Chapter 10 #2
The words felt dangerous and right at the same time. Phoenix’s breath hitched. His eyes softened in that way that punched straight through me. “You did something brave,” he said. “You protected strangers. You protected yourself.”
“I don’t feel brave,” I said honestly. “I feel…untethered. This game…there are plenty of gay players. It's just no one really talks about it. The press are as interested in a possible girlfriend as they are my play."
His expression warmed, and he pressed his forehead harder against mine. “Maybe being untethered is what freedom feels like at first.”
I inhaled, shaky and uneven, and slid my arms around his waist. He melted into me without resistance, body fitting against mine like some missing piece I hadn’t known I needed. “No one’s ever been proud of me for saying no,” I whispered, the words spilling before I could shield them.
His breath caught. “Then let me be the first.”
Something in my chest wrenched—not painful, just…new. I kissed him because I didn’t know how else to hold onto the moment without falling apart. Slow, warm, grounding.
When we finally broke apart, he rested his head against my shoulder. “Your father is going to explode,” he murmured.
A humorless laugh escaped me. “Yeah. I know.”
“But you did the right thing.” His fingers traced the back of my neck, soothing where everything else in my life only strained. “You get to choose your life now.”
I closed my eyes and held him tighter.
And for the first time since I walked out of that meeting—since I told Evan and, by extension, my father to go to hell—the fire inside me didn’t feel wild or dangerous.
It felt steady. Alive. Mine. Mine.
I wanted to show him what that meant. But not with words.
He was already looking at me like he needed a reason to breathe. And for once, I let myself believe it. Just let that knowledge soak in, wild and terrifying: He wanted this. He wanted me. The real me, not the one I wore for interviews or the locker room, not the perfect son or the good soldier.
Just. Me.
I crowded him back against the hallway wall and felt him go soft and loose, that subtle yielding I loved more than anything.
My hands fit to the angles of his face, and I kissed him like it mattered, like I could unmake the rest of the world for five minutes and build one just for us.
He made a raw, low sound, and that was all it took. The dam broke.
“Bedroom,” I said, as rough as I felt. He nodded instantly, obedient and beautiful, and I felt like a goddamn dragon, fire in my veins, my need for him burning so hot it was almost clean.
He walked ahead, careful of his ribs, and I trailed after, crowding his space. I wanted him to feel it. To know. I was done letting the world get to him. Or to me. I was done letting my father’s voice run my life, done letting guilt keep me small.
He turned, and I was on him. He backed up until his legs hit the bed, and I pushed him down, slow so I wouldn’t hurt him, but definite. This was happening; this was us. Phoenix sprawled back among the pillows, brown eyes so dark and rich I wanted to drown in them.
I crawled over him, one knee on either side, caging him in. He shivered but didn’t look away. Didn’t try to run, or fight, or make a joke, or deflect. Just waited, breathing hard. For me.
“Tell me if it’s too much,” I said, voice gone rough. It wasn’t a question.
He nodded. “Yeah. I will.”
“Good.” I kissed him, deep and hard, hands in his hair, on his jaw, drinking in every sound. He let me. He let me take.
I stripped his shirt off, slow, careful of the bruises but not pretending they weren’t there. They were part of him, and God, I wanted all of him. I wanted to cover them with my hands, my mouth, make them something else. Make them reminders that he was here, alive, wanted.
He let me undress him. Every piece I took off, he shifted and arched, and I could see he was shaking, but he didn’t hide it. He just held my gaze, almost defiant, like he needed me to see it. I did. I saw everything.
His body was thin, pale. Bruised. But he was sunlight to me, all those scars and sharp angles turned to gold in the lamplight. I kissed my way down his throat, slow enough to make his breath catch, then along his collarbone, tracing every mark.
He reached for my shirt, but I caught his wrists and pinned them gently above his head.
“No moving. Not until I say.”
His breath came out shaky, but he didn’t try to tug free.
If anything, he arched up off the sheets, ribs and all, like he liked it—a lot.
His hair fanned wild against the pillow, and for a second, all I wanted to do was smooth it back, gentle, but I wanted this more: Phoenix spread open and waiting, every inch of him trusting me not to break him.
“Hands stay there,” I said, rough, and he nodded straight away, eyes huge in the low light. I could see the pulse in his throat hammering. It made something ugly and needy twist in my gut.
