I love him.
I want him.
And finally, the wanting doesn’t feel like it’s going to destroy us.
I lean into him, making my intentions clear. His nostrils flare, and our lips touch.
It’s not tentative. It’s immediate.
I groan at the first flick of his tongue, the sensation sharp and electric, my body reacting before my brain can catch up. Heat floods low and fast, my cock punching hard against fabric.
“Fuck,” I breathe against his mouth, then loop my arms around him, dragging his bigger body flush to mine.
He answers like he’s been waiting.
He fists his hands in my hair, tilting my head back, deepening the kiss without apology. The other slides down my spine and grips my hip, pulling me tighter.
There’s no space left between us.
When I grind against him, he groans—low, wrecked—and the sound goes straight through me. I feel him hard against my thigh, undeniable, urgent.
“Rafe,” he says like it’s both a warning and a prayer.
“Yeah,” I answer, and then I kiss him harder.
We move fast after that.
Not reckless.
Certain.
Clothes get tugged, pushed, dragged down with impatient hands. Fabric catches around our feet and we both curse under our breath, laughing for half a second before diving back in like we can’t stand another inch of distance.
My boxers hit the floor first. His sleep pants follow. Then skin meets skin and the contact is blinding.
God, I’ve missed this. The weight of him. The heat. The way his body fits against mine like it was built for it.
I slide my hands down his back, over muscle I know by memory, over the tattoo that still undoes me every time I see it. My mouth finds his neck, bites lightly, and he inhales sharply, hips pressing forward.
Our cocks bump and slide, our precum offering some slick.
He pulls me back up for another kiss. This one is deep, messy, and desperate. Our breaths mix. Teeth clash. It’s imperfect and it’s perfect.
There’s no pretending here. No hiding or shame.
When he drags me fully against him, skin to skin, I feel it all—the want, the history, the choice.
This isn’t falling. It’s choosing. Again.
Ollie’s hand slides between us like it never left, wrapping around my cock with zero hesitation. The contact punches the air from my lungs. I try to breathe, but he takes my mouth before I can.
No pause. No checking in.
We’re past that.
I grab him in return, heat and weight familiar in my palm. He makes this low sound against my lips—rough, almost surprised—and it goes straight through me. It’s not just arousal. It’s recognition. Like his body’s been waiting for this exact pressure.
We move like we already know the choreography.
