Chapter 10 Rhett #2
He sucked in a breath and let me push the sweater up, then shrugged out of it. His t-shirt followed, and then it was only skin, scars, and muscle. He didn't flex or pose—he stood there, letting me see him and take inventory. There was nothing delicate about his build.
I stepped back to look—really look. He didn't hide his shape. He didn't apologize for the size of his chest or how his stomach softened above his belt. He looked at me like he expected disappointment, like he'd built a fortress of self-deprecation and couldn't imagine anyone wanting in.
I pushed him onto the bed. He landed with a whump, mattress groaning under the sudden impact. "See?" he said, grinning. "Destruction."
I climbed on top of him, knees straddling his hips, and kissed him until the world shrank to a single point of contact, tongues, teeth, and the scrape of my stubble.
I grinned like an idiot into the kiss, my hands clumsy on his chest. The sensations of touching Hog landed somewhere between petting a pit bull and reading Braille stamped onto a concrete wall.
He was flushed. His mouth was red and shiny, and in that instant, it was impossible to imagine him on skates—he seemed so much more real here, off the ice, in my bed.
"Should I—fuck, I don't know the protocol here."
He fumbled with his jeans button. "Do I just—?"
"Hog. Take your pants off."
He rolled his hips just enough to unhook the button, then froze, uncertain. The bed springs complained as he shifted. I'd never found the noise so fucking hot.
I leaned in, nipping at his jaw and down his neck.
He was so much larger than me in every way, and I liked how he didn't try to hide it.
I liked the rumble of his laugh under my lips, the shyness that flashed in his eyes when I slid down and traced the lines of his gut with my fingertips, hard-earned and soft at the same time.
I stopped at the waistband of his jeans—a dark blue, faded from hundreds of washes, stretched at the thighs and ass. I had to see him as he was, with no filter and no distance—Hog in my space, under my hands.
He watched me, lips parted, muscles shifting as I pulled down the zipper.
I got his jeans undone and started to tug, but they barely made it past the shelf of his ass. He tried to help, but we ended up in a tangle of limbs, fabric, and laughter.
When we finally got Hog's jeans off, he had black boxer briefs, tented at the front. I ran my palm along the length of him, and he hissed, arching his back, pushing into my touch with a grunting sound in his throat I'd never heard before.
"Fuck, Rhett," he said. "You don't have to—"
"Shut up," I said, pressing my mouth to the bulge. I looked up. "You good?"
He nodded, jaw tight.
I peeled away the boxers, exposing Hog fully. He was thick, veiny, not absurdly big but substantial. I wrapped my hand around the base and watched his eyes flutter, then close.
I kissed the head—just a brush, testing. He gasped and his thighs tensed, thick cords standing out.
I took him into my mouth, not all at once—hell, not even close—but enough to make him shudder. I'd been with men who hid their reactions, bit back sounds, and tried to be polite about how good it felt. Hog wasn't polite.
He groaned, low in his chest, and the noise vibrated against my lips and tongue. His hands fumbled for something to grip; he touched my hair, careful at first, then less so as he got lost in the moment.
Hog tasted clean, sharp, and slightly salty, his skin hot and alive. I set a slow, steady pace. Breathed in through my nose. Relaxed my mouth. Tried to remember every half-remembered tip from the internet.
I listened to how his breathing changed, registered what made his hips jerk up, and remembered what made him growl. I was good at this. Not perfect or porn-worthy, but solid.
I needed to hear every noise he made, every crack in his voice—loud and honest, the way he was on the ice.
"Rhett," he gasped, "you don't have to—shit, I'm close—" I hummed in response, and he swore again, hips flexing, tension running the length of his body. I felt him try to hold back, but I didn't want him to.
He was so loud—more than I expected. He repeated my name, softer, then "Fuck, fuck, let me—" in a voice that rattled the walls as if he could will himself to resist and make it last. I was coming undone, and I was the one who caused that.
He bucked. I held him with both hands, bracing myself against the involuntary strength in his thighs. He was far too much for the bed, room, or me to contain. His tip hit the roof of my mouth, and my eyes watered, but I didn't let up.
He pulsed in my mouth, body tightening, and then he was coming, hips off the bed and teeth gritted, voice strangled around my name.
I swallowed. I coughed a little, and he noticed. "Sorry, shit," he said, "Sorry—" and started to sit up, but I pushed him back, my fingers spread against his lightly hairy chest.
"I wanted to," I said, lips still wet. "I wanted to make you lose control."
He blinked, and for a moment, I saw the real Hog, the two parts fused into one. He was the guy who let himself be vulnerable, sprawled in my bed with a little bit of awe written in the lines around his eyes.
