I fuck him slow with my fingers like it’s a goddamn art, like the only thing I was ever born to do was drag him back from the edge of whatever hell he keeps locking himself in—and show him what it means to belong.
To be claimed.
To be fuckingwanted.
He’s so fucking close I can feel it—every breath, every twitch, every time his hips buck up like he’s trying to ride my hand. He’s soaked in sweat, pink-cheeked and wrecked, mouth open in silent screams as my fingers keep dragging over that spot inside him, overand over, mercilessly. I slow down just enough to make him sob again, just enough to tease, and the sound he makes isn’t even human.
His hand slams against my shoulder. “Rafe, please—” he cries, voice shredded.
“Please what?” I murmur against his throat, licking up the sweat pooling at the curve of his neck. “Say it.”
“Please let me come—fuck, I need—Rafe, please—”
“My name,” I growl. “Say it again.”
He gasps, shaking. “Rafe—Rafe—please—Rafe—”
I press down with my palm, thrust my fingers deep, curl them just right, and he screams. His back arches like he’s being electrocuted, body shaking so violently I have to throw my weight on top of him to keep him from jolting off the bed.
He comes hard, full-body, ripped open, sobbing my name. It’s not graceful. It’s not pretty. It’s fucking devastating.
The orgasm wrecks him. He’s still crying when it’s over—shaking under me, a mess of spit and sweat and tears and cum, gasping for air like he just got dragged out of the deepest part of himself. His hands clutch at me like I’m the only real thing left in the world.
I pull my fingers out slow, keep my mouth close to his ear, whispering nothing, just breath and heat and mine.
“Next time,” I murmur, licking a tear off his cheek, “you beg for me before you watch that fucking video.”
He nods, trembling, utterly spent. He’s still shaking. Little aftershocks twitch through his thighs, his stomach, his ribs. He’s flushed and gasping, tears still wet on his lashes, breath a mess of hitching sobs and stubborn silence. And he’s so fucking beautiful like this—smeared, undone, trembling under my hands like he forgot how to lie.
I push the hair off his face, rough and slow. Dirty blond and sweat-damp, curling at the edges like it wants to be touched. Like it was meant to be held in a fist or dragged behind teeth.
He winces when I brush his cheekbone. Still tender. Still fucked.
“Easy,” I murmur. Not for him—for me. My jaw’s tight as a vice. My throat burns. And I still haven’t let myself think about the video or the fact that I watched it twice. I’m too busy watching him try not to fall apart.
I reach for a clean towel, dampen it with water from the bottle, and start cleaning him up. He tries to flinch away, weak little groan of protest like he’s got any fight left in him.
“Don’t,” I growl.
“But I—”
“You don’t,” I snap, sharper than I mean to be, dragging the towel across his stomach. “Stay still.”
He tries to huff like he’s annoyed, but it’s ruined by the way his voice breaks. Still sniffling, still too wrecked to argue, and when I clean between his legs he gasps and turns his face into the pillow.
“Don’t hide,” I mutter, wiping the sweat from his chest, down his hip, careful around the bandage on his thigh.
He stays quiet this time. Just blinks up at me, lashes stuck together, lips parted, mouth pink and swollen from biting back screams. “You shouldn’t have to clean me up,” he whispers.
“You shouldn’t have to beg for someone to see you,” I say.
That shuts him up.
I finish and toss the towel aside. My fingers linger on his jaw, thumb brushing his lower lip, slow. He’s so warm. So alive. And fuck, if the urge to crawl back into bed and never let go doesn’t threaten to gut me.
But I can’t. Not yet. Not until I know what Leonardo’s going to do. Not until I decide if killing Nathan is going to be quick or art.
15
