Chapter 8
ARCHIE
It’s been exactly thirteen hours since I last had my hands on Denver.
Outside, the sun is warm on my face—a rare day here with a sky uninterrupted by clouds.
The heat makes me tired, and with that lazy weight in my limbs, it’s easy to sink into the grass and get lost in memories of the night before.
My body is still humming from my moment in the closet with Denver. The way his skin felt against my palms, the way his breath fanned my face, the way his cock was heavy and rich and salty as I curled my tongue around it.
Watching him fall apart had been the best thing that ever happened to me. I regret not taking out my earplugs so I could get drunk on his groans, but his body language was enough to send me into the best fucking spiral.
If I hadn’t already come from jerking off to his memory, I would have made a complete mess in my pants. As it was, I left hard as a rock and desperate for more. And he probably would have let me take him again.
And again. And again.
But I wanted to keep up the chase. I wanted the satisfaction of hunting. Of being hunted.
That won’t last forever, but it’s something I can indulge in now, and that means everything. No one understands me the way he does. No one has ever given me what I so desperately craved.
When I was younger, I’d met people I thought understood me. People who believed they knew what I wanted. What I needed. And then I’d find out that they were terrified of who I was, just like everyone else.
They didn’t understand the game. They didn’t understand the chase.
They didn’t understand beauty in blood, and violence, and sometimes even death.
But Denver seemed to come alive at the thought of it. The way his eyes had glimmered in the dark when blood hit his face and the way he gasped and his body begged for more at the graveyard told me everything.
Stretching my arms above my head, my fingers graze a headstone. I’m in the larger, Catholic cemetery with older headstones. I like it better here. The church has money, so the graves are maintained, the grass always freshly watered, and the ground is soft beneath my back.
Extending my arm fully, I feel around the etchings of the headstone. Bits of old granite crumble under my touch, and I think about the body that’s lying beneath me. It’s probably bones now—remnants of the person who lived here before they died.
It doesn’t look like anyone has maintained this plot.
No fresh flowers, no fake ones, no footprints.
They’re forgotten—memories turned to dust. Then I think about the people who are long dead but immortalized because no one forgets who they are.
People who left their mark on the world, beloved and treasured, even if they were shit people.
That won’t be me. My brothers will remember until they’re gone, but I don’t think we’ll be continuing our family line the way my father has always wanted. The idea of kids turns my stomach sour. The idea of having to play uncle to children my brothers could create terrifies me.
Luckily, they both feel the same way I do.
They don’t see a point, and there’s no pride in this legacy.
My brothers don’t see beauty in nothingness the way I do.
I think Percy believes in something, and Milo’s probably afraid to consider an afterlife.
But there’s no way to ignore how we’ve all suffered, and I don’t think any of us wants to pass along any more generational trauma.
Then something around me stirs. The silence of the cemetery has shifted, and my hackles rise. I’m being watched. I rarely ever feel threatened, but I’m cautious as I sit up and immediately scan the area. It takes me a moment to find who it is, but when I do, my heart skitters in my chest.
It’s him. My little rabbit.
Does he know I can see him? He’s lurking behind the large trunk of a tree, one hand pressed to the wood, the rest of his body attempting to hide.
But even in a pitch-black room, I would know him.
I’ve memorized the way he moves, the way he breathes, how often he blinks, and the way his fingers twitch when he’s mumbling to himself in sign.
He can’t hide. The chase is over. He might not know it yet, but I’ve already caught him, and all I can do is sit here and pretend I don’t know he’s watching. I know the feeling it’ll give him, the zing up his spine, the joy of the hunt. I want him to feel as free as I am.
Even if it’s all bullshit.
My dick gets hard, and I want to palm it. I’m out in the open, but there’s no one else around, and the entrance to this cemetery is more than half a mile away from where I’ve found this comfortable spot.
Pressing my back against the headstone, I close my eyes and dip my hand beneath the waistband of my pants. The other slips into my pocket to feel my prize from the night before. The lace panties still smell like him. I stroke my thumb over the rough fabric and feel my dick get harder.
My breath is heavy, the sound a little too harsh for my liking, but it doesn’t bother me enough to reach for my earplugs yet. I grunt when my zipper slips down and my cock springs free from the slit in my boxers. It’s warm against my palm—hard, throbbing.
Opening my eyes, I don’t see Denver right away. It takes me a moment to find his wisps of dark hair floating in the breeze. My heart leaps in my chest. He’s moved closer now, just above a larger headstone shaped like a cross.
My throat gets a little tight with excitement, and I make a long, tight hum as I begin to stroke. There might be cameras watching for security, but I don’t care.
I want him to see this.
I want him to want me exactly as I am.
I stroke faster, a small gasp ripping from my chest as my balls go tight with the need to come. I don’t. Not yet. He’s moving closer now, being a lot less careful, unaware of his surroundings, unlike the way I was trained.
I should teach him what I know. How to be more stealthy. To be more dangerous. To treat everything like a threat.
