“Eight years,” I tell him, watching understanding dawn in his eyes. “Eight years since I’ve touched anyone like this. Since anyone has touched me.”
The math isn’t hard. His breath catches as he works it out. Eight years means before Burlington, means no one since that night we almost…since we were interrupted…since everything changed.
“I’m on PrEP,” he says finally, voice smaller than before. “Get tested regularly. Always use protection with…” He trails off, like he’s just realized what he’s admitting. “We don’t need…”
“Good.” I cut him off before he can continue, not wanting to think about who else he’s been with, about all the time we’ve wasted dancing around this thing between us. “Because I want to feel every inch of you. Want to make you feel every second of those seven years I’ve been waiting to do this with you.”
His eyes go impossibly darker, surprise and arousal mixing in his expression. For once, he seems to be at a complete lossfor words, his usual sharp wit abandoned in the face of my confession.
“I’m sorry,” Taylen whispers, but I silence him with a kiss.
My hands frame his face, thumbs stroking over stubble as I pour everything I can’t say into the contact. When I pull back, his eyes hold questions I’m finally ready to answer.
“I don’t want your apologies,” I tell him, my voice rough and needy. “I want you.”
His response comes as movement rather than words, body arching into mine as his legs spread wider in clear invitation. “Then take me,” he breathes against my mouth, the challenge in his tone softened by the way his hands clutch at my shoulders.
I reach for the bedside drawer, feeling for the bottle I keep there. The lube feels cold on my fingers, but I warm it carefully before touching him. His breath catches at the first press of my finger, his body tensing slightly before relaxing into the sensation.
“Okay?” I ask, watching his face for any signs of discomfort.
His expression holds only want, lips parted on quick breaths as I work him open, showing him what this really means to me. When I add a second finger, his back arches off the bed, a sound escaping him that shoots straight to my core.
“More,” he demands, hips rolling to take my fingers deeper.
I comply, adding a third while my free hand strokes his thigh, soothing the tremors I feel building in his muscles. He’s gorgeous like this. His curls untamed, his blue eyes dark as night, all that control stripped away, leaving just raw need and trust that makes my chest tight.
Time loses meaning as I prepare him, every gasp and moan fueling my own desperation. When he starts riding my fingers in earnest, I know we’re both ready. The loss of contact as I withdraw draws a protest from his throat, but it turns to approval as I slick myself and line up.
The first press inside feels like coming home. I freeze, overwhelmed by the sensation. By the realization that this is happening. His fingers dig into my shoulders hard enough to leave marks, and I welcome the slight pain, the proof that this is real, that we’re finally here.
“Move,” he growls, and I obey, starting a rhythm that draws sounds from both our throats.
Each thrust feels electric, pleasure building like storm clouds on summer evenings. My mouth finds his neck, alternating between gentle kisses and sharp bites that make him arch beneath me.
His legs wrap around my waist, changing the angle until we both gasp. One of my hands finds his hip, grip tight enough to bruise, while the other tangles in his hair.
We kiss deeply, messily, sharing every breath. His teeth catch my bottom lip as I thrust harder, the slight pain mixing with pleasure until I can’t tell them apart. Every touch feels like a confession, every sound like prayer, every movement like something we should have done years ago.
When his release hits, it takes me by surprise. His body tightens around me as he cries out, his back arching perfectly, displaying his pleasure like a beautiful show that was made just for me. The sight and sensation push me over the edge, my own climax crashing through.
We collapse together, our hearts racing in sync as aftershocks ripple through us. The silence that follows feels weighted with things neither of us is ready to voice. After a moment, I press a kiss to his temple and slide carefully free, earning a soft sound of loss that makes my chest ache.
The bathroom seems too far, but I force myself to move. The washcloth I bring back is warm, and I clean him with gentle thoroughness, paying attention to any signs of discomfort. Hiseyes never leave my face as I tend to him, expression unreadable in the room’s dim light.
When I’m done, I throw the cloth on the floor and lie beside him, wrapping my arms around his body until he’s pressed against my chest. The weight of his body feels both foreign and familiar, like a song I wrote so long ago I’ve forgotten the words but remember the melody. I trace idle patterns across his skin, mapping the art inked there with careful attention.
I’m afraid of saying the wrong thing, of breaking the spell.
He does it first.
“Tell me about this,” he says, tracing theJon my chest. The only tattoo I have.
“I did it after he died. I couldn't come home, and…let's just say my behavior on the road made me unpopular with the band. Stone was the one who suggested doing something to focus my grief. Every time I look at it, I remember him, his words of support and encouragement. How he told me to chase my dreams.”
He hums as his fingers move back and forth over my skin.
“Tell me about yours,” I murmur, following a particular line that curves around his sides. He shifts slightly but doesn’t pull away, his breath steady against my collar.
