“Oh yeah,” he says heatedly.
“Just checking,” I mutter.
Rafe moves on top of me, kneeling between my legs.
“We’re going to go slow,” he says, kissing me, “and you stop me at any time. It was good that you stopped me.”
I close my eyes, humiliated, but Rafe just kisses me again and I force myself not to think about anything but the feeling of his mouth on mine, the smell of his hair as it spills down around my face.
“Sorry,” he mutters, pulling a rubber band off his wrist and moving to tie his hair back. I grab his wrist before he can.
“No, don’t. I… I like your hair.”
Rafe’s smile is sweet and delighted. Is it possible I’ve never given him a compliment before? I pull his face down and kiss him again to try and say sorry, twining my fingers in his hair. I love the way it feels, thick and soft. It’s a little tangled, though, and when I tug gently, I end up pulling his hair.
“Shit, sorry,” I say just as Rafe groans. He kisses me hard and slides a hand under my thigh, lifting my leg up around his hip.
He breaks the kiss to study my face as he moves his hand between my legs. He touches me so gently, his fingers sliding in the lube that’s still there, and his mouth opens on a breath.
“Okay?”
I nod and he slides two fingers back inside me. My eyes close and my head tips back and Rafe leans in, kissing my throat, then my mouth, fingers playing inside me, finding that spot that felt so good before.
“Ungh!”
He rubs over it, and I dig my fingers into his back, pleasure spreading through me.
“Good?”
“Yeah.”
Rafe rolls my hips up, and I start shaking against him, needing something I can’t put words to. Rafe kisses me deeply, moaning into my mouth as he moves his hand between us. He puts on a new condom and slicks himself up again. I feel shaky and overstimulated and my dick is leaking down onto my stomach. Rafe stills, just looking at me.
“You are so fucking gorgeous like this,” he murmurs, running a hand down my torso, rubbing at the drops of precome that have fallen onto my stomach, and then lightly stroking me until I’m gasping.
“Okay, okay, okay,” I say, tangling my fingers in his hair and pulling him down into a kiss.
“Okay,” he says, smiling. “You stop me if—”
“God damn it, I know!”
Rafe smiles. He reaches down and guides his dick to my opening, just resting there for a minute.
“Push out,” he whispers against my lips.
When I do, he presses just the head inside me. I gasp and nod at him. He kisses me lightly and slides deeper.
“Breathe, breathe,” he says. “Fuck.” Rafe’s voice is breathy, his jaw tight. He pushes in so slowly that I can feel myself opening up to him.
“Oh god,” I say. I feel caught between something unbearably good and something terrifying. I squeeze my eyes shut, and Rafe rubs circles on my stomach. His hand is shaking.
“Okay?”
I don’t know if I’m okay. I don’t know if I’ll ever be okay again. Because the feeling of him inside, filling me up, connected with me… it makes me feel like a different person. I squeeze my eyes shut, too overwhelmed to keep looking at him.
“Colin, are you okay? Please, I need you to tell me.” His thumb brushes at my closed eyelids and I feel moisture there. I blink it away, nod, then spread my legs farther for him and pull at his back.
“’M’okay. Just, c’mere.”
He nods. Then he slides the rest of the way inside me. He groans desperately, but doesn’t move once he’s inside. I try to keep breathing, but I feel too full.
I scrabble at Rafe’s shoulders, starting to panic again.
“Okay, try to relax for me. I know, babe, I know.” He kisses me, and as distractions go, it’s a good one. His mouth on mine is hungry, possessive, but his hands are soft, rubbing my stomach, stroking up and down my arms. When he reaches between us and strokes my dick, I clench up and we both cry out.
“Oh,” I gasp as the feeling of uncomfortable fullness transforms into something so much better. Something deep and powerful. Rafe is frozen above me, an intense look on his face. He’s biting his lip and gazing down at me. “I—oh Jesus, Rafe.” Because I can feel him throbbing deep inside me. And this feels nothing like the painful, hurried mess of before.
Rafe takes my mouth in a bruising kiss and starts moving. As I relax my muscles, I start feeling these little tingles ripple through my ass, like electricity. Rafe leans back and rolls my hips up, then pushes back inside me, and I cry out as he comes in contact with that spot inside me. He does it over and over and I’m lost in the sensations. My whole body is hot and tense and liquid at the same time.
“Fuck, you feel amazing,” Rafe says, thrusting inside me and freezing there, his muscles tight. “How’re you doing?”
I’m falling to fucking pieces. I can’t even speak. When I open my mouth, all that comes out is a garbled moan that sounds embarrassingly desperate. I just reach a shaky hand into his hair and kiss him with everything I’ve got. That seems to do the trick. He speeds up, and the smooth slide sends sparks all down my spine. I dig my fingers into his back, needing more.
“Harder?” he asks, and I kiss him again. He groans, then starts thrusting harder, muscles tight with control. I start moaning, these choked sounds that would humiliate me if I could pay attention to anything except the feeling of Rafe inside me. Then he reaches between us and grabs my dick and I cry out.
He’s muttering my name and things I can’t make out and I don’t care because he’s stroking my erection in time with his thrusts and heat is curling in my lower belly. The trembling starts in my thighs and then Rafe hits that spot again and I’m coming—an orgasm that starts somewhere deep inside and radiates through my ass and lower back and balls and, fuck, shoots out my dick in thick pulses of pleasure I can’t control. Rafe’s groaning and muttering sweet filth about my ass and my dick and how hot I am, but I can barely hear him.
