Chapter Thirty-Nine — You Live Here #2
“What?” Ronan removed the key. Held it out.
Elliot stared. “No.” “What?” “You do it.” Elliot looked at the key.
Small. Silver. Ordinary. His hand shook when he took it.
Fuck. Ronan noticed. Said nothing. Good.
Elliot inserted the key. Turned. Click. No electronic buzz.
No officer. No permission. He opened the door.
Home. The apartment looked exactly like the photographs.
And nothing like them. Warm. Clean. Too many plants.
Ronan had become one of those people apparently.
Bookshelves. Dark sofa. Large windows. Kitchen beyond.
A stupid rug Elliot had told Ronan not to buy.
“You bought the rug.” “You've complained about that rug for two years.” “Because it’s ugly.” “Take it back to prison.” Elliot laughed.
Then stopped. There were photographs. Everywhere.
Not many. Enough. Rebecca and Thomas. Claire.
Ronan with friends Elliot recognized from calls.
Dylan in one group picture. And Elliot. A photograph from before.
College. Not golden- boy posed. One Ronan had taken.
Elliot asleep on the couch with his mouth slightly open.
“Seriously?” Ronan smiled. “My favorite.” “I look dead.” “You were asleep.” “Burn it.” “No.” Another.
Visitation photograph from year two. Approved family day.
Ronan beside him. Both smiling. Another.
Elliot’s mother. Another. Then a frame containing no photograph.
A letter. Elliot recognized his handwriting.
Tomorrow? Beneath it, Ronan had written: Always.
Elliot stopped. Ronan went quiet behind him.
“You framed that?”
“Maybe.” “That’s disgusting.” “I can throw it away.” Elliot turned. “Touch it and I’ll kill you.” Silence. Elliot froze. Old language. Old instinct. Ronan raised an eyebrow. Elliot sighed.
“Figure of speech.” “Growth.” “Fuck off.” Ronan smiled.
Elliot looked around again. Home. Then he saw the hallway.
Bedroom. Bathroom. Second room. He walked.
Ronan followed. Bedroom first. Large bed.
Dark sheets. Ronan’s clothes visible through partially open closet doors.
Then— Elliot stopped. Half the closet. Empty?
No. Not empty. Clothes. New. His size. Basic things.
Shirts. Jeans. Sweaters. Shoes below. Elliot stared.
“What is this?” Ronan leaned against the doorway.
“Clothes.” “I can see that.” “Then why ask?” “Ronan.” “Yours.” Elliot touched one shirt.
“You bought these?” “Some.” “Mom?” “Some.” “Claire?” “One jacket.” “Which?” “Leather.” “Of course.” He looked lower.
A drawer partially open. Socks. Underwear.
His. Already. Bathroom. Elliot moved. Two toothbrushes.
His preferred shampoo. The brand he had complained about missing for five years.
Razor. Skin-care products. Ronan had mocked his skin-care routine endlessly.
“You bought moisturizer.” “You're welcome.” Elliot looked at him. “Ronan.”
“What?” His voice failed. Annoying. He looked around. There was no guest space. No temporary corner. No suitcase waiting to be unpacked after permission. Ronan had built him into the apartment before Elliot arrived.
“Where are my things supposed to go?” Ronan frowned.
“What things?” “From Mom’s.” “We moved them.” Elliot stared.
“What?” “Last month.” “Where?” Ronan pointed toward the second bedroom.
Elliot walked. Desk. Books. Boxes. His books.
His old record player. The ridiculous trophy from sophomore year he had told Rebecca to throw away. Ronan had kept it.
“You kept this?” “Your mom did.” “Why?” “Because she’s your mother.
” Elliot touched the trophy. Golden boy.
There it was. Physical proof of a person he had spent years pretending to be.
He expected to hate it. Didn't. That boy had been him too.
Not all lie. Just incomplete. He put it back. Ronan stood behind him.
“You hate it?” “No.” “Actually?” “No.” Elliot turned.
“I love it.” Ronan smiled. “Good.” Allowed.
Elliot crossed the room. Kissed him. Ronan responded immediately.
Five years. The parking-lot hug had been one thing.
This was another. No institution. No cameras.
No guards. No rules limiting the angle of their bodies or duration of contact.
Ronan backed into the hallway wall. Elliot caught himself.
Stopped. Ronan’s breathing was already uneven.
“What?”
Ronan asked. Elliot looked at his hands. One against Ronan’s waist. One beside his head. Old positioning. Trapping. He moved back. Ronan caught his shirt.
“Where are you going?” “I—” “Elliot.” “Habit.” Ronan looked at him. Then understood. He softened. “You're not trapping me.” “I know.” “Do you?” “Yes.” “Then kiss me.” Elliot stared. “Ask.” His pulse jumped. Five years and Ronan still did that. Especially now.
