Chapter 31 Ivan
I wake up before Jay. I don't move. I barely breathe. I just lie there and look at him, memorizing this moment.
God, he's gorgeous. Even with the fading bruises still visible on his face, yellow and green now instead of purple.
Even with the dark circles under his eyes from too many sleepless nights and too much worry.
His lips are slightly parted as he breathes, and I can see the small scar on his bottom lip from the bar fight starting to fade.
And he's mine. Somehow, impossibly, against all odds—he's mine.
I feel a surge of something so intense it almost hurts, something that makes my chest feel too full and my throat tight.
Gratitude, maybe. Or something deeper than that, something bigger.
I spent years looking for this man and now he's lying in my arms, and I still can't quite process that this is my reality now.
But even as I watch him sleep, I can't shake what happened last night. The way he sat in that chair in the dark, shaking, his hands trembling, fighting the urge to reach for alcohol. The way he talked about himself like he was worthless.
There's so much healing that needs to happen.
So much damage that can't be undone with a single weekend of sex and pizza and whispered promises in the dark.
I knew he was struggling. The bar fight and whiskey bottle were evidence enough, but I don't think I understood until last night just how deep the wounds go, how close to the edge he's been living for so long.
I need to figure out how to help him. Not just when I'm here, but when I'm hours away, back at my life, unable to do anything but call and send texts that might not be enough.
We can video call every night. I'll set an alarm on my phone, make it a ritual, something he can count on.
Something predictable and steady. And I'll text him throughout the day whenever I can.
During lunch breaks, between jobs. I'll make sure he knows he's not alone, that I'm thinking about him.
And I'll come back every weekend, no matter what.
Even if I have to work overtime all week to make up for it, even if I have to drive through the night, I'll be here.
I'll figure it out. Whatever it takes. However long it takes.
But first, right now, I want to give him something good.
Something that drowns out the bad, at least for a little while.
I want to touch him and make him feel so loved that it starts to create new pathways in his brain.
I want to fill his head with so many good memories that the bad ones start to fade into background noise instead of being the only song he knows.
I reach out slowly and brush a strand of hair off his forehead, tucking it behind his ear.
He stirs slightly, makes a soft sound in the back of his throat, but doesn't wake.
I trace my finger down his cheek, feeling the rough stubble there, along his jaw, across his lips that are softer than they look.
His eyes flutter open, unfocused at first, and then they find mine.
"Good morning," I say softly.
"Morning," he says, his eyes still hazy and warm. "How long have you been awake?"
"A while. Maybe twenty minutes. I was watching you sleep."
"That's creepy." But he's smiling.
"No, that's romantic. That's what people who are crazy about someone do."
He laughs, a quiet huff of air. "Same thing. Creepy and romantic are basically the same thing when you think about it."
I lean in and kiss him, soft and slow. He responds immediately, his hand coming up to cup the back of my neck, his fingers threading through my hair, pulling me closer. I could kiss him forever and never get tired of it.
When I pull back, his eyes are more awake. He's looking at me with an expression of awe.
"Are you okay?" I ask, stroking my thumb across his cheekbone. "After last night? After everything we talked about?"
"Yeah, I'm okay." He pauses, and I can see him considering whether to be honest or brush it off. "Better than I was. You being here helps more than you know. Makes everything feel less heavy."
"That's what I'm here for." I trace my finger along his collarbone, watching goosebumps rise on his skin even though the room is warm.
"Is it really okay? Me touching you like this?
As much as I want to? Because I want to touch you all the time and I don't want to be—I don't want to overwhelm you or make you feel like you have to—"
Jay takes my hand and presses it flat against his chest, right over his heart. I can feel it beating under my palm, strong and steady.
"Ivan," he says. "You never have to ask for permission to touch me. Not ever again. Touch me whenever you want, however you want. I'm yours. My body is yours. Everything I am is yours. Anything you want to try, I'm all up for it. Anything."
"You mean that? Really?"
"I mean it. I've never—" He stops, swallows hard. "No one's ever wanted to touch me before. Not like this. Not just because they wanted to. So yeah, please touch me. As much as you want. I want your hands on me all the time. In this room or outside in the world. I don't want to hide you away."
