67. Ryan
Ryan
The world didn’t just slow down when he pulled me close; it finally, completely stopped.
Jackson was no longer a beautiful abstraction on paper; he was heat, muscle, and the deep, hungry sound of a man who’d also been waiting too long.
When he looked at me in the car, I felt the terror of being seen, but here, under the soft light of his house, I felt chosen.
“I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere,” I whispered as I took the lead.
The second his back hit the wall, it was the soldier in me reacting, but this time, the mission was pure, unadulterated desire.
I pushed him away from the hallway and toward the bedroom, my hands already moving with a feverish urgency.
Every letter we’d exchanged was a layer of armor he didn’t need to wear for me, and I wanted to see every inch of the man who had loved the duck-drawing soldier.
The muscles in his chest were just as powerful as I’d imagined, sculpted by the game he loved.
I pressed my mouth to his shoulder, tasting the faint salt of the bar, the scent of his skin a dizzying confirmation of his reality.
He stumbled back as I stripped the rest of his clothes, pushing him toward the bed with my body, letting the momentum carry us both down onto the mattress.
Fuck there was a wet spot on the front of his boxers, fucking fuck!
As I pulled back to catch my breath, my eyes caught something on his ribcage, a small, dark smudge of ink that hadn’t been there in the photos he’d sent.
I leaned in, my heart skipping a beat as the details came into focus.
It was a tiny, perfectly rendered duck, and on its feet were miniature hockey skates.
I traced the fresh, slightly raised lines of the tattoo with a trembling fingertip, a lump forming in my throat.
“Jackson,” I whispered, looking up at him.
He gave me a shy, vulnerable smile, his hand covering mine over the ink.
“I got it a few weeks after we started writing,” he admitted softly.
“It was the only way I knew how to carry you with me through the noise.” It wasn’t just a doodle anymore; it was a permanent promise, a mark of the man I loved on the skin of the athlete who’d fought to bring me home.
The touch was everything. I finally had him, not just his words, but the solid, breathing man who had saved me from the dark.
My own clothes were gone in seconds, my focus entirely on his body.
I ran my hands over the smooth, hot planes of his skin, tracing the heavy, defined muscle of his thighs and chest. I felt an almost protective tenderness, a reverence for the man who had trusted me with his life without ever seeing my face.
When I finally claimed his mouth again, it was a silent promise, I see you, Jackson. I have you. And I’m never letting go.
Falling to my knees, I grabbed Jackson’s shaft, giving him a long, slow lick from base to tip, my eyes on Jackson the whole time, his stare filled with complete lust. I relaxed my throat, sliding him over my tongue.
Fuck he tastes incredible. “Ryan, if you don’t want this to end soon, then you’d better stop, fuck it’s too good.
” I pop off of him and push him back onto the bed.
Climbing on top of him, reclaiming his mouth, our cocks touching, the friction so fucking perfect.
Both panting, deepening our kiss, hands touching him everywhere I can get them.
“I’m so close,” Jackson moans into my mouth, “fuck I’m gonna” before I even finish, sheer pleasure takes over, and we are both cumming, cum smeared all over our abs.
Rolling off of him, but still not ready to lose contact, I curl up into his side, a complete feeling taking over. I’m home, finally.
I woke up slowly, the kind of heavy, satisfied weight that felt impossible in the field; it was still dark outside.
The first thing I registered wasn’t the dust or the silence, but the insistent, feather-light pressure of Jackson’s lips tracing paths across my body.
He was awake, fully attentive, mapping my skin with his mouth.
I felt a slow burn of pleasure as he kissed the side of my neck, then followed the line of my jaw, planting a soft, reverent kiss on the corner of my mouth before trailing down to my chest. He kissed the old, thin scar on my shoulder, a deliberate, tender acknowledgment of my history, before moving lower, worshiping the sharp lines of my abs.
The tenderness was a fire, and I felt the swift, undeniable response in my body, hardening instantly against the soft sheets.
I groaned, arching into his touch, my hands tangling in his hair, pulling him closer to the intense desire he was creating.
I looked at the moonlight reflecting in his eyes, no panic, just raw, focused hunger.
“Jackson,” I managed to whisper, the single word a plea, a command, and a confession. “Please.”
The sight of him between my legs, well, it’s going to live rent-free in my memory forever!
He stared up, looking into my eyes, “Fuck, yes,” as he moved closer to my cock.
Still staring at me, licking the tip before sucking my head into his mouth.
“Oh fuck, Jackson, fuck, please.” I had no idea what I was pleading for.
I’ve gone; it feels like I’m not on this planet anymore.
Taking me deeper, I can feel myself losing control.
“Fuck, you look so good right now.” Digging my hands in his hair, fuck, this is perfect, he’s perfect.
“This is where you belong, fuck, Jackson,” he groans around my cock, sending pleasure shooting, I’m cumming before I even have the chance to warn Jackson.