by Roan Parrish
“I like it,” he growled, the roughness of his voice a contrast to how gently he held me. I could’ve loosened myself with a flick of my wrists.
I pressed my hips up, letting him feel how hard I was, how much I wanted this. Him.
“I like it too,” I murmured.
Rhys caught my hips in his hands and held us tight, erections pulsing together to the beat of our hearts. I left my hands above my head and tried to say with my body what I couldn’t quite bring myself to vocalize.
Please. Please, take me. Want me. Own me. Take me apart.
Then, as the spark caught between us, Please put me back together again.
Within moments, I was naked and Rhys was kissing the thin skin of my inner thighs, fingers biting into my hip bones as I fucked the air. His stubble electrified me and the closer his mouth moved to my swollen cock, the wilder I became beneath him.
There was a mindlessness to my lust with Rhys that I’d never felt before. Like maybe I could trust him to catch all the pieces as I flew apart in his arms. I didn’t even realize I was struggling until he caught my arms.
“Hey, are you okay?” he asked, eyes concerned, even though we were both breathing heavily, and so hard we were dripping. Even though I was grabbing at him.
I blinked up at him, and things came back into focus. His much heavier weight on me. The thick bulges of his muscles. The way his lips were parted and slightly bee-stung from my mouth.
“Yes,” I said, but no sound came out.
“You sure?”
One hand left my arm and cupped my cheek. It was only when his palm touched my face that I realized how hot my cheeks were. The cyclone that had caught us was slowing, and I wanted it to rage—needed its chaos and its speed because without them, I was just me, and that wasn’t enough.
I squeezed my eyes shut and wrapped my arms and legs around him.
“Please, please, please, I need you,” I managed, and I felt his groan rumble through him.
“Anything you need,” he breathed, then his lips were back on mine, and the spark flared again.
I kissed him with everything I had, and when his fingers slid inside me, slick and rough, I threw my head back and moaned.
“Fuck, Matt, you’re so fucking sexy,” he growled. His fingers stroking inside me, his mouth at my throat, it all made me wild with need for him, and I reached for his erection, circling the tip with my thumb, before dragging my hand from base to tip. Rhys made an inarticulate sound and then grabbed for a condom.
He paused, the head of his cock just touching my ass, and slung my legs over his shoulders. As he slid inside me, the position bent me in half, bringing us closer and closer together. He felt huge and hot and my body resisted him at first, leaving me dragging in air. But he held me tight, lips just a breath from mine, the position so intimate I couldn’t have imagined doing it this way with any of the one-night stands I’d had before. Then Rhys kissed me, mouth soft, hand gentle at the nape of my neck, and in one moment I relaxed. As I did, my body reshaped itself around him, and resistance turned to deep, throbbing fullness.
We both groaned, mouths meeting in passion as he began to move. Heat streaked through me with every thrust, and as he shifted even closer, the hard muscles of his stomach lent wicked friction to my swollen cock. He changed his angle, and when he thrust again, ecstasy swirled in my gut. I cried out and reached for his shoulders, holding him where I needed him, and he groaned, dragging a rough thumb over my lips. He liked it, the closeness, I could tell.
“Right there?”
I nodded and he watched, heavy-lidded, as he fucked me, taking in every gasp and moan. It was intimidating and hot and so gloriously unlike anything I would’ve thought I wanted that it made everything different. It made me different.
When I slid a hand down my stomach and curled it around my cock, desperate to come, Rhys’s eyes went sharp and intense, and he wrapped his larger hand around mine.
He started fucking me harder, deeper, and our hands worked my flesh together, jolts of pleasure tearing through me. Rhys’s eyes squeezed shut and his shoulders trembled, and I knew he was close. I squeezed my ass around him, clenched every muscle I could, and felt my orgasm crash over me. I came in deep, shuddering pulses that left me shaking and hot, like my skin was too thin to contain the pleasure. As the last jolt tore through me on a silent scream, Rhys’s cock pulsed, and he roared out his release as he emptied himself deep inside me.
My whole body was wrung out and shaking and Rhys was still groaning. He buried his face in the crook of my neck and wrapped me up in a hug. I could feel his heartbeat against my chest and inside me, where he was still half-hard. My hole gave an involuntary clench, and he grabbed my ass and held me to him, circling his hips. I heard someone whimpering and realized it was me, but I was too boneless to do anything but let myself be held as my body calmed down.
When he finally eased out of me, stroking my hole with his thumb to soothe the muscle, I gave up trying to pretend that I wasn’t holding on to him as tight as he held me. His lips were in my hair and mine were at his throat, and we clung to each other like we never wanted to let go.
Hours later, when I was making my way home in the freezing dark, my phone chimed with a text.
I know what I want, Rhys had written. I’ve always known. You left just now, while you thought I was asleep, and I’m not sure if you got scared, or you just wanted to be alone. Either way, this is the answer to your question: I want you because you’re generous and thoughtful. You pay attention to things even if you don’t know why they’re important yet. Your life has been hard and you want to help make other people’s lives easier. You’re sweet and smart and sometimes when I look at you I feel like I’ve known you forever.
