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"Just stiff. It's fine."

"We'll be careful with it." He drops the last of his clothes and crawls up between my legs. His cock is already hard, flushed dark against his stomach. He settles on his knees and looks down at me the way he's looked at me every time since the first hotel room—like he's cataloguing every reaction.

"Hands above your head," he says. "Hold the headboard if you need to. Don't move them unless I say."

I reach up and grip the wooden rail. The position leaves me open, exposed. My heart is hammering.

Rémy leans over me and opens the small black toiletry bag he must have brought in his duffel. Lube. A condom. He sets them on the nightstand within easy reach, then settles between my thighs again.

"I'm going to take my time," he tells me. "A lot of time. You're going to feel everything. And you're going to look at me the whole way through. Understand?"

"Yes."

"Say it."

"I understand. Rémy."

He rewards me with a slow, open-mouthed kiss that travels down my throat, across my chest, lower. When he reaches my cock he doesn't take it into his mouth right away. He just breathes on it, then licks a long stripe from base to tip. I shudder.

"Stay still," he murmurs. "Just feel it."

He works me with his mouth the way he's learned I like—deep, wet, deliberate—until I'm fully hard and leaking. Then he pulls off, sits back on his heels, and pours a generous amount of lube onto his fingers. The click of the bottle is loud in the quiet room.

"Knees up. Feet flat on the bed. Open for me."

I do. The position makes my knee protest again; he notices and shifts one of my legs slightly outward, supporting it with his free hand.

"Better?"

"Yeah."

"Good." He presses one slick finger against me. "Breathe out. Let me in."

The first push is slow, careful. The stretch is unfamiliar and sharp at the edges. I tense automatically—old instinct, the part of me that still wants to stay in control.

Rémy stops immediately. His other hand comes up to rest flat on my sternum.

"Look at me."

I force my eyes open. His are steady, patient.

"You're safe," he says. "I've got you. It's just me. Breathe."

I breathe. The finger slides deeper. He works it in and out until the burn softens into something hotter. When he adds a second finger I flinch again—harder this time. My hands tighten on the headboard until the wood creaks.

"Owen." His voice is low, firm. "Look at me. Don't go away inside your head. Stay here with me."

I lock my eyes on his. He keeps talking while his fingers move, scissoring carefully, curling, finding the place that makes my whole body jolt.

"That's it. You're taking me so well. Feel how open you're getting for me. Just for me."

Three fingers. The stretch is intense now, almost too much. My cock is leaking steadily onto my stomach. I'm breathing hard through my mouth. Some distant part of me is still fighting—the part that spent fifteen years making sure nothing like this ever happened—but Rémy's voice keeps pulling me back.

"You're doing so fucking good," he murmurs. "Look at you. The captain of the team, spread open on this bed, letting me open him up. And you love it. I can feel how much you love it."

A broken sound escapes me. He twists his fingers and presses hard against that spot again. My hips jerk.

"Rémy—"