Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
Eddie
The house is quiet in that after-midnight way—lamps dimmed low, the ocean thudding at the windows like a reminder that it’s still there. Cleo sleeps behind a door I left cracked open, just like she asked.
It was an intense day. She didn’t want me to leave her side, and when she finally settled, she made me promise to show up as myself—because right now she doesn’t always know how to ask for comfort, only that she needs it.
Maybe I should tell Barret. Cleo understands our intentions.
We even requested guidance from a therapist before her arrival.
However, Cleo has told me she isn’t something to be handled. She wants to be Cleo—the woman who chooses to be with us—not someone we need to fix.
Barret is on the rug when I come in, guitar across his knees, hair still damp from the shower. “Thought you were staying with her all night,” he says, surprised.
“I told her this is part of the work,” I answer. “Not just for us—yours and mine—but for her too.”
“Still—”
“This is homework,” I cut him off. “We said we’d do it. Just us. If she has a nightmare, we go to her.” I set the timer for sixty seconds and step into his space.
I help him up, his fingers warm at my waist, pulling me close before we even touch foreheads.
I slide my palms over his shoulders and lift him until we stand chest to chest. We breathe.
At first, it’s off—two people trying to find the same song by guessing.
Then, a few slow breaths in, our ribs click into rhythm.
His exhale meets my mouth. Mine answers.
The old reflex to crack a joke claws at my throat—anything to keep from feeling—but he knows me too well.
He tucks his face under my jaw, a move I remember from the first time he held me when I was breaking.
That time after I watched those despicable videos of Dorian .
. . He knows how to bring me back, though.
It’s a small thing, yet it’s everything.
“Stay,” he says.
“I am,” I whisper.
The timer dings. We don’t pull away. When we break, it’s gentle, like easing a fragile thing into place so it won’t fall apart.
“Report card?” he tries for light, and it almost gets there.
“Pass,” I say. “With notes.”
He snorts. “Give me the notes.”
I trace the back of his hand with my thumb. “They’re from earlier—I used my boss voice with Cleo. I hate that I did. I’m sorry you had to check me.”
“You listened.” He presses his palm over mine. “You stepped back. That’s new, and we should call it progress.”
“I still hate it.”
“You’ll learn, but don’t be hard on yourself.” He grins. “If you do it again, I’ll tap your wrist and you’ll stop. Like adults.”
“Tap is fine,” I say, making it real.
He wets his lips, thinking. “My note: when she fell apart, I wanted to hand her over to you, run outside, and scream into the wind until I stopped shaking. Instead, I stayed seated and pretended to be a mountain.” He winces at the image. “I don’t do mountains.”
“You don’t have to.” I feel the words before I shape them. “Sit. Breathe. Tell me when you’re at an eight and I’ll bring you down to a six before you try to save the planet.”
He studies me like I handed him something to keep. “Okay.”
We drop to the rug. The room smells faintly of cedar polish and tea. I pull a small notebook from the nightstand and flip to a blank page.
“Two items,” I say, pen poised. “A touch we keep strictly nonsexual. And a move that’s a bid—so neither of us has to guess.”
“Foreheads,” he says without hesitation. “Safe.”
“Palms too,” I add, placing my hand against his. Skin to skin settles between us like a small truce.
He swallows, and I let my thumb slide just to the edge of his waistband—small, knowing, a question pressed against skin. The contact is quiet but speaks; his breath catches where my touch lands.
“Will it be okay . . .?” I start, voice thin and small for once.
“I know we said no sex, but that was before.” My thumb keeps moving slowly, tracing the hip bone like I’m mapping a route back to him.
“I need you to take charge of me tonight. Remind me I’m wanted.
Show me how to come back from the place I get lost in. Tell me I’m yours and mean it.”
He looks at me for a long beat, his eyes soft and dangerous all at once. Then his mouth quirks, a crooked promise. He slides his hand up to cover mine, his fingers warm, and his heat under my palm makes something in me unclench.
“Okay,” he says, low and close. “I’ll take care of you.”