He spread out, impossibly big. My lips tingled. My jaw ached. Worth it. Worth every second of him shaking and muttering my name.
Below me, Hog's chest heaved, sweat glistening in the hollows of his collarbones. That was my favorite part: the shock in his face, the stunned look of someone who'd never known somebody would desire him like this.
I crawled up next to him and kissed him. He grabbed my hair—not gentle, instinctual—and pulled me in tight, tasting himself on me.
"Fuck," he said.
I smiled into his mouth. "That's the general idea."
My own dick throbbed, neglected, and Hog noticed—eyes darting down, then up to my face, as if checking for permission. My jeans were still on, and he reached for my waistband.
"Can I?" His voice was low.
"Yeah," I breathed, with an edge of desperation in my voice.
He made short work of my jeans, less dexterous than I was but twice as determined. My cock was already hard, aching. Hog's palm, bigger than my entire face, closed around it, and I nearly came then and there.
His hand was hot and rough, and I needed to come so badly my back arched off the bed. He jerked me slow, then fast, watching my face for every stuttering breath. His fingers traced the head, ran along the shaft, found the vein, and stroked it experimentally.
"Damn, Hog—" I said, and he grinned, the same shit-eating expression he wore after laying someone out on the ice.
I'd thought about this for weeks, but nowhere in my fantasy had it felt like I was being unraveled and reconfigured. I came faster than I wanted to—barely time to process the way his hand fit around me, and how he didn't ease up as I jerked and gasped.
Hog didn't let go. He stroked me through the aftershocks, his thumb making lazy circles that bordered on cruel, and then just held me for a second, my dick softening against his palm. He looked at me with a new kind of hunger, something bigger than sex.
He pulled me in, gathering me into his side, like he'd been carrying a weight in his chest and now that he'd let it out, he could finally breathe. We lay there for a while, catching our breath, sweat cooling on our skin.
My bedroom smelled like sex and candle wax and the last of Hog's mint tea. He didn't say anything for a long time; he just traced circles on my back with his fingers.
Eventually, I broke the silence. "That was. Wow."
"Yeah," he said, voice raw and raspy. "You okay?"
"I'm the definition of okay right now."
He grunted, satisfied.
The candles had burned lower while we were in bed, and Clapton's Slowhand had given way to Boz Scaggs' Silk Degrees—smoky, unhurried, every track sliding into the next like it had all the time in the world. I didn't pay close attention. I wasn't paying attention to anything but Hog.
He was quiet. Not just post-sex quiet—actually quiet. There was no fidgeting or nervous energy, no commentary about the ceiling or the temperature or whether my neighbors had heard us.
It was the first time I'd seen him completely at rest.
His hair was a disaster, his beard mussed from my hands, and his mouth had a satisfied curve. He'd sprawled across three-quarters of my bed without apology, one leg tangled with mine, claiming space like he belonged there.
"Thank you," he said at last. "For all of it. For choosing—" He stopped for a moment. "For everything."
I reached out and squeezed his hand. "Thank you for letting me."
He smiled. "Couldn't stop you if I tried. You're persistent as hell."
"I prefer determined."
"Stubborn."
"Focused."
"Pain in the ass."
"Now you're just being mean."
He laughed. Then he shifted closer, pressing his face against my neck. His breath was warm against my skin.
"I could get used to this," he murmured.
"Being mean to me?"
"Being here. With you. Not waiting for you to realize I'm too much work." His voice was barely above a whisper. "Taking up your bed and probably cutting off circulation to your arm."
Outside, Thunder Bay settled deeper into winter quiet. No traffic or voices, just the occasional creak of the building and the soft whistle of wind through the window frame.
I watched Hog's breathing slow, and I felt the tension leave his body bit by bit. His hand went slack in mine, and I knew he was nearly asleep.
"Hog?"
"Mmm?"
"You can stay. Tonight. However long you want."
His eyes opened, finding mine in the dim light. "You sure?"
"I'm sure."
"Even if I snore? Even if I steal all the covers? Even if I wake up at five AM because my brain won't shut up?"
"Even then."
He studied my face for a long moment, looking for the catch.
"Okay," he said quietly. "Yeah. I'd like that."
I pressed a kiss to the top of his head.
"Rhett?"
"Yeah?"
"I'm probably going to wake up and think this was a dream."
"Then I'll remind you it wasn't."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
Within minutes, his breathing had evened out into sleep. I lay there listening to it, feeling the solid weight of him pressed against me, one arm trapped beneath him, going numb.
I'd never been happier to lose feeling in a limb. I fell asleep with Hog's name on my lips and the certainty that everything had changed.
For the better.