When we were at that one store you made me try on the pink sweater because you thought it was ugly, but then when I put it on you looked at me like you were shocked that sometimes things aren’t as ugly as you expect and, I wanted to kiss you so badly I had to pinch myself to resist it. You fuck like what I’ve always wanted sex to be. I like how you tease me like you’re grumpy with me. I like how you touch me like you’re daring yourself to do it. I know there’s more to everything you say, but I like how you make me feel like there’s time to learn everything about you.
I want to. You make me want everything, Matt. And I know it’s early and this might scare you away. I hope not. But I know it might, so I’ll tell you this too: I want you however I can have you.
My heart raced and tears pricked my eyes. This was a love letter. A fucking love letter from a man I’d only met five times. A love letter saying things I’d never imagined anyone would say, seeing me in a way I’d never seen myself.
As I read it again a room opened inside me, turning emptiness to possibility, solitude to potential. A room opened inside me, and I wanted to fill it with Rhys. I wanted to choose. I wanted, for the first time in my grungy fucking life, to choose someone and make them mine. And it terrified me.
“Oh fuck,” I said to no one. “Oh fuck, fuck, fuck me.”
Chapter 1
ONE YEAR AND EIGHT MONTHS LATER
I shuffled the papers, files, and leaky pens on my desk into a semblance of order, and swept a busted phone charger and an apple core into the garbage, along with the cheesy dollar-store smiley face eraser my last client had left. I appreciated the gesture, but I didn’t want that thing grinning up at me when I got back to work.
Sun streamed through the cracks in the blinds and the AC unit in the window chugged valiantly, to little effect. Sweat along my spine and under my arms dampened my shirt and my hair had been a riot of curls all summer. I wiped hopelessly at my forehead with the heel of my hand.
This was August at Mariposa. This was August in New York.
“Boy, you look like you just ran a mile,” a warm voice said from my doorway.
“Hey,
Imari.” I smiled at her.
Imari had run Mariposa since it was a group of three volunteers circulating information to a few foster programs, eight years ago. Now, it was a full-time nonprofit that worked with clients all across the city to provide resources for youth during and after their transition out of the foster system. We had ten full-time staff and a number of volunteers, and ran programming at two satellite offices onsite in foster care facilities to work with youth before they aged out of the system.
Imari had also been the one to hire me when most people would’ve told me to fuck off. I was never sure what it was about me glaring and telling her to shove it that made her think, Potential employee of the month. All I know is that after I snarled that her suggestion to list references on my résumé was unrealistic because who the hell did she think paid more than five seconds’ attention to foster kids in public schools, she narrowed her eyes at me, and said, Hmm. Then she told me to come to this address the next day because she thought I could be useful.
That was almost two years ago, now, and I was pretty sure working at Mariposa had saved my life. At least, it had saved the life I wanted to have from the one I’d expected, although it had been rough in the beginning.
Imari held out a client file to me.
“This is Noé Caldera. Eighteen, mad as hell, and a pain in the ass.” As I took the file from her she bopped me on the knuckles and winked before handing it over. “Sound familiar?”
I mmhmmed flatly and opened the file to see a glaring boy whose combination of hostility and fear were as familiar as breathing. I’d seen it in the faces of hundreds of boys I’d been with at St. Jerome’s. Hell, I’d seen it every day in the mirror.
“I’m hoping you have more luck with him than Nando or I had.”
“Shit, Imari, if he won’t listen to you—”
“It’s not about listening to me, Matt. It’s about learning to listen to something in himself.” She took the file from my hand. “Don’t worry about it now. I just wanted to make sure you had it for next week. He’s coming in to see you first thing on Tuesday.”
“Thanks. And thanks again. For the day off. For understanding.”
The sparkle in Imari’s eyes told me I wasn’t going to like what was coming.
“Well, how could I say no to giving you a long weekend to spend with your husband, the rock star, before he leaves on tour.” Her emphasis was teasing but her smile was warm as always.
“He’s not a rock star.” I kicked at the seam where the carpet was coming up. “It’s not even rock music,” I added.
The heat in my face was only partially from rock star. Most of it was from husband. It had been over a year and my brain still couldn’t reconcile the word with the life I thought I’d have, to say nothing of the man himself.
“I know,” Imari said, saving me from the helpless flush of joy I got whenever I thought about Rhys. “I went to his show last night.”
“You did? What? Why? He didn’t tell me.”
“Oh, I didn’t stick around to say hey after. Took my ass home to bed. He’s really something, Matt.”
I looked at the floor so she wouldn’t see me smile. “Yeah.”
“And as to why.” She didn’t move any closer to me because she knew I didn’t like to be touched, but everything in her posture spoke of fierce care. “Because I care about you. I care that you’re happy. I wanted to see the man who makes you so happy. Problem?”
“No, ma’am,” I murmured.
“Good. Tell your husband I said he’s no Otis, but I liked his show just fine.”
“Tell Rhys you like him better than Otis. Got it.” I ducked as she swatted at me with another file.
“Psh, get outta here.”
I shot her a grin as I grabbed my wallet and phone and headed for the door. “Happy Friday. Tell the professor I said hey.”
