For a long moment, neither of us says anything. The room hums with quiet: traffic outside, the thump of my heart like a kick drum.
Then his free hand comes up, almost tentative, and lands on my thigh. Just a touch, not pressing, not pulling—like he needs the anchor.
“Rafe,” he says, voice low and rough.
“Yeah.”
His eyes close, lashes brushing his skin. He lets his forehead drop against my shoulder. It’s not dramatic, not some big collapse—just him, finally letting go of an inch of control.
I slide my arm around him and draw him in. He’s heavy, all muscle and height, but the weight feels right. Grounding.
“Fuck,” he mutters, muffled into my shirt.
“Yeah,” I answer, because what else is there?
My hand keeps moving, slow strokes up and down his back, over tense shoulders, down to the edge of his hoodie. His body starts to soften, little by little, like he’s remembering what it feels like not to brace for impact every second.
We sit this way for a while—his breath warm against my collarbone, mine hitching every time his hand twitches on my thigh. It’s not sexual, not yet. It’s need. It’s trust.
Finally, he pulls back, just enough to look at me. Our faces are inches apart, his eyes darker than I’ve ever seen them.
“You really think I can do it,” he says. Not a question.
“I know you can.”
The corner of his mouth twitches, like he wants to argue, but instead his gaze drops to my mouth, then back up. It’s quick, but I catch it.
The air between us shifts. Thickens.
I don’t move, not yet. I might have blown him before, but we haven’t had a true moment alone to explore further. This has to be his call.
And then, slowly, hesitantly, he leans in.
The kiss is soft at first, remembering. His lips firm, mine yielding. My hand tightens at his neck, holding him there just long enough for him to feel I’m not going anywhere. His breath shudders out against my mouth, and he presses closer, deeper, like he’s afraid he’ll lose the chance if he lets go too soon.
When we part, it’s barely an inch. His eyes are stormy again, but not with anger. With something he hasn’t named yet.
I grin, small but certain. “Yeah. You can.”
He doesn’t laugh, but his chest loosens against mine. And for the first time tonight, Ollie Marshall looks like maybe—just maybe—he believes it.
His forehead rests against mine, our breaths tangling, hot and uneven. His hand at my thigh finally tightens, gripping like I’m the only thing keeping him upright.
I don’t give him a speech this time. No words. I just slide my other hand up and cup his jaw, thumb grazing the stubble along his cheek. His skin is warm and flushed.
“Rafe,” he whispers again, like he’s testing how it feels in his mouth.
That’s all it takes. I close the gap.
This time the kiss isn’t soft. It’s all hunger. His lips crash against mine, desperate, like the dam he’s built just gave way. I open for him, teeth scraping, tongues tangling, and the sound he makes—half growl, half groan—shoots straight to my dick.
He pushes me back onto the bed, clumsy but strong, his weight covering me in a rush of heat. The mattress dips under his knees, his hands braced on either side of my head. He kisses like he plays—controlled at first, then explosive once he lets go.
I fist his hoodie, dragging him closer, needing every inch of him pressed against me. His chest is a solid wall, his thighs anchoring me in place. When his hips shift—barely, just enoughto grind—I gasp into his mouth. He swallows the sound like he’s starving.
“Ollie,” I breathe when we break, my lips swollen and slick.
He shakes his head, like words will ruin it. His hot, wet mouth finds my throat instead. Teeth scrape against the edge of my jaw, and I swear under my breath. I roam my hands under his hoodie, up the ridges of muscle, the hard planes of his back. He’s trembling, not weak but wound tight, every nerve buzzing.
