Chapter 13 #2
For a second, I just look up at him. His chest rises fast. His hands flex at his sides like he doesn’t know whether to touch me or let me move.
I reach for him instead.
I hook my fingers into the waistband of his jeans. The denim is warm from his skin. Familiar. My pulse kicks harder as I pop the button, slow on purpose, watching his face the whole time. He clamps down on his bottom lip when I drag the zipper down.
“You’re killing me,” he mutters.
“Yeah,” I murmur back, pushing his jeans lower over his hips. “That’s kind of the point.”
I slide my hands over his thighs as I work the jeans down, taking my time. I’m not rushing this. I push the fabric past his hips, freeing him inch by inch, my fingers brushing bare skin as it’s revealed.
Fuck, his cock is long. Thicker than I remember. Solid in my hand. And there—just under the flushed head—a small silver barbell I’ve never seen before.
A piercing.
I stare at it for a second too long.
Of course he got one. Of course he changed while I wasn’t there to see it happen.
He’s beautiful in a way that makes my stomach dip. His dick the kind that promises stretch. Heat. That slow, steady burn that leaves you wrecked in the best way. My mouth actually waters at the thought of it. Of later. Of how he’ll feel inside me.
It’s been years.
Years since I’ve had him like this. Years since I’ve been down here, hands on him instead of fisting sheets alone and pretending memory was enough. There were so many nights that I told myself this was done. That we were done. That this—him, like this—was something I’d lost for good.
And now he’s here, in my hands.
I wrap my fingers around him. He fills my palm. My thumb brushes the barbell, testing. He sucks in a breath, hips twitching.
Yeah. He likes that.
Heat spreads low in my gut. My body remembers him immediately. No hesitation. No awkwardness. Like we didn’t lose time at all.
“Ollie.”
I look up.
My name comes out broken. Desperate. It hits me straight in the chest.
I used to hear that sound in the dark. Used to fall asleep with it in my ear. I didn’t think I’d ever hear it again.
Something hot and dangerous moves through me. Not just want. Not just hunger.
Relief.
He’s here. He’s real. He’s letting me touch him.
I don’t make him ask twice.
I lean in and run my tongue along him, slow and deliberate, circling the piercing just to see what happens. The metal is cool at first, then warm. He swears under his breath.
I take my time, relearning him. The weight of him. The feel of his skin under my mouth. The way he reacts when I flick my tongue over the slit, tasting salt and heat and him.
God, I missed this.
Rafe groans, and it goes straight through me. That sound has always been my weakness. Always.
I open my mouth and take him in slowly. He’s thick enough that I feel the stretch immediately. My lips pull taut. My jaw adjusts. I don’t rush it. I let him feel exactly how much he fills me.
“Ollie… holy shit… fuck….”
I glance up at him while I move, steady and intentional. Our eyes lock.
There’s heat there, yeah. But there’s something else too. Something almost stunned. Like he can’t quite believe this is happening.
Good. Because I can’t either.
I grip him at the base, pinkie brushing over his balls as I move. He’s girthy enough that my fingers barely meet. My thumb slides over the barbell again just to feel him twitch.
Possessive. That’s what this feels like.
Not careful. Not hesitant.
Mine.
I breathe through my nose and take him deeper. Slow. Controlled. The fullness builds until he hits the back of my throat. The stretch is sharp and perfect. The piercing drags faintly against my tongue.
Heat spikes through me. Fuck me. For a second, it feels like no time has passed. Like we’re back before everything went sideways. Before distance and fear and stupid choices carved us apart.
Rafe’s hands come roughly to my head. He pushes forward, guiding the rhythm. I let him. I take it.
I’m burning.
“Fuck.” His thrusts turn rougher. Hungrier. “I need inside you.”
The words land heavy, because I need that too. Not just the sex. Not just the stretch. I need to feel him there. Need the proof. Need something solid that says this isn’t going to disappear when the lights come up. The thought alone makes my stomach flip.
I pull off him abruptly, breathing hard. Too hard.
His eyes sharpen. “Something wrong?”
There’s real concern there. That almost undoes me more than anything else.
“God, no. Nothing.” I drag a hand over my mouth. “But fuck. I almost came.”
His mouth curves slow. Dangerous. Familiar. “Yeah?”
I swallow, heart pounding harder than it should be. “Just the thought of you fucking me.” It comes out rough. Honest. “And doing it properly,” I add, forcing myself to hold his gaze. “No surprises.”
His brow furrows slightly. “Ollie—”
“I’m negative,” I say quietly. “Haven’t been with anyone.”
Eight years. I don’t say it. I don’t have to.
