Chapter 101 Definitely in mine...
It's simple, but it lands heavier than anything else tonight. I don’t answer immediately. I don't move either. I stay there, inches from his lips, studying every line of his face with the intensity of a man trying to read a map in the dark. I’m looking for the exhaustion, the pain.
I study the way his chest rises a little too fast. At the faint flush creeping into his skin. At the contradiction of him....
Fragile and wanting.
Tired and alive.
Breaking and still reaching.
My hand tightens slightly at the back of his neck, my thumb brushing just below his ear as I study his face, searching for something I can’t quite name. Making sure this is something he’s choosing, not something he’s being pulled into by everything else he can’t control. My voice comes out lower when I finally speak.
“Are you sure? You don’t have to....if you’re tired, or not feeling up to it.”
He looks at me, those grey eyes faintly glowing, and he shakes his head. “I want to,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “I just.... need it gentle.”
Gentle. I can do gentle. I can be every careful, cautious, patient thing he needs.
I lean in, press a kiss to his temple, and he leans into me, letting me guide him. The Scrabble board clatters as I push it toward the foot of the bed, the wooden tiles scattering like forgotten thoughts. The only sound left is the synchronized rhythm of our breathing. I reach for the hem of his shirt, my fingers grazing the warm skin of his stomach, and pull the fabric over his head.
As the shirt falls away, the dim lamplight exposes him. I see the new clusters of light bruises...faint, purplish constellations blooming across his ribs and chest where the illness is marking its territory. My mind starts to spiral into a medical checklist, an instinctive tally, but I force it silent. Ryan is watching me, his jaw set with a quiet, fierce defiance.
He doesn't want a doctor right now. He wants a lover.
I reach down, my hands steady as I help him out of his pajama pants, stripping away the last of the layers. I step off the bed for a moment, the floorboards cool beneath my feet, to retrieve the condom and the lube from the nightstand. I don’t look away from him. I can’t.
I strip off my own clothes, feeling the cool air hit my skin, but I’m focused entirely on the way Ryan is looking at me. It’s a look of profound reverence, as if he’s memorizing the architecture of my body.
I reach out and tug the heavy duvet back, gesturing for him to slide beneath the sheets. When I climb in beside him, the warmth is instantaneous. Ryan doesn’t hesitate, he throws an arm over me and hauls himself closer, bridging every millimeter of space until we’re a single, tangled heat. I can feel the hard, pulsing ache of him pressed against my thigh. A reminder that despite the shadows in his blood, his body is very much alive.
I lean in, capturing his lips in a kiss that tastes of desperation and relief. My hand glides down the dip of his spine before sliding lower, beginning the slow, careful work of getting him ready. I want this to be perfect for him.
"Ryan," I whisper against his mouth, my voice thick and strained. "If you want to stop, for any reason....you say the word. Okay?"
He pulls back just an inch, his hand coming up to cup my cheek. His palm is still cool, but his touch is steady. He looks at me with that same bone-deep devotion, a gaze so pure it makes me feel like a better man than I actually am.
"Don't stop," he breathes, his thumb tracing the line of my lower lip. "Never stop."
I close my eyes for a second, anchoring myself to the feeling of his skin against mine, and then I lean down to show him exactly how much I've been craving this, too.
I move with a surgical kind of patience, my finger slick with lube as I slowly work him open. I’m hyper-aware of every sound he makes. When I’m certain he’s ready, I pull the covers back just enough to roll on the condom. I can feel his eyes on me the entire time...unblinking, dark with a hunger that seems to be keeping the shadows at bay. When I turn back to him, his gaze flicks from my lap to my eyes, and he surges forward, catching my mouth in a kiss that's greedier than before, his tongue tracing mine with a desperate, beautiful urgency.
I shift till I'm on top of him, settling my weight between his thighs. I reach out and yank the duvet over us both. I enter him slowly. One agonizing inch at a time. I’m watching his face for any sign of pain, but he just wraps his arms around my neck, his fingers sliding down the muscles of my back until he’s anchoring me to him. His breathing hitches, a jagged, broken sound that vibrates against my collarbone.
"Do you want to know what I thought?" He gasps, his voice barely a thread of sound. “The first time I saw you?"
I bury my face in the crook of his neck, the scent of him, salt and soap and feverish skin, overwhelming my senses. I push deeper, feeling the incredible, tight heat of him taking me in. "What did you think?" I murmur against his pulse.
I bury myself to the hilt, a low, guttural groan escaping me as our bodies finally, completely align.
"I thought you were the most incredibly attractive man I'd ever seen," he whispers, his head tossing back against the pillow.
I let out a disbelieving scoff of a chuckle, pulling back until I’m nearly out before driving back in, steadier this time.
"I was terrified," he admits, his voice breaking as his back arches, his fingers digging into my shoulders, grounding himself as the friction builds. "Because I started... fantasizing about you. In my future. Without even meaning to."
The confession hits harder than the physical sensation. I lean down, kissing the hollow of his throat, my heart hammering against his ribs. "You're definitely in mine," I state, my breath hot against his skin. "Every version of it."
I look down, my breath hitching in my lungs, watching as his pale fingers wrap around himself, his thumb moving in a rhythmic, desperate friction that matches the pace of my hips. "Faster," he whispers, the word a broken plea against my ear.
I don't hesitate. I concede, my movements losing their caution. He isn't a patient here. He isn't a tragic metaphor. He's just Ryan, fighting for every second of this, his eyes wide and fixed on mine as if I am the only thing keeping the world from tilting off its axis. I drive into him with a steady, relentless force, my eyes locked on his face, memorizing the way his jaw tightens and the way his eyelids flutter.
"God, Ryan," I growl, a low, dark curse vibrating in my chest.
I’m absorbing every sound he makes now. I’m drinking it in, certain that there is nothing dangerous about being absorbed by this. This isn't the cancer, this isn't the grief. This is the sound of him being alive, of him wanting, of him taking exactly what he needs from me.
The tension in his body coils tighter and tighter, a spring wound to the point of snapping. His fingers dig into my back, his nails leaving stinging crescents in my skin, and I welcome the pain. It’s a mark.
"Michael..." he cries out, his voice fracturing as he spills over the edge, his body jerking beneath mine in a series of long tremors.
The sight of him, the sheer vulnerability of it, is what finally breaks me. I let out a ragged groan, my own climax hitting with a violence that leaves me lightheaded. I bury my face in the crook of his neck, my heart hammering against his ribs like a bird trapped in a cage, until the world finally stops spinning and the only thing left is the sound of our synchronized, gasping breaths.
I don't pull away. I can't. I collapse forward, my forehead resting against his, our sweat mingling in the dim light. My limbs feel like lead, heavy and buzzing with the aftershock.
I stay there, listening to his heart slow down, my eyes closed. All I can think about is the weight of him beneath me...the solid, miraculous reality of Ryan Ashbrook.
He’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me. He’s the only thing I’ve ever truly seen.
I reach out, my hand trembling slightly as I brush a damp strand of hair from his forehead. He opens his eyes, those gray depths, soft and clouded with a weary, beautiful peace.
"No regrets," he whispers, his voice a ghost of a sound.
"None," I promise, kissing the tip of his nose. "Not a single one."