Barret’s hands move to my shirt, tugging it over my head with a patience that feels foreign between us. Usually, it’s me rushing to strip him down, to shoulder the care, but tonight his fingers are slow, reverent, each button and tug an act of possession.
He kisses me before I can breathe—soft at first, lingering on my lips as though memorizing the taste. Then he pulls back just enough to look at me, and his voice is raw velvet. “You’re beautiful like this. Do you know that? The way you let me see all of you.”
My throat closes. No one compliments me like this—not without expecting something in return.
But his mouth trails down my jaw and along the curve of my neck, marking me with kisses that feel more like reverence than sin.
He unbuttons my jeans slowly, carefully sliding the zipper down, his knuckles grazing my stomach until I shiver.
When he pushes the denim off my hips, his eyes drop to where I’m already hard for him. He hums low, satisfied, brushing his thumb across the head, smearing the slick, then lifting his hand to his mouth. His tongue licks the taste clean, and I groan so loud it feels like a confession.
“Fuck, B—” My head falls back.
“Eddie,” he says against my lips, his voice cracked open with need. “You don’t always have to hold me up. Let me hold you tonight.”
His words sink into me deeper than any touch.
He eases me onto the bed, straddling my hips, his gaze fixed like I’m the only thing that matters.
Each kiss down my chest feels like a vow without the word, his tongue circling my nipple, his teeth grazing, just enough to make me writhe.
He whispers between each touch—perfect, mine, beautiful. Every syllable unravels me.
When his mouth trails lower, I grab his wrist, desperate. “Barret—if you keep this pace, I’ll lose my fucking mind.”
He smirks, wicked and tender. “That’s the point.”
He frees me entirely, my cock flushed and aching. His hand wraps around me, stroking slowly, purposefully, his eyes never leaving my face. “You’re gorgeous when you let go,” he murmurs. “I want every sound you’ve ever swallowed down. Give them to me.”
I’m shaking, overwhelmed by the way he worships me, the way he takes charge with restraint and devotion. My chest heaves, my breath ragged as he kisses the tip, then licks down the length, sucking me into his mouth with a groan that vibrates through my core.
“Fuck,” I choke out, clutching his hair, not to force him but to keep myself from flying apart. Tears sting behind my eyes—not from pain, but from how much this means, from how much I need him.
Barret pulls off just long enough to look up at me, lips wet, eyes fierce and soft. “Let me love you like this, Eddie. Let me be the one tonight.”
And I can’t say no. Not when my whole body feels like it’s splitting open for him, not when every touch is salvation disguised as sin.
He drags his mouth lower, kissing down my length, tongue tracing me like he’s hungry to learn every ridge.
His hand strokes me while his lips find my sack, sucking one side into his mouth before moving to the other, rolling them gently on his tongue.
I groan, fists tangling in the sheets, hips twitching, but he pins me down with a palm across my stomach, controlling me with nothing but tenderness.
“Fuck, B . . .” My voice shreds as he licks lower, between, teasing until his tongue circles my hole. My body jerks, and I bite down on a moan so guttural it hurts. His hand never stops stroking me, slow and sure, while his tongue works me open, slick and sinful.
I can’t hold back. “Please,” I gasp. “Please, Barret—fill me. I need you inside me, all of you. I need it now.”
He pulls back just enough to kiss the inside of my thigh, his lips brushing skin that’s hot and damp. “You’re begging like a freakin’ dream.,” he whispers, voice hoarse. “I’ve dreamed about this. About you opening for me, about you giving me everything.”
I nod frantically, breath breaking. “It’s yours. I’m yours. Just—fuck—don’t make me wait.”
He slicks himself with lube, the sound obscene in the quiet room. I watch through hazy eyes as he rolls on a condom, and the sight alone nearly undoes me. He moves over me, kissing my mouth with a hunger that feels like possession, then positions himself at my entrance.
His eyes catch mine. “Tell me if it’s too much.”
“Never too much,” I breathe. “Just give it to me.”
The first push makes me cry out, a burn stretching me wide, every nerve alight. He stills instantly, kissing my face, whispering into my skin. “Breathe, baby. You’re taking me so good. Let me in.”
