Chapter 19 #3
I press forward until the backs of his knees hit the bed, and he drops with a quiet huff, pulling me down with him. We land in a tangle of limbs and breath, and when I push up to look at him, he’s watching me with that same steady focus he’s had all night.
“You really did that,” he says softly.
“Did what?”
“In front of them.”
I know exactly what he means. The words. The way I didn’t hesitate. The way I didn’t give them an out.
“I’m done pretending,” I tell him. “I love you. I’m not taking that back for anyone.”
His jaw flexes, emotion coloring his expression. His hands come up, framing my face like he needs the contact.
“Ollie….”
“I meant it,” I say. “All of it.”
A quiet beat passes between us.
“You feel like home,” I add, because that’s the closest I can get to explaining the weight in my chest.
His thumb brushes along my cheek.
“I’ve missed this,” he says.
“Me too.” I swallow. “Even when we were… figuring things out again. Even when we were careful.”
His hands slide down to my hips, grounding. “You’re not running anymore.”
“No.” The answer comes easy. Certain. “I’m not.”
I shift over him, pressing closer. The contact isn’t desperate this time. It’s anchoring. His breath leaves him slowly as our foreheads touch.
“If I could marry you again,” I say quietly, the words slipping out before I can second-guess them, “I would.”
Rafe stills under me. “Again?” he repeats, voice rough.
“Yeah.” I meet his eyes. “Not secret. Not impulsive. Not something we hide from the world. The real version.”
His fingers flex against mine. “Ollie….”
“I’m not asking,” I add quickly. “I just—if that door ever opens, I’d walk through it. Every time.”
His expression shifts, the tension in his face easing.
The stiffness around his mouth loosens first, then the sharp focus in his eyes softens, turning warmer, steadier.
Relief settles there—quiet but unmistakable—as if something he’s been bracing against for years has finally given way.
His shoulders drop a fraction, the hard lines of control melting.
There’s gentleness in the way he looks at me now. Not fragile, not uncertain. Just open. Vulnerable in a way he rarely allows himself to be. It’s the kind of expression that says he believes me. That he trusts this moment enough to let go means more than any words he could say.
“You don’t get to say things like that and then act normal,” he murmurs.
“I’m not acting normal.”
A shaky laugh escapes him. “Good.”
I lean down and kiss him again, slow and deliberate. I’m not frantic despite the throb of my cock. I’m no longer afraid this will disappear.
Not anymore.
His hands keep moving, roaming over my body like he can’t stop touching me, like he needs the reassurance as much as I do.
Every glide of his palms lights up my skin, keeping the heat alive instead of letting it fade.
Our breathing is still uneven, our bodies still in sync, and when his hand disappears between us again, anticipation hits sharp and electric.
I shudder at the wet sound.
His spit-slick fingers slide lower, deliberate, unhurried this time. No rush. No panic. Just control.
“Rafe,” I warn, but it’s weak. More plea than protest.
His mouth brushes mine. “I know.”
His fingers part me, probing, familiar and confident. I angle instinctively, opening for him, letting my head sag against him. The first press makes me gasp, the sensation sharp enough to cut through the haze of aftershock.
“More,” I say, the word wrecked.
He answers immediately, pushing deeper, steady and relentless. The rhythm builds, and my body reacts without permission, rocking back, chasing the pressure.
I lift a little, dragging my gaze over him, taking in everything at once—ink, strength, the focused hunger in his eyes. And the piercing. It glints when he moves, unfairly distracting.
“Still thinking about that?” he asks quietly.
“Yeah,” I breathe. “It’s ridiculous.”
“You like it.”
“I like you,” I answer, and the truth of it lands between us, heavy and real.
His mouth crashes back to mine, deeper this time. When his fingers brush my prostate, pleasure explodes through me, and I groan against his lips.
“Fuck. Rafe—more.”
“Lube?” he murmurs.
“Drawer.”
The loss of his fingers makes my hips chase nothing. He soothes me with a kiss before shifting, settling me back as he reaches for what he needs. I watch him, heart pounding, body restless. When my hand drifts down my stomach toward my aching cock, his look stops me cold.
“Don’t,” he says.
I don’t.
He returns, focused, grounding, slicking his fingers and then himself with calm precision. The sounds alone make my skin prickle.
When he presses back inside me, the stretch is deeper now, fuller. My head falls back.
“Take what you need,” he says.
I drag him down into a kiss, pouring everything into it—fear, relief, the fragile certainty that this is real. I bear down, riding the sensation until the pressure builds again.
Then I shift, pushing him onto his back and climbing over him. His hands come to my hips automatically.
The first touch of him in my hand makes my breath hitch. Thick. Warm. The piercing brushing my palm.
I line him up, hovering, and he watches me like I’m the only thing that exists, a curve to his lips.
“Something funny?” I ask, rolling my hips so the head of him nudges in and out.
His gaze shutters. “No.”
“Then what?”
“Watching you take what you want,” he says. “It’s hot as fuck.”
I smirk.
“It’s everything,” he adds.
The words hit deeper than they should. I sink down slowly, the stretch stealing my breath. His hold intensifies, steadying me.
We move together, instinctive and sure. I rock over him while he thrusts up, deep and controlled. His mouth finds mine again when he sits up, his kisses burning across my skin.
He closes his hand around my cock and I groan, tension building fast. Every movement is perfect, every stroke hitting exactly right.
It doesn’t take long.
Release hits me, sharp and perfect. I come hard, shaking, his name breaking from me. He follows, groaning low as he spills inside me.
Sagging against him, I press a kiss to his neck, saying, “Thank you for giving me a chance.”
“Always.” He kisses me softly, easing us down so I’m draped over him, skin slick, heat still shared.
Peace settles in, deep and rare. My mind is quiet.
“You think we were loud?” I mumble, reality trying to sink in.
“I don’t give a fuck either way.”
I press closer and snort. “Okay. I’ll try not to give a fuck either.”
He chuckles, the movement making me gasp, but not enough to separate. Not yet. I just need a little more time, just like this.