I stripped off my own clothes fast, not bothering to make it pretty. I wanted him to see me. Just me. He watched, breathless, the bruises on his chest gone purple-black in the lamplight, but beautiful anyway.
When I crawled back over him, he didn’t shy away.
Not even a little. That did something uncontrollable to the fire under my skin.
I pressed his hands tight to the pillow and eased down, my weight caging him in.
My hips fit into his so perfectly I wanted to grind right through him.
He made a noise—a little desperate—and I swallowed it straight from his mouth.
I kissed him hard, tongue rough. No pretending. No holding back. He let me in, let me take everything, and when I bit softly at his lip, he arched and whimpered, so fucking sweet I nearly laughed with it.
“Fuck,” I said, and didn’t care if it sounded desperate. He deserved to know. He deserved everything.
His legs parted on instinct, already ready for me like it was what he’d been waiting for all along. I wanted to make him wait, just a little bit more, but I was barely hanging on myself.
“You need a safeword if you need me to stop?” I asked quietly, my lips right on his jaw. I didn’t trust myself not to lose it, and he needed to know he wasn’t trapped here, not ever.
“Yeah,” he managed. “just No.”
I kissed the corner of his mouth, slow for a second, just so he could feel it. “Good.”
I let go of his wrists but only to drag my mouth down his throat, licking the sweat and salt from his skin.
He shivered, but his hands didn’t move. He kept them right there, obedient and gorgeous and mine.
I sucked a mark onto his pulse point, and he gasped loud enough I thought he’d forgotten we weren’t alone in the world.
Good. I wanted him to forget everything except this.
His chest heaved with each breath, ribs moving under my palm. I wanted to bite him everywhere. I gave in, working my way down, kissing bruises and old scars, leaving new marks just above his heart. He made the tiniest sounds every time I did it. Like he wanted to hide but couldn’t.
When I took him in hand, he nearly bucked right off the bed. “Easy,” I warned, stroking slow. “You’re not going anywhere.”
“Don’t want to,” he whispered. His eyes were wet and desperate, and I wanted to see more of that. All of it. Everything he tried to hide.
He was trembling under me, and not just from the cold. There was tension in the way he held himself, as if I could break him with two fingers, but nothing about Phoenix had ever been easy to break. I knew that. I worked my thumb into the hollow at the base of his throat and felt his pulse stutter.
“You want me to stop?” I pressed, just to be sure.
He shook his head, frantic. “Please,” he managed. If he was lying, he was a better actor than I knew.
I rewarded him with a kiss that was more bite than anything, right over last night’s bruise. He gasped, but he didn’t pull away. God, I loved that. I loved that he’d let himself be opened up and still hand over everything, even when it cost him.
I took my time with him. He was so thin it made something tight in my chest every time I ran my hand down his side. This wasn’t just about sex. It never was. I wanted to replace every awful memory with something that belonged only to us.
“Hands,” I reminded him, and he tensed them so hard against the headboard I thought he might rip the sheets. His cock was leaking already, desperate, so sensitive he nearly sobbed when I touched him.
“All right?” I murmured, nose in his hair.
He whimpered. “Yeah. Yeah, good. Please don’t stop.”
I stroked him, slow and mean, just enough to remind him he wasn’t going anywhere until I let him. His thighs trembled, but he didn’t try to close them. He wanted me to see. He wanted me to take.
He tried to arch, but I pressed my forearm across his chest, pinning him. “Patience,” I told him. He blinked up at me, brown eyes glassy, and for a second, I thought he might cry.
I didn’t want that. Or maybe I did. I wanted to be trusted with all of it—not just the good moments, but the ugly ones too.
“Do you know how beautiful you are?” I asked him, my voice nothing like it was in interviews. “Do you know what it does to me, seeing you like this?”
He shook his head and tried to laugh, but it caught. “You’re insane.”
“So I’ve been told.”
I leaned down and bit his collarbone, just hard enough he’d feel it the next day. He gasped and shuddered. The line between pleasure and pain was so thin on Phoenix I wanted to dance across it forever.
I edged two fingers down, circled the rim of his hole with lube, worked him open while I stroked his cock slow and relentless. “You like being touched here, don’t you?”
He moaned, long and low. “Fuck, yes.”
“How much?”
His breath quickened. “More than anything.”