Rafe stills under me. “Again?” he repeats, voice rough.
“Yeah.” I meet his eyes. “Not secret. Not impulsive. Not something we hide from the world. The real version.”
His fingers flex against mine. “Ollie….”
“I’m not asking,” I add quickly. “I just—if that door ever opens, I’d walk through it. Every time.”
His expression shifts, the tension in his face easing. The stiffness around his mouth loosens first, then the sharp focus in his eyes softens, turning warmer, steadier. Relief settles there—quiet but unmistakable—as if something he’s been bracing against for years has finally given way. His shoulders drop a fraction, the hard lines of control melting.
There’s gentleness in the way he looks at me now. Not fragile, not uncertain. Just open. Vulnerable in a way he rarely allows himself to be. It’s the kind of expression that says he believes me. That he trusts this moment enough to let go means more than any words he could say.
“You don’t get to say things like that and then act normal,” he murmurs.
“I’m not acting normal.”
A shaky laugh escapes him. “Good.”
I lean down and kiss him again, slow and deliberate. I’m not frantic despite the throb of my cock. I’m no longer afraid this will disappear.
Not anymore.
His hands keep moving, roaming over my body like he can’t stop touching me, like he needs the reassurance as much as I do. Every glide of his palms lights up my skin, keeping the heat alive instead of letting it fade. Our breathing is still uneven, our bodies still in sync, and when his hand disappears between us again, anticipation hits sharp and electric.
I shudder at the wet sound.
His spit-slick fingers slide lower, deliberate, unhurried this time. No rush. No panic. Just control.
“Rafe,” I warn, but it’s weak. More plea than protest.
His mouth brushes mine. “I know.”
His fingers part me, probing, familiar and confident. I angle instinctively, opening for him, letting my head sag against him. The first press makes me gasp, the sensation sharp enough to cut through the haze of aftershock.
“More,” I say, the word wrecked.
He answers immediately, pushing deeper, steady and relentless. The rhythm builds, and my body reacts without permission, rocking back, chasing the pressure.
I lift a little, dragging my gaze over him, taking in everything at once—ink, strength, the focused hunger in his eyes. And the piercing. It glints when he moves, unfairly distracting.
“Still thinking about that?” he asks quietly.
“Yeah,” I breathe. “It’s ridiculous.”
“You like it.”
“I like you,” I answer, and the truth of it lands between us, heavy and real.
His mouth crashes back to mine, deeper this time. When his fingers brush my prostate, pleasure explodes through me, and I groan against his lips.
“Fuck. Rafe—more.”
“Lube?” he murmurs.
“Drawer.”
The loss of his fingers makes my hips chase nothing. He soothes me with a kiss before shifting, settling me back as he reaches for what he needs. I watch him, heart pounding, body restless. When my hand drifts down my stomach toward my aching cock, his look stops me cold.
“Don’t,” he says.
