Later, when the house is dark and the news cycle begins to whisper about a death in a prison across the river, I sit at the new piano he ordered for me and find the soft, hopeful melody from the shelter—the Feather Waltz—and thread it with something deeper and bluer. He lies on the couch, one arm over his eyes, not asleep, just listening. Every few measures, I feel his attention lift and settle, lift and settle, like the tide.
The next morning…
I used to hate waking up in a bed with Roberto. When he pressed himself against me early in the morning, there was only ever one reason for it, and I hated it. His arms around me weren’t warmth—they were iron bars. A prison. Claustrophobic. It made me want to claw at his skin just to get free; it made me want to scream.
But now?
I feel Raffael’s warm breath against my hair, slow and steady, fanning the shell of my ear. His chest rises and falls against my back; the weight of his arm draped over me is not a trap, but an anchor. And then there’s the press of him, hard, insistent against the curve of my ass. It should repulse me. Once, it would have. But instead, heat flickers through me, curling low in my belly.
Because it’s not demanding.
It’s not entitlement.
It’s just him.
His body, being honest in its sleep, unguarded in a way he never lets himself be awake.
I keep still—with my pulse thundering in my ears—afraid to move lest I wake him, because I don’t want to lose this moment. My skin hums where his arm brushes the slope of my waist, where his fingers twitch slightly, as though even in sleep, he doesn’t want to let go of me.
I close my eyes and breathe him in. Leather and smoke, with the faintest trace of soap. The scent of something wholly him that makes me feel… safe. Desired. Alive.
It’s so different. God, it’s so different. To be held not like property, not like leverage, not like something to be used, but like I’m someone he would fight for even in his dreams. My heart aches with the truth that I could live a thousand mornings and never grow tired of this. Carefully, I let my hand slide lower, slow and uncertain. My fingers brush over the waistband of his boxers, then beneath, until I find him, hot, heavy, and thick in my palm.
I freeze.
Not because I’m afraid, but because I can’t quite believe I’m doing this. That Iwantto do this. That I'minitiatingthis.
He’s so hard. So big. My fingers don’t even circle all the way around him. A soft pulse runs through him as I tracegently down his length, and again, he twitches in my hand.
My breath catches.
But Raffael doesn’t wake.
His arm tightens a little around me, his chest presses closer to my back, but his breathing stays steady. My heart pounds louder than footsteps in an empty hall. One thought drives me forward: I want to see him. Very slowly, I shift in his arms, turning to face him. He murmurs something unintelligible in his sleep, the barest sound, and my heart does something ridiculous in my chest.
He’s been so good to me. So gentle. Never asking, never taking. Not once using what I owe him—or what he’s done for me—as leverage.
This… this is nothing like it was with Roberto.
He used to shove himself in my mouth like it was a punishment, like making me gag was part of the pleasure. I still remember the burning in my throat, the tears, the shame.
But this, this doesn’t feel like shame.
It feels likecontrol.
Like power.
And maybe that’s why I want to keep going.
Not for him. Forme.
I ease the covers down and slip out from beneath his arm, barely daring to breathe. For a second, I worry he’ll wake, and that the spell will break; that the world will snap back to before. But he only flinches, then sighs deeper, as if he trusts me to go wherever I want. As if I could flee, and he’d let me. Not anymore. Not from him.
I ease his boxers lower, careful not to wake him. His cock springs free, thick and flushed and almost beautiful in its own threatening way. The morning light paints a blue-gold edge along the shaft, and I stare for a heartbeat, transfixed. This is the first time I’m seeing him, all of him. I want to catalog every vein and angle, memorize how he looks when he doesn’t know he’s being watched.
I run my thumb gently over the tip. There’s something so alive about the way he jerks in response, even still half-lost to sleep. I let my tongue flick out for a taste. Salty, yes, but clean. No sourness, none of the chemical stink I remember from Roberto. His taste shouldn’t shock me, but it does. It tastes vulnerable, like trust.
He groans, deep and human, his hips move slightly against the sheet. I press my lips to the crown, just a kiss, and then another. The next time I lick and take him in deeper, my mouth stretches until my jaw protests, but not like the old ache of helplessness. This is want, burning through each nerve in my tongue. I take him deeper, let my lips seal against his warmth.
