Chapter 40 Damien
Damien
I’m standing under the spray longer than I need to, forehead tipped forward, hands braced against the wall like the water might knock something loose if I let it.
Steam curls thick around the stall, clinging to my skin, my hair, my thoughts.
For a few blessed minutes, the only thing that exists is the sound of water hitting tiles and the steady, grounding pressure against my back.
I don’t want to leave tomorrow.
Which is fucked, honestly. He’s fine, safe, and happy if last night meant anything. He’s stronger than anyone gives him credit for. Hell, stronger than I give him credit for, and I know it.
But that doesn’t stop the clench in my chest, the part of me that can’t shake the image of him curled up alone in my bed while I’m halfway across the state with my head stuck in a playbook.
It makes me feel like I’m doing something wrong by leaving, even if it’s just for a weekend. Even if it’s something I’ve done a hundred times before.
I hate that part of myself—the part that wants to hover, lock the door, cancel everything, and sit on the bed with him to count breaths and meals and hours until I’m sure—really sure—that he’s okay.
Because I know that’s not what he wants.
I know what that looks like to him. Being watched, managed, and handled with kid gloves like he’s fragile instead of a person who’s already been broken and had to put himself back together more times than anyone should have to.
I rinse the soap from my shoulders, tilt my head back into the spray, and let the water hit my face hard enough to sting.
“Get it together,” I mutter, voice echoing faintly off tiles. “You’re not his keeper. You’re—”
His partner.
His boyfriend.
The guy who loves him.
That’s different. It has to be different.
I shut off the water, and the sudden quiet feels too loud.
I grab a towel, rough-dry my hair, and scrub my face until my skin’s pink and awake again.
I’m still wound tight, still buzzing with nerves, but it’s a familiar kind now—the kind I get before games, before travel, before anything I can’t control.
I step out of the bathroom barefoot, towel slung low around my hips, already half-planning what I’m going to say to him about tomorrow.
About the away game, how Sage and Nate will be here, and how Killian will keep an eye out even if he pretends he isn’t.
That I’ll text, call, FaceTime, whatever Noah wants, without hovering, without making it a big thing.
I’m rehearsing it in my head, then I look up and my brain just… stops.
Noah’s on my bed.
No. Noah’s posed on my bed like sin incarnate.
He’s splayed out like a fucking fever dream, one leg bent, the other kicked lazily to the side.
He’s not wearing much—a pink lace bralette stretching across his chest, and a matching jockstrap hugs his hips, framing the swell of his ass and the outline of his cock, thick and hard and pushing against the fabric.
The silver slip chain is looped around his neck again, resting against the soft column of his throat, the heart-shaped O-rings just begging to be pulled.
And the fucking heels.
Black, strappy heels with buckles around his ankles and sharp arches that make his legs look even longer, leaner, like every inch of him was sculpted for ruin.
My brain blanks out for a solid three seconds. I just stare, frozen, heart trying to climb out of my ribs while my cock hardens to steel.
I fucking hate myself for hesitating because this boy—this beautiful, complicated, terrifyingly soft boy—is offering himself to me without a word. And I want him. I do. But I can’t look at him lying there like a dream I don’t deserve without thinking about why he’s doing this.
He’s trying. Trying to take control. Trying to reclaim something that was stolen from him in all the worst ways.
And I want him.
God, I want him.
But I don’t move because the part of me that’s still thinking—the part that remembers the way he looked when I stopped him last time—is warning me that he might still be trying to fix something that doesn’t need fixing.
I take a breath and cross the room. He tracks me with his eyes, biting his lip when I stop beside the bed.
“Blue,” I say softly. “What’s all this?”
His throat bobs as he swallows. “Too much?”
“No,” I answer immediately, because fuck, it’s not. “You look… You look insane.”
That pulls a smile from him, shy and a little shaky. “Insane good?”
I sit on the edge of the mattress, towel still miraculously in place, resisting the urge to touch. “You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”
His smile falters at the edges, like he’s not sure he believes me. My heart aches. I reach out and run a thumb across his cheek, brushing back the messy strands of blue that have fallen into his eyes.
“You didn’t have to do this,” I say quietly.
He shakes his head. “I wanted to.”
I nod, searching his face. “And are you doing it because you want it, or because you think I do?”
He hesitates, and that’s enough of an answer.
“Noah,” I sigh.
