Chapter 23
OLLIE
The room is quiet in that particular way only early morning can manage—soft, suspended, like the world hasn’t quite decided to start yet. Pale light slips through the narrow gap in the hotel curtains, washing everything in muted gold. For a moment, I just lie here, breathing.
It takes a second for my brain to catch up to the fact that this is real.
That the warm weight pressed along my side isn’t a memory or a half-asleep fantasy. That the arm thrown over my waist, heavy and possessive even in sleep, belongs to my husband.
Twelve years.
The number lands in my chest and settles there, deep and steady. Twelve years ago today, we did the most reckless, impossible, terrifying, beautiful thing either of us had ever done. We stood in a chapel in Vegas with shaky hands and too much hope and said yes.
I don’t believe in wishing.
I don’t waste time wondering what would have happened if I’d been braver. If I’d handled the pressure differently. If I hadn’t walked away.
That path only leads to regret, and I’ve spent enough years drowning in that.
Instead, I focus on this.
On the man in my arms. On the slow, even rise and fall of his chest. On the way his hair sticks up at the back like he fought a war in his dreams. On the fact that I get to wake up beside him at all.
We lost the game last night.
The Colorado Crows played hard, and so did we. It was close, brutal if I’m honest, and left my bones aching and my brain frazzled long after the final buzzer. But even in the locker room, even under the sting of loss, something inside me stayed steady.
And when we got back to the hotel, we crawled into bed, and Rafe snuggled so close to me. Sure, his mouth on my cock helped me settle and was arguably the highlight of my night after a loss, but my peace remained because of him. Us. This.
The sun inches higher, and the light shifts. I trace slow circles along his back, careful not to wake him, though I know he’ll feel it eventually. He always does.
He makes a small sound, somewhere between a sigh and a grumble, and his grip tightens.
“Morning,” he mumbles, voice rough with sleep.
I smile, because he sounds wrecked and soft and nothing like the man who can command a stadium with a single note.
“Morning,” I say quietly.
He blinks one eye open, then the other, squinting at me like he needs to confirm I’m real. It’s a look I’ve seen more than once lately—wonder threaded with disbelief.
“Why are you awake?” he asks.
“Habit,” I say. “Also you drool.”
He scowls faintly. “Lies.”
“Absolute truth. Very rock star. Very glamorous.”
He snorts and shifts closer, dragging his leg over mine. The movement presses us together more fully, and I don’t miss the way his breath hitches when he realizes exactly how awake I am.
“Happy anniversary,” I say softly.
For a second, he just stares at me. Then something in his face opens. His expression goes unguarded in a way that still destroys me, even after all this time.
“Happy anniversary,” he echoes.
I lean in and kiss him.
It’s gentle and unhurried. His mouth is warm, still soft with sleep. He slides his hand up to the back of my neck, fingers threading into my hair like he needs the anchor.
When we pull back, he stays close. Close enough that our noses brush.
“Twelve years,” he murmurs.
“Yeah.”
“We were insane.”
“We still are,” I say.
His lips twitch. “Speak for yourself. I’m a model of maturity now.”
I raise a brow. “You picked a fight with a cereal brand on Threads last week.”
“They deserved it.”
“They did not deserve a ten-part thread.”
“They absolutely did.”
I huff a quiet laugh, and the sound feels lighter than anything I’ve known in years.
Then he shifts again, and this time there’s no missing it.
Rafe’s gaze drops between us, and the slow, wicked smile that spreads across his face is familiar enough to make heat coil low in my stomach.
“Well,” he says, voice roughening. “This is… festive.”
I roll my eyes. “You’re unbelievable.”
“You’re the one who woke up like this.”
“You’re the one grinding against me in your sleep.”
“Self-defense.”
“Sure.”
He nudges me with his hip, deliberately this time, and I inhale sharply despite myself.
“That shoulder okay?” he asks, tone changing just enough to show he means it.
“Yeah,” I say. “Sore, but manageable.”
“Good,” he murmurs. Then, softer, he adds, “I hate not being able to fix that.”
“You do plenty,” I tell him.