I lean down and kiss him again, deeper this time, pouring everything I'm feeling into it.
He opens for me immediately, his tongue sliding against mine, his hands gripping my shoulders hard enough to leave marks.
I shift my weight, settling more fully on top of him, pressing him into the mattress, and he groans into my mouth.
"I like this," he says when I pull back to breathe, when I rest my forehead against his.
"Like what?" I ask.
"You on top of me." His hands slide down my back, settling on my hips, pulling me harder against him. "You're bigger than me now. Heavier. I still can't get over it. I keep looking at you and being surprised at how big you are."
"Is that okay? I know I'm not exactly—I mean, I'm probably crushing you—"
"It's more than okay. Don't you dare move.
" He pulls me down harder against him, and I can feel that he's already getting hard through the thin fabric of our boxers.
"When we were kids, I was always bigger.
Always the one doing the protecting, the one standing between you and danger.
But now you're—" He shakes his head, his eyes traveling over my shoulders, my chest. "It's hard to believe. That you grew up into this."
"Into what?" I press.
"This." His hands roam over my back, my shoulders, squeezing the muscle there like he's testing to see if I'm real. "You're so solid. So strong. And heavy—God, you're heavy. I like feeling your weight on me. I like being underneath you. You're like a weighted blanket and it makes me feel good."
"Why?" I ask, genuinely curious. "What does it feel like?"
"Safe." The word comes out almost shy, like he's embarrassed to admit it. "It makes me feel safe. Like nothing can touch me when you're covering me like this. Like you're a shield against all the darkness."
All those years he spent protecting me, standing between me and Henderson, taking beatings meant for me—and now my weight on his body makes him feel safe.
The role reversal is complete. I'm the protector now. I'm the shield and I want to be.
I don't have words for what that means to me.
"I want to make you feel good," I tell him, the hunger building inside me. "I want to take my time with you. Learn every inch of your body—the way you taste, the way you shiver when I touch you just right. Can I do that?"
"God, yes. Please." His hips are already moving, subtle, restless shifts seeking friction against my thigh, his hard cock pressing insistently through the thin fabric of his boxers. "Do whatever you want to me. I'm yours, Ivan. Fuck, just... touch me."
I kiss down his neck, taking it slow, savoring the warm, slightly salty tang of his skin on my tongue.
He tips his head back to give me better access, exposing the long, vulnerable line of his throat, and I lick along the taut tendon there, feeling his pulse jump and race under my touch like a wild thing trapped beneath his flesh.
"You're so beautiful," I murmur against his throat, punctuating each word with open-mouthed kisses that leave faint red marks blooming on his pale skin. "I still can't believe I get to touch you like this. That you're letting me do this—letting me worship you."
"Believe it. This is real. I'm real, and I want you so fucking bad it hurts."
I kiss across his collarbone, taking my time, mapping the sharp angles and subtle dips with my lips and tongue.
Down his chest, feeling the way his breath hitches and stutters when I get close to his nipples, the small, dusky peaks already hardening in anticipation.
His skin is warm under my mouth, a faint sheen of sleep-sweat making him taste even more intoxicating, and I want to devour every inch of him, want to etch him into my memory with my senses.
I find his left nipple and lick across it experimentally, a slow, flat drag of my tongue, and he gasps sharply, his whole body jerking upward like I've sent a bolt of electricity through him, his cock twitching hard against my leg.
"Good?" I ask, pulling back just enough to look at his face—flushed cheeks, parted lips, eyes glazed with need.
"Yeah. Fuck. Yeah, that's good. So fucking sensitive. Do it again."
I do it again, swirling my tongue around the tight bud before sucking gently, then harder, grazing it with my teeth just to test. The sound he makes—a desperate, keening moan—goes straight to my cock, making me throb painfully.
I'm hard and aching now, leaking pre-cum against his thigh, but this isn't about me right now.
This is about him. This is about making him feel so good he forgets everything else, forgets every scar life has left on him, inside and out.