51. Love, Spoken
Love, Spoken
L.A. doesn’t offer anonymity; it offers camouflage.
Everyone’s a celebrity here; fame just buzzes in the background, another kind of traffic noise.
Still, Rafe’s careful: cap low, sunglasses even at night, sleeves rolled like he’s trying to pass for ordinary.
He says it’s not about hiding, it’s about protecting me.
I believe him, but I can see how it eats at him, the way the world won’t let him just belong anywhere.
It’s only getting worse as the band gains momentum.
First the cover that went viral, then the punch, now another tour leg and a new album on the horizon.
We walk through Koreatown, neon dripping color onto wet pavement. The air smells like sesame oil and ginger. He finds a place tucked between a noodle shop and a bakery, wood-paneled, soft light, music low enough to make the silence between us louder.
I can feel the heat of his gaze between sentences.
The dress had seemed harmless when I packed it, green silk, low-cut, short, but nothing scandalous.
Under this light, though, it highlights everywhere it clings.
Then his hand drifts under the table, then slips beneath the hem of my dress, and my breath falters.
His thumb brushes the edge of my thigh, heat seeping through the thin fabric of my tights.
I lift my glass, pretending to take a sip, but it’s a poor disguise.
His final touch, a slow sweep of his fingertips, finds bare skin beneath the nylon, and I know he’s realized I’m not wearing anything underneath.
It wasn’t planned, just practical, a last-minute choice when I noticed how the dress showed every seam, but watching his reaction?
I might have to make it a habit. My mouth can’t hide the teasing grin when our eyes meet.
The rest of the night is full of unspoken tension, every glance turning into touch.
He tries to focus on his plate, even goes so far as to cut a piece of sushi before realizing the sacrilege, then abandons it like nothing happened.
I nudge his foot under the table and catch the smallest shake of his head, his mouth curving into a helpless smile.
Finally, he motions that it’s time to go.
But before we head out, he leans in, shoulder brushing mine, his voice low enough to burn.
“You’re trying to give me a heart attack so I don’t go to Europe, is that the plan?”
The hotel is all marble hush and city light.
The second the door clicks shut, my back hits it; I gasp against his mouth.
He catches my wrists and pins them above my head, something emerging from him I didn’t expect, something primal, born from the wait, the knowing, the way it’s built in him all night.
The sound he makes pulls me under. In one quick sweep of his hands, my dress is gone, flung over my head, and we both laugh at the speed of it, chasing the joy with our mouths, greedy.
He walks me backward toward the bed, his hands framing my face, trusting him enough to fall blindly into whatever comes next.
When he lays me down, spreading my thighs like it’s the only thing he's thought of since he touched me at dinner, I wrap my legs around him and wish I could blink away everything still between us. When I reach for his waist, fumbling with his belt, he stops me, flips us, and I’m straddling him in a single motion that makes the room spin.
“I could get a concussion like that,” I say, leaning in, pressing against him. The groan he makes is involuntary and I know it.
“I’m sorry. What can I say? You make me reckless.”
He drags me with authority, his hand sliding to the back of my neck, guiding me wherever he wants.
We crash into a kiss that threatens to finish me right there, until he suddenly pulls back, focused on some wordless mission.
In one swift motion, both hands slide up my thighs, find my tights and tear them near the center.
The fabric he rips unravels instantly, the remnants reduced to little more than shredded garters, a spider web of nylon.
I gasp. “Rafe! What the—”
“Don’t question the methods,” he says a little breathless, voice deeply amused.
“Just worry about the results.” Then he presses into me, and the feeling is so intense I forget how to breathe.
He lies back, eyes bright with mischief.
“I want you,” he says, voice low and teasing, “all of you.” He taps his chin. “Sitting, right here.”
“Do you now?” I laugh, scandalized but a little thrilled too.
We've done so much together, in so many ways, but this seems bolder than anything else so far.
The idea of it, this man I've watched on screens and stages all my adult life, wanting that level of closeness, sends a nervous chill jolting through me.
