Page 61 of How I Met Your Murderer

“I can’t—I don’t know if I can hold it—” he gasped, the urgency in his voice jumping straight to my cock.

“You don’t have to hold anything,” I told him, watching the precum leak from him and wishing I could lap it up with my tongue. To taste salt again. But I forced myself to raise my eyes to his when I said, “You’ve shown me plenty, Good Boy. I want you to let go now.”

When he came, with a growl and a cry and a gush that soaked his stomach, I was the one who mirrored him seconds later—holding on just long enough to savor every second of his body-shaking, full-throated finish.

We were a mess. But rather than make any move to clean up once we drifted back into ourselves, Raff gathered me in his arms, pulling me back onto his lap. “Eric . . . that was . . . don’t go anywhere,” he muttered, resting his head against mine.

“I’m not,” I whispered. “I won’t. I’ve got you, and you’ve got me.”

For, what—another twenty-one days?

Finishing this list wasn’t making me feel ready to move on in the slightest. I was pretty sure Raff’s witch was a fraud, but I wasn’t about to tell him that. Not when I could spend the time holding him and kissing his face instead.

Raff let out a long, trembling breath as I pressed a hand against his flushed cheek. It sounded like release, relief, and also something dangerously close to love.

nineteen

By the Throat

Eric

Steam still clung to the bathroom mirror when we stepped back into the parlor, our hair damp and our clothes fresh (at least Raff’s clothes). Everything felt softer around the edges, the castle losing some of its usual distinct and unshakeable gloom.

I wasn’t sure I needed to clean up my come—maybe the cold stickiness would have vanished in a short while—but it had been nice to pretend. To have another chance to kiss Raff some more and run my hands over his chest, his stomach. I’d never considered that being a virgin meant I was missing out on anything in life, as much as I wanted to find someone to love. I had my friends and family, hobbies, pets. Even now, I didn’t think that exactly—what I had specifically been missing was looking at me with the greenest eyes as he ran a towel over his hair one last time before tossing it over the back of a wingback armchair.

He watched me like he was still trying to convince himself I was real. Like if he blinked for a second too long, I might vanish.

I wanted to live in that look, stay caught in his warmth forever.

But then he glanced toward the window, across the dark stretch of the castle grounds, and sighed resignedly. “We still have to make the rounds,” he said, a touch of fondness creeping into his voice as he glanced back at me. “If the light’s not on at the back door, poor Colmán will go mad with worry. Come on. Let’s see if we can figure out what Gary’s been up to, because I don’t trust this quiet.”

I gaped at him. “Do you realize we’re going to die—well, I’m going to get eaten or something—because you gave an angry spirit a nickname that makes it sound like it enjoys grilling on the weekends?”

Raff laughed, if tiredly, as he reached for me.

I met him halfway, catching his fingers with mine. “I wish we could just stay right here all night and forget the angry spirit part.”

My admission hit me harder than I expected when I heard it spoken out loud: I wanted to stay. Really stay here in this world with him, even if it meant haunting Ardruin forever. I wanted all of his nights, his grumbling, slow mornings, and his middling days.

Raff’s thumb brushed the back of my hand, unhurried and gentle. “I know,” he murmured. “Me too.” Eyes bright and voice warm, he leaned in and put his lips to my ear. “But on the bright side you’re so fond of, now that I know how good you are at giving orders . . . I can’t wait to watch you DM.”

His words sent a small shockwave through me. “I didn’t think I’d be good at something like that,” I confessed in that safe, close space between us. “But with you, it just felt natural.”

“A lot of things do, don’t they?” he answered.

I for one hadn’t expected any of it—not the heat, not the certainty, and not the way my voice had come out low and sure. I had always assumed that if I ever had a moment like this with someone, I’d freeze, or fumble, or feel like I had to pretend.

But with Raff, none of that happened. It had all felt instinctive, like part of me already knew what to do because he trusted me. Because he looked at me like I could handle him.

I wasn’t out of my depth for a single second with him.

For a moment, we just stood there, hands clasped, foreheads touching. The world outside the parlor felt impossibly far away. I could almost pretend we didn’t have responsibilities, or ghosts, or danger waiting for us in the dark.

“At least we can do this together.” I gave his hand one more squeeze—not wanting to let go, not ready to lose the warmth of him—and finally stepped toward the door.

He followed close behind, our shoulders brushing, and for a thrilling moment I let myself believe that maybe we wouldn’t be apart when this was all over.

I needed to believe, even if it was delusional.