I force the air out, body loosening around him. He eases deeper, inch by inch, until he’s fully inside me, filling me in a way that has tears stinging my eyes. My cock jerks against my stomach, leaking between us, untouched yet straining.
“Look at me,” Barret says softly, his forehead pressed to mine.
I do. And, fuck—he’s already undone. His jaw tight, sweat beading at his temple, eyes raw with reverence and hunger. “You’re perfect,” he rasps. “So fucking perfect around me—mine.”
Then he moves. Slow, careful thrusts that drag his thickness out of me before sliding back in, building a rhythm that makes me moan helplessly. Each stroke hits deep, stroking that place inside me that has me clenching around him, begging for more.
“Fuck, Eddie,” he groans, hips rolling. “You feel like home. You feel like everything.”
His hand wraps around my cock, stroking in time with his thrusts, his thumb smearing the slick at the head. I’m caught between the fullness of him inside me and the relentless pleasure of his hand.
“Don’t stop,” I gasp. “Don’t you fucking stop.”
“I won’t,” he says, voice breaking. “Not until you fall apart for me. Not until you know how much you’re mine.”
The rhythm builds, our bodies finding each other, every thrust and stroke pulling me closer to the edge. His praise pours over me—gorgeous, mine, so good for me—until I can’t take it anymore.
“I’m gonna—fuck—” My words shatter as I come, hot and violent, spilling across his hand and my stomach. My body clamps down around him, dragging him deeper, milking him.
“Jesus, Eddie,” he groans, thrusting faltering as he drives hard one last time. He buries himself deep, trembling, and I feel the heat of his release as he comes inside the condom, his body pressed to mine, his mouth against my ear whispering my name.
For a long moment, there’s only the sound of us—ragged breaths, hearts pounding, sweat cooling between our bodies. He doesn’t let go. He holds me tight, like I’m the only thing he has left in the world.
“You’re mine,” he whispers, voice hoarse. “Every part of you. And I’m never letting you forget it.”
And for once, I don’t want to.
Barret eases out slowly, kissing me through the shiver of it.
He knots the condom and tosses it aside, then leaves only long enough to grab a towel.
When he returns, he’s gentle, wiping me clean with a care that makes my throat close.
No rush. No shame. Just his hand moving over me like I’m something precious.
“You did good,” he murmurs, dabbing the sweat at my temple, brushing damp hair from my face. “You let go. You let me take care of you.”
It unravels me more than the orgasm did. I lie there, trembling, watching him work over me with all the patience I’ve never allowed myself. My chest aches with the realization that he isn’t just wiping me down; he’s piecing me back together in small strokes of cotton and skin.
When he’s finished, he crawls beside me and pulls me into his arms. I don’t resist. For once, I don’t feel the need to move, to lead, to patch.
I let him cradle me, my head on his chest, his heartbeat thudding under my ear.
His hand strokes slowly down my spine, each pass softer than the last, like he’s teaching my body what it means to be held.
“B . . .” My voice breaks, cracked wide open.
“Shh.” He kisses my head, lingering there, lips warm against my skin. “You’re safe with me. Always.”
The words dig in, deep, and merciless. I want to argue. I want to laugh it off. Instead, I close my eyes and let them sink like stones.
He tilts my chin until I meet his gaze. His eyes are wrecked and beautiful, stripped of every wall. “You’ve carried us long enough,” he whispers. “It’s my turn to love you and protect you.”
And, fuck, it hits me so hard I can’t breathe. Not because it’s too much, but because it’s precisely what I’ve needed. I love this man so much.
I nod, letting him see everything in me that usually hides. My chest shakes once, then stills against him.
Barret presses his forehead to mine, his breath trembling against my lips. His eyes search me like he’s cataloging every crack I’ve tried to hide. “I’ll burn myself down if that’s what it takes to keep you whole, Eddie. Not a promise—truth. Not words—my marrow.”
The air between us hums with it, too alive to ignore. And I believe letting go might save me more than holding on ever did.