Page 60 of How I Met Your Murderer

“Do you,” I repeated, slow and intentional, “want this?”

Raff stared at the words inked along my ribs for a moment before he finally managed a few words, wrecked and reverent. “Please. Yes, please. I want . . . the real thing. Give it to me, le do thoil.”

I was half-exposed, more vulnerable than I’d been in years, but I didn’t feel it with Raff pleading at me in Irish. This was power, the way his lips parted so willingly when I pushed a finger inside, his tongue swirling around it. But this was also safety, how Raff offered himself without taking, wanting without demanding. It settled into me like warmth, like weight, like a pulse I could finally feel again.

I wasn’t a ghost with him.

Not tonight.

I was the one choosing. The one leading. And Raff was right there beneath me, breathless and undone, waiting for whatever I offered next.

That’s when I shifted—not closer, but away, sliding off Raff’s lap with a slow, deliberate grace, trying to put on a show for him. The way his hands clenched uselessly in the air as I slipped away felt like he was rubbing them against me somehow, and I ached at the sight.

Raff’s chest rose and fell too fast, eyes blown wide as he braced himself on one end of the couch like he was afraid a single wrong move might startle me into calling the whole thing off. As if I hadn’t made up my mind about him a long time ago.

I stood, kicking off my shoes, then slowly stripped off my jeans and boxers with more confidence than I’d possessed in life before settling on the opposite end, facing him. My legs spread so nothing was left to the imagination, unlike all those videos, one arm draped over the back of the couch like I owned this place. Like I owned the moment. Like I owned Raff’s own straining erection—because I did.

I did that.

Raff swallowed hard again, his voice rough. “Eric, what’re you—?”

I cut him off with a look. With fingers curling around my own cock for the first time in years, squeezing, stroking, showing off for him and thrilling myself with this reminder of living at the same time. “You strip, too. And then stay there. You used to watch me from a distance—remember? Tonight, I’m just another one of those videos, up close and personal.”

Raff’s breath shuddered out of him as he gave a clumsy nod and started shucking off those overalls. I wanted to do it for him one day. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe a few days from now. But right now, I just wanted to watch him reveal himself to me. To fully absorb everything he wanted to show me, because he was my treasure, too.

Down came the overalls, pooling around his feet. His boxers were black, too, and short, hugging a whole lot of cute ass. Off came his t-shirt next—but not his black salt pendant, which lay against his smooth, bare chest—before he hooked a thumb into the waistband of his boxers and caught my eyes, holding them as he tugged the pair off and kicked it away. A trail of downy red hair led from his navel to his thick, flushed dick. I could have looked at that all night if not for the freckles he had told me about a long time ago, the ones that formed constellations across the pale expanse of his skin.

Another time, next time, I was going to trace them with my tongue. Teach him their shapes and their names. Show him that he was all the wonder of the stars made flesh. It was really important that he know, if he didn’t already.

Finally, a little shakily, Raff settled back at the other end of the couch and mirrored me, keeping his legs spread and curling his fingers around his big, needy erection.

“Let’s start like this,” I murmured, stroking myself a little and shaking all over at the way so much sensation rushed through me. He had done this to me somehow. “You on your end, and me on mine.”

“Eric, please,” Raff said as he mirrored me again, starting to stroke himself.

“I’m right here, a stór,” I reminded him. I wasn’t gone yet. “And you’re going to feel every second of it.” I settled deeper into the cushions, fully in my body, fully aware of the way Raff was already unraveling across from me as I stroked myself for him, angling my fingers to make sure he had the clearest view.

“You’re killing me,” Raff panted as he jacked himself with the same slow, deliberate strokes I was using. Matching me, already understanding the game.

“No,” I murmured, finally deciding to move his way. The couch dipped under my weight as the distance shrank while Raff’s eyes tracked the motion like a mountain lion watching its prey. “I’m showing you.”

“Showing me what?” Raff whispered, jagged, as I settled with my knees just touching his and ran my fingers along the length of my cock.

“How much you want this.” I leaned in, my forehead touching his again. His nearness anchored me, the way it always did. “And I want to see you now.” Heat pooled low in my stomach, like I was getting drunk on the power of Raff looking at me like that—open, desperate, reverent. Keeping one hand on myself, I lifted the other to cup Raff’s jaw, my thumb brushing the corner of his mouth. “We’ll keep it slow like this for now. And let me watch you . . . the way you used to watch me. We’ll do this together.”

Foreheads still touching, I gazed down at our laps and gave myself a long stroke that coaxed a pearly drop of precum from my tip, humming with satisfaction at the way Raff instantly mirrored me, like his body was tuned to my frequency.

“Good,” I murmured, rubbing my thumb over that drop of white just so I could watch him thumb his slit. “Just . . . just like that. Match me,” I added gently. “Only do what I do, and only when I do it.”

Leaning into me, the warmth of his forehead blazing hot, he choked out, “I’ll do anything you ask.”

My very being tensed up at that—not with fear, but with a sudden, fierce tenderness. “Just this. Just touch yourself with me. Stay with me. Show me how much you want me.”

Raff mirrored me perfectly when I eventually picked up the pace, testing the limits of my body while completely distracted by his. The darker freckles in the crease of his thigh. The thickness of him. The soft patch of red-brown hair I wanted to run my fingers through. His balls, pink and drawn up tight, desperate for the release we were chasing.

I cupped my own for a minute just so I could watch him play with his.

Soon, we were back to stroking in sync, and although I didn’t need to breathe, I matched the cadence of my panted breaths to his. Then I noticed that the fingers of his free hand were curled into the couch cushions, knuckles white. His forehead was slick against mine.