I don't sayI'm sorry.I know he doesn't want that.
"Do you talk to her?" I ask.
"Sometimes. We're — it's complicated." He pauses. "She used to sneak into my room after my dad put me on the ice. Late. When he was asleep. Just to check on me." I can tell he’s uncomfortable, but keeps going. "She wasn't supposed to. He didn't believe in — he thought it made you soft. Being checked on." Hesays it evenly, like it's just information, like it hasn’t scarred him permanently. "But she came anyway. Didn't say much. Just — sat there for a minute. Checked my cuts and fixed me up. Stayed with me until I fell asleep."
I look at him. At his hands flat and still on the duvet. I move the containers off the bed and I lie back and look at him. At this person sitting in my messy room on a Sunday with his walls lower than I've ever seen them and his eyes on mine like he doesn't know what to do with me and has stopped trying to figure it out. "Come here, baby," I say, patting the bed next to me.
He lies down so we’re facing each other. His eyes right there — reflecting what I feel right back at me, completely present in a way Jamie Nash almost never lets himself be, but at the same time, the only way he’s been with me lately.
And surprisingly, for the first time, he leans in. Not urgently. Not with anything to prove. Just us, his hand coming up to the side of my face, and it lands in every nerve ending — this person who never does anything by accident choosing to hold my face like this, choosing to kiss me hesitantly like this, choosing this Sunday and this room and me.
Choosing me.
He pulls back enough to look at me.
His thumb at my jaw.
He doesn't say anything.
He doesn't have to.
We both feel this.
I turn my head, searching his face. He looks different, open, vulnerable, all those hard edges softened. It makes my heart beat like I've just skated the length of the ice. I look at him like I need him and he moves without hesitation, closing the distance again. I push my hand up into his hair, tilting his head to kiss him. It's soft at first, then I take more, deepening it, mytongue sweeping in, claiming. He melts against me, opening, equally as giving.
For the first time, I let every wall drop. I let him see all the bruised places, the broken pieces. And it feels like he’s lowering his too. I reach for the hem of his shirt, pulling it up over his head. He raises his arms to help me. I toss it aside, then strip my own shirt off, fabric dropping to the floor. I stare at him, at the lean muscle and scattered scars on his back, the hunger in his eyes as he looks at me like I'm something both precious and filthy.
"Your turn," I breathe, reaching for his belt already. I undo it with steady fingers, then the button of his jeans, the zipper. He kicks his shoes off, shoves the denim down his legs, stepping out of them until he's standing there in nothing but his briefs, cock straining against the fabric, already wet at the tip. I groan, dragging my thumb over the damp spot, making him shudder.
"Please," he chokes out.
"Nope, not yet." I push his underwear down, and his cock springs free, thick and hard and long, curving up against his stomach. I wrap my hand around him, stroking once, twice, feeling him pulse in my grip, watching his head fall back, his throat work.
I push my own underwear down until I'm naked, skin to skin with him, my cock sliding against his as I press him back toward the bed. We stumble, and then he's on his back and I'm coming down over him, my hand sliding down the curve of his collarbone, his chest. My touch painfully light and slow, making him feel every second, torturous.
His legs fall open and I fit between them perfectly, hands stroking his thighs, my mouth moving lower, mapping him with tongue and teeth. I cup his cock, stroking him slow, thumb swiping over the head. His hips jerk; he can't help it. I soothe him with a soft kiss to his hipbone, then drag lower, mouthing at his balls, sucking gently until he's moaning, thighstrembling. Then I pull back.
Just enough that he feels the air where my mouth was, the sudden cold on his wet skin. His cock strains up, flushed dark, tip leaking, begging for contact. I don't give it. I drag my thumb up the inside of his leg, slow, stopping just short of where he needs me. His hips twitch, trying to chase my touch. I pull away.
"Say it," I tell him. "Say you want my mouth on you. Say please. Beg for me, you know I love it."
"Go to hell."
I lean in, let my lips brush his hipbone, his stomach, everywhere but where he needs me. I can feel him shaking, the tension in his thighs, his breath coming ragged. He's fighting it. Always fighting. I trace the vein on his cock with one finger. Light. Teasing. Then pull back again.
"You're not getting shit from me, Rhys," he grits out. I look up at him, meet his eyes. "Then I guess you're not coming tonight." I shrug and start to pull away, shift back on my heels. His hand shoots out, fingers wrapping my wrist, grip bruising. "Wait." The word tears out of him, rough and broken.
I stop. Raise an eyebrow. "What was that?" His throat works. His eyes are burning, desperate, all that pride cracking wide open.
"Please." Barely a whisper.
"Please what?"
"Please, Rhys." His voice cracks, humiliated, but too hungry to care. "I want your mouth. Please. Fucking please."
I grin. “There it is."
Then I give it to him.
