Coastline #2
Sure enough, Rook's truck pulled up and our captain climbed out holding a six-pack and grinning. “Figured you could use this.”
“You're not wrong.” Grant took the beer. “Come in. Place is a mess, but there's furniture.”
We spent the next hour drinking beer and sitting on boxes because we hadn't fully unpacked the furniture yet. Rook told us about the neighborhood—who to call for maintenance, which grocery store was closest, where the good running trails were.
“You're really committed to being a good neighbor,” I said.
“I'm committed to not having to drive into the city when I want to hang out.” Rook grinned. “This is purely selfish.”
“Sure it is.”
He checked his phone, frowned slightly, then shoved it back in his pocket. I'd noticed him doing that a lot lately—checking messages, frowning, not responding.
“You good, Rook?” Grant asked.
“Yeah. Fine. Just... lot going on.”
“Anything we can help with?”
“Nah. Just personal stuff. I'll figure it out.” He stood up. “I should let you guys settle in. But welcome to the neighborhood.”
“Thanks, Rook. For everything.”
He clapped my shoulder. “That's what teammates do.”
After he left, Grant and I looked around at the disaster zone of boxes and furniture and belongings from two separate lives that we were now trying to merge into one.
“This is going to take forever to unpack,” I said.
“Probably.” Grant pulled me close again. “But we've got time.”
“Yeah. We do.”
We made it to the bedroom eventually, navigating boxes and half-assembled furniture. The bed was already set up—we'd prioritized that—and we collapsed onto it fully clothed.
“I'm too tired to unpack anything else,” I said.
“Good. We're not unpacking anything else tonight.” Grant pulled me against his chest. “We're sleeping.”
“In our house.”
“In our house.”
I turned to face him, and the reality of it hit me all over again. We had a house. Together. We were building a life. Not hiding. Not pretending. Just... living.
“Grant?”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For not giving up. When everything went to shit and it would've been easier to walk away. You didn't.”
His hand found my face, thumb brushing my cheek. “I was never going to walk away. You're it for me, Jace. This is it.”
My throat went tight. “You're it for me too.”
We kissed again, and this time it wasn't soft. It was hungry. Desperate in the way it always got when we remembered how close we'd come to losing this. His tongue pushed into my mouth, claiming, and I opened for him immediately, letting him take what he needed.
His hands slid under my shirt, rough palms against my skin, and I arched into the touch.
We'd been so careful the past month—gentle with my shoulder, mindful of the healing, always checking in.
But right now, I didn't want careful. I wanted to feel him.
Wanted to be reminded that this was real, that we'd made it through, that we were here in our house and nothing could take this away from us.
“Shoulder—” Grant started, pulling back.
“Is fine. I'm fine. I need you.” I grabbed his shirt, pulled him closer. “Please, Grant. I need you to fuck me. Need you to make me feel it.”
Something shifted in his expression. Went darker. Hungrier. “You sure?”
“Yes. Fuck, yes. Stop being so careful with me.”
“I'm always going to be careful with you.”
“Then be careful while you fuck me hard enough that I feel it tomorrow.” I met his eyes, made sure he could see how much I meant it. “Please, Daddy. I need it.”
He groaned, and I felt his cock harden against my thigh. “You can't just say shit like that.”
“Why not? It's true.” I rolled my hips up, grinding against him. “I want you to wreck me. Want you to claim me in our bed, in our house. Want to christen this place properly.”
“Jesus Christ, Jace.” His hands gripped my hips hard enough to bruise. “You're going to be the death of me.”
“Good way to go.”
He kissed me again, brutal and possessive, and his hands were everywhere—under my shirt, on my skin, pulling at fabric.
We broke apart long enough for him to yank my shirt over my head, careful with my shoulder but not gentle, and then his mouth was on my neck, sucking and biting his way down to my collarbone.
“Fuck,” I gasped. “Yes. Mark me. Want everyone to see.”
“They already know you're mine.” His teeth closed on my collarbone, hard enough to leave a bruise. “But I'll mark you anyway. Because I can. Because you're mine and I want the world to know it.”
“Yours. Always yours.”
His hands moved to my jeans, popping the button and dragging down the zipper. “Lift up.”
I did, and he pulled my jeans and boxer briefs off in one smooth motion. Then I was naked beneath him, and he was still fully clothed, and the contrast made my cock throb.
“Not fair,” I said. “You're still dressed.”
“I know.” He ran his hands up my thighs, spreading them wider. “I like you like this. Naked and spread out for me while I'm still dressed. Makes you look desperate.”
