks on my tongue, arching to meet my every careful thrust. It’s drowsy and languid, and he doesn’t rush or plead—just rides me like an inexorable current until I’m the one rolling to crush him into the mattress, until my hips are the ones chasing harder, deeper, more.
Until I’m the one begging in his ear.
And even though I’ve already come twice tonight, and even though I never want it to end, there’s no way to resist him.
“It’s okay,“
he says, as if reading my mind—and maybe we’re close enough right now that he can. “I’m right there. Take me with you.”
In the end, he comes first, writhing and clenching with a breathy, gasping cry. It drags me to ruin, and I spill into him, nails carving hips and teeth sunk in the back of his neck.
“That was perfect,“
he tells me, as oblivion comes to claim my sated limbs. “You were perfect.”
Stay, then. Be perfect with me.
When I wake up, I’m alone.