But for now, I allow my little rabbit his moment to stalk me.
He’s finally close enough to pounce as I twist my hand around the head of my dick and grunt softly. His footsteps crunch over fallen leaves and bits of stone, and my gaze lifts to his face the moment he comes into view, his cheeks mottled pink, lips parted with his panting breath.
I look to the sides of his head, but he’s not wearing his cochlear implants, so I have to use my body to convey what I want. I arch my hips up, moving them in time with my wrist as I jerk myself, and he lets out a sharp, chest-deep moan as he drops to his knees.
His hand reaches out, too tentative for my liking, and something in me snaps. I reach for his wrist and tug until he’s tumbling onto my legs.
Straddling them, he lets out another moan as I guide his hand to where I want to be touched. His brows lift in question, like he’s unsure he’s allowed to do this. Fingertips graze my length before closing around it, and he shifts closer, knees clenching around the outside of my thighs.
“Yes,” I say. His eyes are fixed on my lips, reading my words.
“More?” he asks aloud. His accent is heavy with desire and so fucking perfect.
I nod. ‘Please.’ I rub my hand in a circle on my chest, fingers trembling with the need to grab him and force him to give me what I want. But I don’t.
He’s successfully hunted me down. He gets to take what he wants. I am his prize.
He squeezes me tighter, then lets go to spit in his hand before gripping me again. I moan loudly, and when he sees it, he reaches up and presses fingertips to the side of my throat.
“Again,” he demands.
I obey as he feels the vibrations against his palm.
His head dips in close, like he’s trying to catch my moans on his tongue, so I part my lips and invite him in.
His kiss is frantic at first, deep and too wet with too much tongue.
But when I shove my fingers into his hair and pull, he softens and pulls back.
“So good,” I murmur. I realize he can’t understand my words, so I wrench him back and with one hand tell him, ‘You, so good.’
His eyes flutter shut for a moment as he starts to jerk me harder, and I take the opportunity to shove my hand down the back of his pants.
I don’t feel lace this time. I feel silk, soft as the lining in a coffin, and I tug and tug until the fabric pulls up over the curve of his ass and I can see the color. They’re a bright, gorgeous royal blue.
It suits him so fucking much.
I want to see him stripped naked except for silk, spread out on my bed, helpless against anything I want to do to him. I want to taste every fucking inch of his body. I want to choke on his cock until I cry. I want to push my tongue deep inside him and experience the very essence of who he is.
If it wouldn’t terrify him, I would keep him in soft nylon ropes in my room and never let him go.
But I know better than that. Percy taught me years ago that loving someone that intensely is dangerous. It doesn’t allow for being loved back, and I don’t want to be lonely.
I don’t want this to be one-sided.
“Kiss me,” he says, interrupting my fear-laced thoughts.
His voice brings me back to him, and I grip his hair again, pulling him down and giving him the sharp, biting kiss he’s asking for.
As I sink my teeth into his lower lip, his grip on me tightens, his arm speeding up like he’s trying to rip the orgasm right from my body. And, in that moment, I realize he’s succeeding.
I have no more control. My hips begin to fuck upward, bouncing him on my lap as he holds my dick even tighter, and his free hand curls around the front of my throat as I cry out.
The world goes white as I shoot hot ropes along his stomach, pulling him tight against me to share the mess. He moans, rocking his hips forward as his lips find mine again, and he sucks on my tongue through the aftershocks.
Fuck. Fuck.
I attempt to tell him that, but all that comes out is a stuttered, wordless whine. Being with Denver was so good it’s stolen my voice. And the perfection of this moment is that Denver doesn’t need to hear me to know.
He sits back on my thighs, eyes hazy as he looks down at me, and then he reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a crushed red fabric flower.
I recognize it immediately as part of the bouquet I’d stolen from the graves and given to him. I take it from his hands and put the wire stem behind his ear. He looks fucking ridiculous, but I love it anyway.
He meets and holds my gaze for a long time, then lifts a hand and gives my sign name. ‘Archie.’
I like the way it looks on his hands.
‘Denver,’ I sign back. I picked up his name from watching him with his friends.
He looks a little startled as he swallows heavily, then stands up. His dick is tenting his pants, but he doesn’t do anything about it except to tuck it back, then adjust his panties before leaning his ass against the gravestone in front of me.
The space allows me a moment to get myself somewhat presentable. I can feel my cum against my skin though, soaking through my shirt, and I hate it. I need to go home and wash and change, and for a moment, I hate that my sensory issues are destroying what could be basking in the glow with him.
But I can’t change who I am or the things I need, no matter how good being with him is.
He doesn’t stop me when I stand, and I take three steps away before turning back to him. ‘Little rabbit,’ I sign.
His eyes widen a fraction, but otherwise, he says nothing back.
That’s enough for now. I have business tonight, and I have to call Nico tomorrow.
After that, Denver is fair game.
And if my little rabbit, who’s playing like he’s a fox, finds me in the meantime, I’ll make it worth his while.