His gaze lifts back to mine. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
There’s a moment where everything goes quiet again. The world outside the hotel room stays distant. No press. No cameras. No noise. Just us.
His fingers trace the line of my jaw. “We’re really here,” he says.
“We are.”
“You still don’t regret it?” he asks.
“Marrying you?” I smile. “Never.”
He exhales, a heavy breath leaving him. “Good,” he says. “Because I’m not going anywhere this time.”
“Neither am I.”
He glances toward the window. “We should probably get up. Isn’t our flight soon?”
“Probably.”
Rafe arches his brow at my nonchalance. It can’t be helped.
The last thing I’m thinking about is getting my ass into gear and meeting the team for the flight back.
Sure, the sooner we get home, the sooner we can be in my loft, in our bed, and spending the day properly together without a schedule, but right now the thought of tasting him makes responsibility feel like a distant concept.
Because the shift is already happening.
It’s subtle at first. The way his gaze lingers on my mouth. The way his breathing deepens just slightly. His shoulders relax, but there’s tension underneath it, coiled and warm.
He knows me too well.
“Don’t,” he says, but there’s no real warning in it.
“Don’t what?”
His eyes drop, tracking the slow way I inch closer. “You’re thinking about it.”
“Thinking about what?”
His mouth twitches. “You’re not as subtle as you think.”
“Good,” I say.
I angle closer so that our chests almost touch. The air between us shifts, thick and charged. His pupils blow wide, and his hand flexes on my waist.
The effort is pointless.
“I thought we were getting up,” he says, but his voice is already rough.
“We will.”
“Soon?”
“Eventually.”
He exhales—half laugh, half surrender. “You’re impossible.”
“Married to you,” I remind him.
That does it.
Something in his expression snaps. The softness melts into hunger. He pulls me in until there’s no space left. My cock is already hard. I know he can feel it.
“You’re not helping,” he mutters.
“I’m not trying to.”
His nostrils flare. His gaze drops again, heat flaring in his eyes. “Flight,” he says, but it sounds like a question.
“Later.”
He groans quietly, forehead coming to rest against mine. “You’re going to be the death of me.”
“Worth it.”
He kisses me before dragging himself away.
“The hell! Get your ass back in here,” I complain.
Rafe’s grin is wide. “Two minutes and I’m all yours.” He backs up to the bathroom, and it’s no use. I gently tug at my cock, watching him go.
“Hands off,” he shouts, closing the door.
I huff but do as I’m told. He knows exactly what I want: his cock in my throat and my fingers up his ass. The wait, though, is almost too much. Just the thought of milking him, dragging his cum out of him, hardens my dick to the point of pain.
It’s no good. I grab onto the root of my cock, willing my body to behave. I’m on my tenth round of counting to ten when the bathroom door opens. The shower’s off, Rafe having taken the world’s quickest “quick clean.”
A smirk plays on his lips, but my gaze doesn’t stay there long, too focused on his erection.
“You doing okay?” he teases, climbing back onto the bed and straddling me.
I grunt my approval and tug him down. “I am now.”
His mouth is on mine immediately.
The kiss is fierce and hungry and steals breath and thought. I slide my hands over his back, pulling him closer. His body presses against mine. Naked flesh, hard muscle, and that perfect weight that always gets to me. I wrap my arms around him more fiercely and groan.
Fuck, I love it when he’s like this. Horny and hard, rocking against me. His cock brushes mine just right, and I’m already leaking, already close.
But it’s his “Te amo” against my mouth that hits harder than anything else.
It’s ridiculous, as we tell each other regularly. But every damn time, something warm settles in my chest anyway.
“Prove it. Feed me your cock and show me how much you love me,” I murmur.
Because yeah, I want him in my mouth. Want to swallow him down, hear every sound he makes, feel him lose control.
Rafe smiles against my lips but doesn’t move right away. Instead, he licks into my mouth slowly, unhurried, almost indulgent.
I let him. I always will.
We move together in a slow rhythm, hips grinding, mouths fused. He’s not rushing. Not trying to wreck me in five minutes like he usually does. He’s feeling. Grounding.