“Can I kiss you?” “Yes.” Elliot did. Slower. Ronan pulled him closer. Elliot let himself feel it. Not possession. Not proof. Ronan. His mouth. His hands. His choice. Their home. Ronan broke the kiss.
“Bedroom.” Not a question. Elliot smiled.
“Bossy.” “You like it.” “Unfortunately.” They barely made it.
Ronan’s back hit the closed door the second it latched.
Elliot’s hands were already under his shirt, shoving it up and off, palms sliding hot over the planes of his chest. Ronan answered by fisting a hand in Elliot’s hair and dragging him into another kiss—deeper, wetter, teeth clicking.
Elliot bit his lower lip hard enough to draw a low sound from Ronan’s throat, then soothed it with his tongue.
“Good boys don’t bite,” Ronan murmured against his mouth, the words rough with want.
Elliot’s answering smile was all teeth. “Then stop calling me good.” Ronan spun them.
Elliot’s back met the wall beside the door.
Ronan’s thigh slid between his legs, pressing firm against the hard line of his cock.
The friction dragged a sharp breath out of Elliot.
Ronan’s hands went to his belt, unbuckling, unzipping, shoving
denim and underwear down just far enough to free him. Elliot’s cock sprang out—flushed, already leaking at the tip. Ronan wrapped long fingers around the shaft and stroked once, slow, thumb smearing the bead of precome in a slick circle over the sensitive head.
Elliot’s head dropped back against the wall with a soft thud.
“Fuck—” Ronan dropped to his knees. He took Elliot into his mouth in one smooth motion, tongue flat against the underside, lips sealed tight around the thick shaft.
Elliot’s hips jerked; Ronan’s hands pinned them to the wall.
He sucked hard, hollowing his cheeks, taking him deeper until the head brushed the back of his throat.
The wet heat and pressure made Elliot’s thighs tremble.
Ronan’s free hand cupped his balls, rolling them gently while he worked the length with long, filthy pulls.
Elliot’s fingers threaded into Ronan’s hair, not guiding, just holding on.
“Ronan—shit—I’m not gonna last if you—” Ronan pulled off with a wet sound, lips shiny, and stood.
He kissed Elliot hard, sharing the taste of him, then steered him toward the bed.
Clothes left a trail. By the time the backs of Elliot’s knees hit the mattress they were both naked, cocks standing hard and wet against their stomachs.
Ronan pushed him down and followed, settling between spread thighs.
Their shafts slid together, hot and slick.
Ronan reached for the lube, coated his fingers, and pressed two inside Elliot without preamble.
Elliot’s body opened for him, tight heat clenching around the intrusion.
Ronan curled his fingers, found the spot that made Elliot’s cock jump and a broken sound tear from his throat, then added a third.
“Ready?” Ronan asked, voice low. Elliot hooked a leg around his waist and pulled.
“Now.” Ronan lined up and pushed in on one long, controlled thrust. The stretch was intense—full, relentless, the thick length opening Elliot until Ronan’s hips met the backs of his thighs.
They stayed locked for a breath, foreheads pressed, sharing air. Then Ronan began to move.
Deep strokes. Slow at first, then harder. The wet slap of skin on skin filled the room. Elliot’s nails scored down Ronan’s back. His mouth found the side of Ronan’s throat and bit down—hard enough to bruise—then sucked until the skin darkened. Ronan growled and
answered with a sharper snap of his hips, driving in at an angle that dragged over Elliot’s prostate on every pass.
“That’s it,” Ronan breathed against his ear. “Mark me. My good boy.”
Elliot’s cock throbbed between them, leaking steadily onto his own stomach.
Ronan wrapped a fist around it and stroked in time with his thrusts—tight, twisting, thumb circling the slick head.
The dual sensation pulled Elliot apart. His body clenched hard around Ronan’s cock as he came, thick ropes striping his chest, the force of it dragging Ronan over the edge with him.
Ronan buried himself deep and spilled inside, heat flooding in long, pulsing waves.
They stayed locked together while the aftershocks faded, breath uneven, skin slick.
Elliot’s fingers traced the fresh bite mark on Ronan’s throat—dark, private, theirs.
Ronan kissed the corner of his mouth, soft.
“Still bossy?” Elliot’s smile was lazy, satisfied. “Unfortunately.” Elliot woke at 7:14 P.M. For one horrible second, he thought he had missed count. His body jolted. Concrete. Lights. Officer— No. Dark bedroom. Ronan. Beside him. Apartment. Home. Elliot breathed. Ronan stirred.
“What?” “Nothing.” His eyes opened. “Bad nothing?” Elliot smiled faintly. “Little bit.” Ronan rolled toward him. No shirt. Hair destroyed. Bite mark near his shoulder. Elliot stared. Ronan followed his eyes.