“I do want it,” he says quickly, sitting up. “I want you to see me like this. I want to give you something that’s mine to give. I don’t want to be treated like I’m gonna break.”
“I’m not treating you like you’re gonna break. I’m trying to make sure you don’t,” I say, sliding my hand down to rest against his waist, just above the waistband of the jock. “There’s a difference.”
His eyes flicker, just for a second, enough to tell me I hit something close to the truth. “I don’t want to be treated like I’m made of glass,” he says, voice shaking. “I told you that. I don’t want you to stop touching me just because you’re scared I’ll break.”
“That’s not what this is,” I say firmly. “I’m not pulling back because I don’t want you. I’m pulling back because I want you enough to make sure you’re choosing this for the right reasons. You don’t have to be naked for me to see you, Noah.”
His eyes briefly flutter closed, and when they open again, there’s something softer there. More grounded. “I’m not doing this to test you, Damien. I’m doing it because I want you to look at me and know I’m not scared anymore.”
I swallow hard, eyes dragging down his body again.
Honestly, the heels knock me out. They’re nothing flashy—just a black pump with a thin heel—but on him, paired with the lace and the glint of silver at his throat, they make my brain stall.
He’s always been beautiful. But this is him letting go. Owning the softness. Weaponizing it.
“I like it when you touch me,” he whispers. “I want you to touch me.”
My hand brushes up his thigh, stopping just short of the strap. He shivers but doesn’t move away. “You’re not afraid?”
“No,” he whispers.
I run my thumb over the pink lace, the damp patch forming at the front, and he moans under his breath. I glance up. “You hard for me already, Babygirl?”
He nods. “Been hard since before you even came out. I’ve been thinking about how you look at me when I wear this. How you sound when you’re close. How it feels when you—”
I shut him up with a kiss, because if he keeps talking, I’m going to lose every ounce of restraint I have. He kisses me back like it’s the first time, desperate and sweet and filthy all at once.
“You’re fucking perfect,” I say, palming him gently through the lace. “And if I ever make you feel like you’re anything less than powerful when you wear this, you tell me.”
“I will,” he promises, hips lifting into my touch. “Just… touch me, Damien. Show me I’m yours.”
I kiss him once more, then trail my mouth down his jaw, his throat, biting lightly at the skin just above the collar. “You’re the sexiest fucking thing I’ve ever seen,” I murmur.
Moving down, I plant a kiss on the inside of his thigh, just above the jock strap, and breathe in deep. Fuck me, he smells like everything I could ever want.
“You’re going to let me make you feel good tonight,” I continue, nuzzling his inner thigh and listening to him whine.
“You’re going to let me worship you the way you deserve.
And when I’m back from that game, then you can ride me in these heels, Babygirl.
But right now, I want to remind you that you don’t need to perform to be wanted. ”
He whines, hips grinding up, desperate for friction. “Please.”
The heels dig into the mattress, lace clinging wet against him, chest rising in shaky little breaths that stutter every time I move my hands. His fingers are clutching the sheets, knuckles pale, eyes blown wide.
I swear, he’s never looked more wrecked. Or more in control of me. I kiss along the edge of his waistband, feel the way he trembles beneath my mouth. “Noah.”
“Yeah?” he moans, arching up into my kisses.
I crawl up the bed slowly, straddling his waist, hands braced on either side of his ribs. I lean in, nose brushing his, and say it like a secret: “I want you to fuck me.”
He goes so still beneath me that it takes him a full beat to respond. “W-what?” His lashes flutter. “But—I don’t know how—”
“Exactly,” I murmur. “That’s why I want it. I want your first time to be something you get to do, not something done to you. I want you to feel powerful in this. You’ve always given up control, but now I want you to take it.”
He stares at me, stunned. And then his face crumples just a little, like he doesn’t know if this is a trick. “I won’t hurt you?”
I can’t help but chuckle. “No, you won’t,” I promise, brushing my lips against his. “I’ll talk you through it and stop you if I need to. But right now, I just want you inside me. All of you.”
He flushes, visibly flustered. “What if I do it wrong?”
“Then I’ll tell you,” I murmur, brushing my nose against his. “Or I’ll moan so loud the whole house hears how fucking right it is.”
Noah’s breath hitches, and his blush deepens. “That’s not fair.”
“You in heels isn’t fair, Blue,” I whisper. “You’ve had me on my fucking knees since I was sixteen years old. Let me give this to you. Let me be the one to come apart.”