His grip is steady, sure. Mine answers it without thinking. The pace climbs quick, but neither of us reins it in. There’s no awkwardness, no rediscovery. Just recognition. Just the quiet shock of how easily we slot back into this—like the eight years in between were a held breath instead of a lifetime.
I slide my thumb over the head of him, spreading the slick there, and he curses softly.
“Still unfair,” he mutters against my mouth.
“What is?”
“That piercing.”
I huff a breath that’s half a laugh. “You like it?”
His eyes drop between us, dark and intent. “Yeah,” he admits. “I really do.” He adjusts his grip slightly, thumb brushing over the barbell as he moves, and I hiss at the extra friction.
“Jesus,” I breathe.
His mouth curves, just for a second. “Hmm. And it feels fucking incredible when you’re inside me.”
This man. Fuck. I catch his lower lip between my teeth and stroke him harder in answer. He rolls his hips into my hand, not shy about it. Not holding back. His confidence does something to me—because it’s not arrogance. It’s trust.
This isn’t some tentative reunion. It’s knowing exactly how his body reacts when I change pressure. The way his breathing stutters before he’s close. The tension that builds in his thighs, the flex of his fingers when he’s trying not to lose control. It’s the way he looks at me—like I’m not just touching him. Like I’m choosing him.
“Rafe,” he says under his breath when I increase my grip.
I slow for half a beat just to watch him react. His head tips back, eyes closing, throat exposed. For a split second, he looks younger. Softer. Then he grabs a fistful of my hair and drags me back into a kiss that feels like possession.
There’s barely space to breathe.
Our hands work faster, slick and relentless. My vision flickers at the edges. The heat between us builds and builds until it feels almost unsustainable.
“Don’t stop,” he says.
“Not happening.”
Heat coils low. My pulse is everywhere at once. My heart’s slamming, but not from fear. Not this time.
“I’m close,” I warn him.
“Yeah,” he says, eyes locked on mine. “Same.”
There’s something in that look. Not urgency.
Certainty.
That’s all the permission either of us needs.
Release hits sharp and blinding. My body jerks, fingers clamping down around him as I come. He follows almost immediately, spilling hot against my hand with a broken sound that cracks straight through me—raw and unguarded.
We stay pressed together, foreheads touching, breath coming hard and uneven. My heart’s still racing, but it feels steadier now. Grounded.
I lean in and press my mouth to his neck, slower this time, dragging my lips along damp skin. He exhales and tugs me closer like he has no intention of letting go.
I press my forehead against his skin, breathing him in. Soap. Sweat. Something that’s always just been him.
“You still here?” he murmurs.
There’s no joke in it. No teasing. Just quiet vulnerability.
I almost laugh, but it catches somewhere deeper. “Yeah,” I say. And this time, I mean more than just physically.