His expression shifts. It’s softer now, steadier.
“Me too,” he says. “Tested before the tour wrapped. All clear.”
Relief hits harder than it should. It shouldn’t surprise me. It doesn’t. But hearing it—knowing we’re not just reckless and hoping for the best—grounds me.
“I don’t want this to be messy,” I admit. “If we’re doing this, we’re doing it right.”
A slow smile curves his mouth. “You’ve always been like this.”
“Like what?”
“Responsible.” He brushes his thumb along my jaw. “And yeah, definitely negative.”
I huff a breath that might be a laugh. “That’s the only kind of negative I’m interested in.”
He leans closer, forehead brushing mine. “Good. Because I’m not risking you.”
That does something to my chest I’m not prepared for.
And under the heat, under the anticipation coiling in my gut, there’s one clear truth pressing heavily against me: I never thought I’d get this again. And now that I have it, I’m not sure I could survive losing it twice.
That truth sits between us for about half a second.
Rafe sees it. He always does.
Something in his expression shifts—not softer exactly, but sharper. Focused.
“Hey,” he says quietly. His hand comes to my jaw, thumb pressing just under my chin, tipping my face up. Not rough. Not gentle either. Just certain. “You don’t get to decide how this ends before it’s even started.”
My breath catches. “I’m not—”
“You are.” His mouth twitches faintly. “You always run ten steps ahead.”
“I call it being cautious.”
“I call it being safe.” He kisses me once, firm. “Which I like about you.”
That lands differently now.
Before I can overthink it, he tugs me up and kisses me again. Not slow. Not teasing. Intent. Heat and possession and something almost desperate underneath. I grab his shirt, fist twisting in the fabric, and he makes a low sound in his throat that feels like victory.
“You think too much,” he mutters against my mouth.
“It’s a bad habit.”
He pulls back just enough to look at me. “I know, but now’s not the time.” He presses a kiss to the underside of my jaw, then glances past me toward the bathroom. A slow grin spreads across his face. “You still haven’t shown me that ridiculously fancy shower you wouldn’t shut up about.”
I blink, my cock punching against my jeans. “You want a tour?”
“I want to see if it lives up to the hype.” His hand slides down my side, fingers hooking into my belt loops. “And I’m thinking we relocate before you short-circuit again.”
Heat creeps up my neck. “I wasn’t—”
“You were,” he says lightly. “Come on.”
He takes my hand and pulls me toward the bathroom. The glass shower enclosure gleams under the lights—overhead rain head, side jets, more controls than necessary.
Rafe whistles low. “Okay. You weren’t exaggerating.”
“Told you.”
“Basketball money well spent.”
I roll my eyes and reach for the controls, turning the water on. Steam begins to curl upward almost immediately.
As he steps closer, I remember. “Wait.” I bend down, scoop up my jeans, and dig into the pocket. My fingers close around the small, crinkly rectangles I shoved in there earlier—just in case.
When I turn around holding the lube packets, Rafe’s mouth twitches.
“You came prepared,” he says.
My ears burn. “Shut up.”
He laughs softly. “Ollie.”
“What? I like being prepared.”
“I know you do.” He steps closer, eyes warm, teasing but not unkind. “You carry lube in your pocket now?”
“It’s not like I planned this,” I mutter. “I just—” I shrug. “I hoped.”
That wipes the teasing right off his face. “Hey,” he says gently, brushing his knuckles over my cheek. “Nothing embarrassing about that.”
I clear my throat, set the packets on the bathroom counter, and tug my shirt over my head to avoid his eyes.
He follows suit, peeling his clothes off slowly, deliberately. There’s something unfair about how good he looks standing there in my bathroom, steam curling around him.
And for a second, I just… stare.
It’s been years.
He’s broader through the shoulders now. Not bulked like me, but solid in a way he wasn’t at twenty-five. There’s a steadiness to him. Lines at the corners of his eyes that weren’t there before. Not aging—just lived-in. Earned.
More ink too.
My gaze drags over him, cataloging the differences like I’m afraid I won’t get to look again. The swallow that works down his throat. The familiar curve of his collarbone. The new tattoos scattered across his ribs and down his arm—finer lines, more intricate than the old ones. Bolder.
And then there’s the piercing. It glints subtly when he shifts. It’s deliciously obscene and completely him.
But my eyes snag on something that hasn’t changed. High on his side, just beneath his ribs—the small, clean lines of my old college number and a half-court.
He kept it. The air leaves my lungs quietly.
He got that inked when we were barely adults. When everything was reckless and certain and loud. I’d half expected it to be gone by now. Covered. Altered. Removed.
It’s still there.