Instead, he turned—slow, deliberate—and looked at me directly. “You sure?” he asked, the question simple but carrying more weight than its two words should have been able to.
I nodded, not trusting my voice.
He crossed back to the bed in two strides and sat down against the headboard—not next to me where a friend might have placed himself, but with his back to the wall, shoulder touching mine, close enough that conversation wouldn’t require raised voices, far enough that it wasn’t the intrusion of a stranger’s body.
“Come here,” he said, and it wasn’t quite an order but wasn’t not one either—a tone that expected compliance without demanding it.
I went. He shifted, drawing me in against his chest with the careful consideration of someone handling something he didn’t want to break. One arm came around my shoulders, hand resting lightly at the base of my neck where it met my spine. His chest rose and fell in a rhythm I could feel against my cheek—steady, unhurried, nothing pretend about it.
“This okay?” he asked, voice low enough that I felt it in his chest more than heard it with my ears.
I nodded, not looking up, and felt him relax slightly.
We sat like that for a long moment, the house quiet around us, the nightmare receding with each breath. I told myself it was just the dark, just the aftermath of the dream, just the wrongness of being alone with the memory of what had happened. Nothing more complicated than that. Nothing that would matter in the morning.
“Go to sleep,” Decker said, voice even. “I’ll be here.”
I closed my eyes, ear pressed to his sternum, and listened to his heartbeat—slow and steady underneath, a counterpoint to the lingering panic in my chest.
It was the first time in longer than I could account for that I’d been this close to another person without it being about what could be taken from me. The first time in months that touch had been offered rather than claimed.
* * * *
I woke again in deep night, the farmhouse completely silent around us. In the first second of consciousness, I knew three things with absolute clarity: I was plastered against Decker’s side—one leg thrown over him, face against his throat, one hand fisted in his shirt.
Decker was awake and had been for a while, his breathing too measured, his body too still; and his cock was hard against my hip, the evidence of it impossible to mistake even through the layers of fabric between us.
I didn’t move—couldn’t quite make my body respond to the thought that I should—just lay there with my face against Decker’s throat, the scent of him filling my lungs with each breath.
Decker shifted slightly, the movement careful in a way that told me he’d been trying not to wake me. “Jasper,” he said, my name coming out in a voice doing a great deal of work to stay level.
I stayed where I was, not trusting myself to speak, not ready to acknowledge what was happening between us.
“I need to go,” Decker said, the words coming out with more force than he’d probably intended.
“Why?” I asked, the single syllable hanging in the dark between us.
There was a beat of silence—the pause of a man deciding how much truth to offer—and then Decker’s hand closed around mine where it rested against his chest. He moved it with deliberate pressure, pressing my palm firmly against the hard length of his cock through his shorts.
His jaw was tight, eyes on my face in the thin light from the window. “Now do you see why I have to go?”
I held my hand where he‘d placed it, feeling the heat of him through the fabric, the slight jerk of his hips as the pressure registered. Something in my chest loosened at the contact—a door opening just a crack, not enough to walk through, but enough to see what was on the other side.
“No,” I said, the word simple but carrying more weight than its single syllable should have been able to.
Decker stared at me, something moving behind his eyes that I couldn’t quite read. “If I stay,” he said, very quietly, “I’m going to fuck that tight little ass of yours.”
The statement landed between us with the weight of a physical thing. I met his eyes, not looking away, not backing down from what he’d just offered. “No one is stopping you.”
The silence that followed was short and absolute—the pause of a decision being made. Then Decker’s hand was on my face, thumb tracing my jaw line with a touch so gentle it made something in my chest ache.
“You sure?” he asked, the question carrying the weight of all the things we weren’t saying.
“Yes,” I said, not waiting for him to finish.
Something changed in Decker’s face then—a door opening, a line being crossed. He rolled me onto my back in one smooth motion, his body following, and the careful quality went out of him all at once.
He kissed me hard, one hand cupping the back of my skull, holding me exactly where he wanted me. I made a sound against his mouth—not quite a moan, something closer to relief—and didn’t bother being embarrassed about it. The kiss was thorough and unhurried, leaving no ambiguity about who was in charge.