“All right. Enjoy the time with your man.”
My man. My man, my man, my man. It echoed in time with my steps uptown toward the 125th Street station. I caught the train with a few minutes to spare, and grabbed a window seat, earbuds and sunglasses firmly in place in case anyone near me felt chatty with TGIF cheer.
Despite Imari’s teasing, Rhys really wasn’t a rock star. Or a blues-folk-rock star. He’d worked as a studio and touring musician since finishing high school. He’d written and co-written songs for dozens of artists, knew people in every walk of the business, and had supported himself with his music since he was nineteen. It was rarified air, even before his first solo album debuted last month and did really well—well enough that he was about to go on the road for two months.
Rhys said it still didn’t feel real to him. He couldn’t believe that after a lifetime of being in the background, now it was his name on the album people were buying, the tickets, the T-shirts.
I couldn’t believe it either. Even though Rhys had started working on his first album soon after we met, the music business was normal enough to him that the strangeness of it had rarely touched me. He spoke about it like most people spoke about their jobs—irritated by the minutiae, excited by the successes.
It wasn’t until he’d played me two of his songs that what was going on truly sank in for me.
“What the fuck?” I’d asked, gaping at him after he finished the second song.
He’d narrowed his eyes. “Is that a thumbs down, then?”
“No, I— What the fuck, Rhys? You’re so fucking talented. How have you never played me your songs before?”
His slow smile had been warm and satisfied. “They weren’t ready before.”
“Your other songs. The ones people have recorded.”
“You really haven’t looked? You never googled me?”
It was so obvious the second it was out of his mouth, and I cringed.
“Wow, babe, it burns.” He’d pressed his palm to his heart and pouted at me. But that grin had been back in seconds, like his delight at his music was too big to even allow for my lack of musical wherewithal, and he’d tugged me next to him and proceeded to give me an education in the music of Rhys Nyland.
So, no, he wasn’t quite a rock star, but he was my man. My husband. And somehow that was even harder to believe.
The train crossed the Harlem River, then followed it west to the Hudson where it turned north. Urban congestion turned to sprawl, sprawl morphed into bucolic woods and sedate towns north of Yonkers.
Sleepy Hollow was the kind of town I’d never known real people lived in. With charming shops along Broadway, elaborate seasonal decorations, historical tour groups led by retirees or college students in period garb, and very little open after 8 P.M., it seemed like something from a 1950s Christmas movie. Nothing at all like the Washington Heights neighborhood I’d grown up in, or Chinatown, where I’d been living before I moved in with Rhys.
From the Philipse Manor stop it was only a ten minute walk to Rhys’s Colonial cottage. Rhys said it was likely an outbuilding at one time—a version of the main house in miniature. It was by far the smallest house in the neighborhood, and by far the most spacious place I’d ever lived.
Rhys bought it three or four years ago, when the rent money he’d saved by touring the whole year with five different bands coincided with a dip in the housing market. Though it had a large backyard, the cottage had been neglected, and wasn’t big enough for the families looking to live in the area. But for Rhys, the two bedrooms and small living room were plenty, and he had friends come and stay, asking only that they help him strip moldy wallpaper, replace rusted fixtures, and repaint.
Now the cottage was a cheery robin’s-egg blue—at least, that’s what Rhys called it—and was set back from the street by a dirt drive shaded with leafy maple trees.
Away from the city, the heat felt less oppressive, and the cottage glowed in the evening sun. The flutter in my chest as I opened the front door
was all for Rhys. It was two-thirds relief and one-third nervous anticipation. Even though we’d been married for a year and a half, neither had waned.
I slid my keys on the hook by the door, dumped my wallet and phone on the table, and went to change. The shower was running in the bedroom, and my heart gave a powerful thud. Rhys. Shower. Naked.
That was another thing that hadn’t waned. My attraction to Rhys was like nothing I’d felt in my life. It was large enough, immediate enough, to block out everything else. Everything he did captivated my attention. He exerted a force like the gravity of a planet whenever he was in the room. Being close to him made my skin thrum and my heart race.
Once, when he’d told me I could do anything to him I wanted, I’d kissed him for so long I lost track of it. Hours, maybe. Kissed him until our lips were raw and his muscular body trembled beneath me, until he was the only thing I could taste or feel or smell. Until we were both breathing so hard we were light-headed and desperate and climaxed together with one desperate thrust between us, sticky and shuddering and still kissing like our bodies had turned to liquid heat.
I didn’t like to be touched, usually. But when Rhys touched me, I wanted him to take me apart.
I stripped out of my sweaty clothes and walked into the bathroom. Rhys was humming softly, back to me. The first time we slept together, I’d been too overwhelmed to pay good attention. But the next time I saw him naked—saw him standing in front of me, bathed in sunlight—I thought he looked like a superhero. I’d stared at him stupidly, then, and he’d grinned at me. He wasn’t vain, but he knew what he looked like and how it affected some people.
Now I took in the way the water broke over his broad shoulders, streamed down the clean groove of his spine, and curved around his round ass to run down thighs thick with muscle. The water had darkened his blond hair and the humid air smelled of amber and sage.