His groan vibrates through me and pulls me back to the moment. “You want to suck me dry?” he pants.
Fuck yes. I nod and squeeze his ass, urging him up.
He shifts, and I take him in. The morning light is brighter in the room, giving me the perfect view of the need in his eyes, the way his pupils are blown wide.
“But don’t come while you’re sucking me off.” He arches his brow, knowing my reactions far too well. I love getting him off, and all too easily I get off untouched when he fucks my throat and I fingerfuck his ass. “Wait. I want you to swallow first.”
“Fuck, baby,” I mutter, already dragging him up my body.
His balls brush my chest, and the sound he makes tells me he’s as eager as I am. When he settles over my shoulders, I adjust the pillow and tilt my head back, ready.
I wet my lips. “Give it to me.”
Our eyes stay locked as he strokes himself once, twice. He doesn’t rush. He never does when he’s like this—focused, deliberate, watching me the way he does onstage right before he steps into the spotlight. He holds steady, giving me the chance to lick his precum.
I love his flavor. The taste is familiar. Mine. Ours. It hits something deep in my chest, something older than the years we lost. Something that says we found our way back anyway.
His breath stutters when I look up at him again. There’s no hiding from each other now. No pretending that I’m not his. The room feels smaller, warmer, like the air itself is watching.
I open wide and take him in. The underside of his cock drags across my tongue, heavy and perfect. I let him move slowly at first, watching his reactions, the way his lips part, the soft sounds he makes. His hand tangles in my hair, not pushing, just anchoring, like he needs to know I’m really here.
Like he needs to know I’m not going anywhere.
While Rafe focuses on that, I reach under my pillow and grab the lube I put there last night. The preparation had felt ridiculous then. Hopeful. Now it feels inevitable.
He sees the movement, his expression darkening with approval, hips lifting slightly. His eyes burn, and that quiet confidence settles between us again—the one that says we know each other better than anyone ever could.
I slick my fingers and press into him.
He gasps, head dropping forward, cock jerking in my mouth. His quiet exhale is all surrender as he sinks back onto my fingers. His shoulders loosen, the tension leaving him in a way that always gets to me. Like he trusts me to hold the weight of whatever he’s carrying.
I groan around him. I love this. Not just the control, but the closeness. The way he lets me see him when no one else does.
I add another finger, stretching him, matching his pace as he starts to move more deliberately. The rhythm builds, familiar and grounding. His sounds grow louder, less controlled, echoing softly in the room.
My throat relaxes, letting him take what he needs. I want him to lose himself. I want him to forget everything except this.
“Fucking perfect,” he pants.
The praise settles warm and steady in my chest.
When he hits the back of my throat, a shiver runs through me. He’s close. I know every sign. The tension in his thighs. The way his hand tenses in my hair. The slight hitch in his breathing.
I swallow around him, urging him on. He goes rigid, hips snapping once before he comes, spilling down my throat. I take everything, easing back only enough to lick him clean, fingers still working inside him.
He trembles. “Ollie,” he breathes.
I smile around him.
He shifts down immediately, reaching for me like he can’t help it. His palm wraps around my cock and I groan, the contact sharp and overwhelming. When he slicks his hand with precum, the sensation hits even harder.
“Come here,” I say, dragging him into a kiss.
He tastes himself on my tongue and chases it, just like always. The kiss turns messy, heated, grounding. His hand works me steadily, confidently, and I feel myself slipping.
I’m already close.
I thrust into his grip, holding his head, kissing him like I never want this to end. Like if I stop, the moment might disappear.
Rafe pulls back just long enough to shift, turning, and then he takes me into his mouth.
The first deep pull wrecks me. My back arches, vision going white at the edges.
He knows exactly what he’s doing. Always has.
One deep suck and I lose it, coming hard, the world blurring out. He takes everything, owning me completely.
When I finally come down, he presses a soft kiss to my thigh. It’s the quietest moment in the whole exchange, and somehow the most intimate.
And every time, it feels like this is more than just love and working things out.
This… us… we’re inevitable.