Is he serious?
I shouldn't feel embarrassed but I do. He just grins, hands finding my waist, guiding me higher as I give in to his suggestion. The laughter still lingers, but my pulse stumbles. I’m still clinging to resistance, barely, until his eyes graze over me, every dip and curve, taking his time until he's had his fill. When he finally meets my gaze, his eyes darkened by a cocktail of lust and admiration, everything inside me surrenders. There’s something in his awe that feels like both a question and an offering.
His hands move along my thighs, coaxing me with tender patience, breaking down every last thread of hesitation.
"See? Your body knows exactly where it belongs, even when your head’s trying to be sensible.” His voice dips low and rough. “With me.”
Something changes in the pit of my stomach.
It’s no longer fear, just the dizzying edge of being wanted so fully, to be made open, together.
His arms loops around my thighs, drawing me closer until there’s no space left to hide.
I attempt to joke, the words caught in my throat, futilely playing at protest that he’ll suffocate, until he drags me down onto him with one final pull and proves me wrong in the best way.
The first swipe of his tongue is shocking.
Every nerve catching fire. The rest is pure sensation, his focus, his patience, the rhythm he builds until I’m lost in it.
My hands twist in his hair; my breaths break apart with every exhale.
My body moves on instinct, arching into him, chasing every pulse of pleasure until it becomes everything.
The sounds that escape me barely sound human.
I feel his smile against me, maddening and sure, before his tongue presses deeper, slower, until I’m moving with the pattern he writes against me.
My body chases it without thought, self-consciousness unable to stop the flood of heat and raw desire I feel with every gift his mouth gives me.
When I finally break, it’s like falling through the sky.
I can’t tell where I end and he begins. When it’s over, he lingers, one last flick of his tongue over every sensitive part he just set alight, stealing one more gasp from me.
He waits until I roll onto my side, heaving for breath like I’ve run to heaven and back.
It feels like I have, like he’s some celestial guide and I’ve already forgotten what life on earth is like.
My skin feels like it belongs to him, the drops of sweat evaporating, goosebumps coming to life under his magic.
I feel alive and utterly boneless. He settles beside me, watching silently, studying the tremors still coursing through me.
He leans in, his whisper brushing my neck more than my ear, so he can see every reaction.
“Still with me in there? Whatever you do, don’t head toward the white light.”
I let out a weak laugh between pants. “I won’t. Too much to live for.”
“Good,” he says, voice warm. “I’m not done with you yet. No checking out early.”
I laugh again, softer this time. When his fingers trace my thigh, I shiver, proof that I’m still here, and entirely his.
For a moment I’m utterly gone. My focus drifts along the pattern of the ceiling, the ridges, the shadows the lampshade casts along it.
Slowly but surely I’m drawn down to earth, to the sound of him breathing, the traffic outside, voices down the hallway.
When I finally return to my body, to him, he’s still watching me, smiling like he can’t believe what just happened, how wrecked he made me.
“You’re far too smug,” I manage. “You owe me a pair of tights.”
He laughs as I curl into him, his arm looping around me, lips brushing my ear.
“I think I can manage that.”
“You think? Bank account empty?” I murmur against his chest. We both hold on tight, staying perfectly still.
I cling to him, something foolish in me believing that if we just don’t move reality won’t touch us.
That time won’t find us. Suddenly a car alarm in the parking lot goes off and we both startle, laughing at the disruption inside our blissful cocoon.
Then, just like that, the world rushes back in, the weight of tomorrow, the flights, the distance.
The fact that this is the last night we’ll have like this for almost two months.
It hits us both at once, like waking up after a dream.
Without another word, he pulls me close, whispering against my hair.
“We’ll be under the same sky, Kasia. Two months, that’s all. It’ll be over before you know it. Then I’ll be annoying you every weekend. You’ll learn to hate L.A. just like I do, but we’ll make it bearable. Together.”
I want to believe him. But my heart feels like it’s being torn in two.