“I am desperate.” My cock was hard, flushed dark and leaking against my stomach. “Desperate for you. Desperate for your cock. Desperate for you to fuck me until I can't remember my own name.”
He groaned and leaned down to kiss me again, and I could feel the rough fabric of his jeans against my bare skin. “Off. Need this off. Need to see you.”
He pulled back just enough to yank his shirt over his head, and I got my hands on his chest immediately—feeling the coarse hair, the solid muscle beneath, the way his breath caught when I dragged my nails down his sides.
“Pants too,” I said. “Need you naked. Need to feel you.”
He stood up and stripped off his jeans and boxer briefs, and then he was naked too, his cock thick and hard and already leaking. I reached for him, but he caught my wrist.
“Not yet.” His voice was rough. “I want to look at you first.”
He stood at the foot of the bed, just looking at me, and I felt exposed in the best possible way. His eyes traveled over every inch of me—my face, my chest, my cock, the way my legs were spread, the way I was already trembling with need.
“So fucking beautiful,” he said quietly. “Can't believe you're mine. Can't believe I get to have this.”
“You do. You have me. All of me.” I spread my legs wider, showing him everything. “Please, Grant. Stop teasing.”
“I'm not teasing. I'm savoring.” But he climbed back onto the bed, settling between my legs, and his hands were on me again—rough and possessive and perfect.
He kissed his way down my chest, pausing to bite at my nipples until they were hard and oversensitive. Every touch made me gasp, made my cock leak more, made me squirm beneath him.
“Stay still,” he ordered, and there was the coach voice again. The one that made my cock throb and my brain go fuzzy. “Let me take my time with you.”
“Can't. Need you too much.”
“You can.” His mouth moved lower, tongue tracing the lines of my abs, teeth scraping over my hip bone. “You're going to stay still and let me worship this body. Let me taste every inch of you.”
“Fuck, Grant—”
“That's Daddy to you right now.” He bit down on my inner thigh, hard enough to make me yelp. “Say it.”
“Daddy. Fuck, Daddy, please—”
“Better.” He soothed the bite with his tongue, then moved higher, his breath hot against my cock. “Now be a good boy and stay still.”
I tried. I really did. But when his mouth closed around my cock, taking me deep in one smooth motion, I couldn't help but arch up, hands flying to his hair.
He pulled off immediately. “What did I say?”
“Stay still. I'm sorry, I just—”
“Hands above your head. Now.”
I moved my hands above my head, gripping the headboard, and he made an approving sound.
“Good boy. Keep them there. If you move them, I stop. Understood?”
“Yes, Daddy.”
“Good.” He took me back into his mouth, and this time I forced myself to stay still, to keep my hands on the headboard even though every instinct was screaming at me to touch him, to pull him closer, to fuck up into his mouth.
He worked me over slowly, methodically, his tongue tracing patterns along my shaft, his lips tight around the head. Every time I got close, he backed off, kept me right on the edge but never let me fall over.
“Please,” I begged. “Please, Daddy, I need to come.”
“Not yet.” He released my cock and moved lower, his tongue tracing the seam of my balls, then lower still. “Not until I say so.”
His tongue pressed against my hole, and I nearly came right then. My hands gripped the headboard so hard I thought it might break, and I was making sounds I didn't recognize—high and desperate and completely wrecked.
“That's it,” he murmured against me. “Let me hear you. Let me hear how good I make you feel.”
He ate me out like he had all the time in the world, tongue circling my rim, pressing inside, finding all the spots that made me shake. I was trembling, gasping, begging incoherently for more, for his cock, for anything.
“Please, Daddy. Please fuck me. Need your cock. Need you inside me. Please—”
He pulled back, and I heard the sound of the lube bottle—we'd unpacked that first too, priorities—and then his fingers were pressing inside me. One, then two, then three.
“So tight,” he muttered. “Even after all the times I've fucked you, you're still so tight.”
“Because you're big. Because your cock stretches me. Because I love feeling it.” I was babbling now, too far gone to care. “Love feeling you inside me. Love being full of you. Love being yours.”
“You are mine.” He curled his fingers, hitting my prostate, and I saw stars. “Say it again.”
“Yours. I'm yours, Daddy. Only yours.”
“That's right.” He added a fourth finger, and the stretch was intense, riding the edge of too much. “And I'm going to fuck you so hard you feel it for days. Going to make sure you remember who you belong to every time you sit down.”
“Yes. Fuck, yes. Do it. Claim me. Make me yours.”
He pulled his fingers out and I felt the head of his cock pressing against my hole. He pushed in slowly, inch by inch, and the stretch was perfect.