Under the t-shirt he was burning up. Sweat made it stick to his skin, clinging to every dip and curve. I wanted to see him, but more than that, I wanted him to know I wanted all of him. Even the parts that jolted, that trembled, that tried to crawl away.
I tugged the shirt up, slowly so he could stop me if he needed. He just lifted his arms a little, not even thinking about it. It was automatic, trusting, and it made my whole chest ache. I got the shirt off and tossed it somewhere, then just looked at him for a stupid second. He was covered in old marks, some fresh enough they should’ve hurt, and I wanted to kill his father a little more every time I saw a bruise that spelled out years of being told he was broken.
He made a sound. Not a protest. More like embarrassment, like maybe he’d been waiting for me to flinch or pretend not to see.
So I kissed every single one.
One after another, working down his chest, letting my tongue flick over the bruises until they were wet with my spit. He jerked when I hit a particularly sharp one over his rib, but he didn’t stop me. I tasted him, took my time, traced the line of his sternum with my mouth until I got to the waistband of his shorts.
He was hard. I’d known, but I hadn’t let myself look, not until now. His cock was tenting his shorts, leaking, making a mess of the cotton. And he was watching me, not daring to move, like maybe if he let himself want anything at all, he’d wake up and find it gone.
I didn’t say anything. I just pressed my mouth right where the fabric was dark, and kissed him through it, soft, so soft, like it was just another ache that needed mending. He made a noise in the back of his throat and jerked his hips before he could stop himself, and I nearly grinned because for the first time since this nightmare started, I’d managed to actually get a reaction. A real, needy, desperate sound, not the shattered boy trembling away from his own hands.
I wanted to make it last, but I didn’t trust myself not to screw it up. Still, I went slow. I mouthed along the shape of him, let my tongue follow the seam, slow and heavy, just to see if he’d stop me or get tense again. Instead, he just made a messier sound, muffled and short, and his hand landed on my head, like maybe he needed something to anchor him to the room. To the bed. To me.
I got his sweats down. He didn’t help, not really, but he didn’t stop me, either. I stripped him bare, inch by inch, and let my hands pet along his thighs, mapped the pattern of bruises and scars like it was my job to learn every single secret the world had ever tried to erase. He was leaking all over his belly, the head flushed dark, like maybe just being touched at all was enough to tip him right over.
“You’re a mess,” I whispered, then kissed the head, tasting salt and heat.
He shuddered, then let out a hoarse, broken laugh. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be,” I said, and this time I made it clear, getting my mouth over him, deep and slow, sucking the way he liked, letting his hand tighten in my hair if he needed it. I bobbed my head, reveling in every moan and gasp, and it wasn’t long before he started to shake.
But he tried to hold back. Of course he did. Still thinking he’d break me if he let go, if he stopped being careful for five seconds. So I reached for his hand and laced our fingerstogether, squeezed, pulling back for a moment. “Don’t hold back,” I said. “Not with me. Not ever.”
That did it. He jerked, loud now, hips stuttering, and I took him all the way, didn’t care if it was messy because it felt right, like I could take all that pain and panic and turn it into something he never had to be ashamed of. He came, hot and hard, and I swallowed everything, held on through every twitch and gasp, didn’t stop until he whimpered my name and collapsed boneless on the sheets.
I crawled up the bed, wiped my mouth on the back of my wrist, and watched him try to blink himself back into the room. It was almost funny, if I hadn’t wanted to cry looking at him. He wasn’t the superstar anymore. Wasn’t the player everyone wanted a piece of. Just a guy, sprawled out and open, not hiding, not armored. My guy.
I nudged his cheek with my nose, careful, because sometimes you needed to be touched gently right after. “You back with me, sweetheart?”
He stared at the ceiling for a second, lashes wet, still breathing hard. “Yeah.” Then he coughed a laugh, rough around the edges. “If I’m not, don’t wake me up.”
I grinned, shifting so our hips lined up. I was hard and aching, but I didn’t let myself rush it. Not after the nightmare he’d just crawled out of. “You want anything? Water? To punch me for waking you?”
His eyes closed, just for a moment, like he was collecting up all the pieces again. “Just you,” he said, voice small.
That destroyed me a little bit. I wrapped my arms around his shoulders, hugging him close, letting him hide if he needed. “You have me. All night. All the mornings after, too. I’m not letting go.” My hand found his curls again, softer now that the sweat was drying. I kissed them, then his forehead, then every spot I could reach. “You did so good. For me, for you, for both of us.”
He made that noise again. I loved it. I wanted to bottle it.
“You still warm?” I asked, checking his cheek with my wrist.
“Not burning,” he admitted. “Just…tired.”
“Perfect. I like tired. Means I get to take care of you.” I didn’t know if I was joking or not.
He squirmed, not away, just trying to figure out what to do with his hands. So I guided one to my hip, the other to the hem of my underwear, and said, “If you want, I’ll let you take this off me.”
He blushed. Even in the shadow I could see his cheeks darken. “You—you sure?”
“Yeah.” I pulled them down, slow enough he could change his mind, but he didn’t. He watched every inch, drinking it in like he’d never seen me before.
I was so hard it ached, but I tried to keep my breathing under control. No pressure. No demands. Just us.
He touched me, gentle this time. Like I might break if he tried to take too much. “Can I?” he whispered.
“Yes,” I said, so fast it probably counted as desperation.
