He kissed me again, deeper this time, while his hands continued to explore. When he pressed kisses along my collarbone and down my chest, I gripped the sheets beneath me.
A partial confession escaped. "This is the first time."
Matthew paused, his lips resting against a nipple. "First time?"
"That it's ever felt like mine. My body. My choice. Mine."
I reached for him then, pulling him down until our mouths met again, and our bodies aligned. Matthew's hand slid down, trailing along the hollow of my stomach, and then he curled his fingers around my cock shaft.
The contact was electric—shocking, almost, not in its novelty but in how right it felt. I wanted to hide and shrink from the sudden rush of heat and self-consciousness, but he kept his eyes on me, intent and unwavering.
He ran his thumb up the shaft, slowly tracing the ridge. My hands, unsure at first, found their way to him, and I mimicked the gesture, exploring how his uncut skin moved over his head and peeled back. We both breathed shallow and fast briefly, eyelids fluttering at the sensation.
Matthew set the rhythm. He guided my hand with his, a wordless lesson in what he liked, how tight to grip, and how to twist at the head.
He kissed me, open-mouthed and hungry, and we tangled together, thighs and torsos pressed together, cocks sliding against each other in a wet, slick heat. I lost track of whose hand was where. Our lips, tongue, and fists blurred sensations, while the ache in my groin grew.
The tension inside me snapped first—I gasped, shuddered, every nerve ending firing at once as I spilled cum over his hand. He held me through it, not letting go, stroking me gently as the spasms faded, until I could breathe again.
Matthew smiled, sticky-handed, and kissed my shoulder. "Still okay?"
"Yeah," I rasped. "Better than okay."
"Good."
I lay on my side, propped on my elbow, as Matthew stroked himself—his eyes half-lidded, mouth slack as he brought himself to the edge and then over. He erupted across his stomach, his chest arching, and a soft moan escaping him.
He wiped his hand on the sheet, then reached for me, dragging me into the mess of his embrace. I rested my face in the crook of his neck and breathed, letting the salt and heat of our bodies ground me. We lay breathing hard, skin slick with sweat, the apartment reduced to this narrow bed and shared heat.
We stayed like that for a while, tangled and quiet. I didn't know if it was what people called afterglow, but it felt whole, somehow—more complete than anything I'd known before.
Eventually, Matthew shifted position, kissing my forehead. "You hungry?"
"Starving."
Outside, the city continued its restless movements, but inside Matthew's bedroom, time froze. I let myself sink deeper into theunfamiliar luxury of choosing to stay and wanting to be exactly where I was.
Maybe staying didn't always mean surrender. Perhaps sometimes it could be the bravest choice of all.
Chapter nine
Matthew
Steam rose from the sink where I rinsed the final plate, watching soap suds spiral down the drain. Two of everything again—plates, mugs, forks bearing traces of scrambled eggs. Evidence of a shared breakfast that still felt foreign after a week.
I dried my hands on the dish towel, hanging it precisely on its hook. Dorian's presence had woven itself into my routines. He draped his borrowed jeans over the bathroom door. In the medicine cabinet, his toothbrush—the spare I'd dug from a forgotten drawer—sat beside mine like it belonged there.
As I passed the bedroom doorway, I heard his rhythmic breathing, deep and even for once. He was sleeping now, real sleep, not like in Kabul. Back then, Farid always said people like him didn't sleep—they hovered. Dorian's earlier fitful attempts at rest had reminded me of that.
I moved through my usual security checks, fingers testing each deadbolt, while I scanned the window latches. My routine had changed. My checks were more deliberate since I was checking for two.
A knock shattered my routine patterns—three sharp raps, pause, two more. It was my brother Michael's signature. He didn't arrive with doorbell politeness or tentative tapping. He knocked like he was serving a warrant.
My spine went rigid. He didn't make social calls at nine-thirty on a Wednesday morning. He'd relocated to Oregon with his partner, Alex. Whatever brought him to Seattle had to be taken seriously.
I glanced toward the bedroom. Dorian's jacket lay on the back of my chair in the living room. His boots sat beside the door. I had too many breadcrumbs to sweep away, and Michael's cop brain would register every sign before I could manufacture explanations.
The knocking came again, more insistent.