“God, babe, you’re gonna make me come,” he chokes out, then he freezes inside me, moaning brokenly, pulsing his hips over and over, each movement stirring a shiver of pleasure deep inside me.
Rafe moans one last time and buries his face in my neck, kissing me worshipfully. I rub my fingers through his hair. He softens inside me and I squirm.
“Hold on.” He drags his lips over my throat. When he pulls out, the soreness hits. I feel tender and a little swollen, but I don’t care.
Rafe runs a finger around my hole. “You okay?” he asks. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”
I shake my head, reaching blindly for him so he’ll lie down again and stop talking. He gets the message and lies next to me, kissing me softly and running his hand over every part of me he can reach.
“I’ll be right back.”
I must doze off for a minute because I startle awake to a warm washcloth cleaning come off my stomach.
“Sorry,” Rafe says softly, hand on my hip. He drops the cloth on the floor, but I let it go, for once too warm and relaxed to get up and put it in the hamper.
Rafe slides down next to me and gathers me to him. “That was…. Mmm, damn,” he moans. And I know I should say something. Tell him he made me feel amazing. That I loved it. But I can’t. I’m afraid if I say any of it out loud, think about it for too long, the shame will hit. I just hum against Rafe’s shoulder and squeeze my eyes shut, sliding a hand into his hair and absently untangling it until I fall asleep.
WHEN THE
doorbell rings, I’m just getting out of the shower and I almost break my neck getting tangled up in my sweats as I drag them over still-wet skin.
Relief floods me when I see that it’s Rafe. I haven’t heard from him since he left my house Sunday morning. I even texted him a few times, but he didn’t respond, which isn’t like him.
I find myself smiling automatically, and Shelby practically climbs the leg of his jeans. Rafe gently detaches her from his leg, but sets her down on the floor without playing with her. Also not like him.
“Hey,” I say.
“I need to talk to you.” He sounds like he’s trying really hard to keep his temper.
“Okay.” I back away from the door.
“I’m going to ask you a question and I need you to be honest with me.”
I nod. He’s still standing just inside the door.
“Do you wanna sit down?”
But he shakes his head. He looks like a different person than the Rafe I woke up to on Sunday morning. The one with the warm, sleepy kisses. The one who told me I was beautiful—even if that did make me blush and smack him. The one who said he liked being at my house because his apartment felt lonely since Javier died. The one who cooked me breakfast and hugged me tight before he had to leave.
“Were you alone with Anders here on Monday night?” he asks, voice tight.
My heart starts to pound. “Uh… no? Not here. But yeah, he came to the shop. Wanted to talk.”
Rafe puts his head in his hand and groans, like Anders wanting to talk to me is some kind of horrible nightmare.
“I mean, I’m sure he’d have rather talked with you, but he didn’t know where you are when you’re not at YA and he knew where I worked, so….”
“I’m not—Jesus, Colin, I’m not
jealous
. I just can’t believe you would do something so monumentally stupid! Fuck!” Rafe drops down onto the back of the couch. “What were you thinking? Were you alone with him? Who else was there? Did people see him?”
“Hold the hell on. What are you implying? I didn’t… I didn’t
do
anything to him!”
“Yeah, unfortunately, that’s not the point. That’s why there are protocols for working with youth. You have to be absolutely beyond fucking reproach at all times or you leave yourself open to every accusation under the sun. And I’m the one who brought you on as a volunteer, so if it looks like you’re being inappropriate with the kids, then it’s on me!”
“Well, how do I know this shit? I was trying to help.” Okay, my first response had been irritation that Anders had come to the shop, but I got over it.
“You
don’t
know so there are times you
can’t
help,” Rafe says, like I’m an idiot. I hate it when he does this. Acts like there is this whole set of rules that I’ll never understand. Not that he’s wrong. It’d just be nice not to be reminded that I fuck up everything I touch.
“Look, he wanted to talk to me because I’m not… you know, because people don’t know about him. Being gay. Queer. Whatever. Like, he wanted to know should he tell his parents and shit. And I think he just wanted to know how it was for me.”
Rafe takes a deep breath like it’s all he can do to control his temper. “So, what did you tell him?” he asks slowly.
I’d been finishing up a repair when Anders slunk in. All I saw of him at first were his skinny legs encased in their usual black denim and ending in too-heavy black boots that scuffed the grimy concrete. Pop had left and I had pretty much scared off Brian and Sam by bringing up the idea of proposing more custom repairs to Pop. They’d both done the we-don’t-want-to-make-waves shuffle and I’d been pissed at them the rest of the day for being such cowards. So, chances were no one would see Anders, but I’d led him into the office anyway, not wanting to take any chances that we might be overheard.
He apologized about a hundred times for bothering me before I finally got the story out of him. He’d begun coming to YA with Mikal after they connected on social media, and his family had no clue he was queer—his word. He said he hadn’t really even talked about it much with any friends. Seemed like he’d been a bit of a loner before he met the other YA kids. He spent a lot of time practicing violin—I guess he played in pretty major competitions. Recitals. Whatever you call them. His dad was some kind of banker and his mother did something with trading stocks. They were Swedish and still spent a lot of time going back and forth to Stockholm so they weren’t around a lot. But when they were, they seemed to hold Anders and his brother and sister to pretty exacting standards. Sure, Anders’ father’s expectations ran more to perfect grades and ten-year plans, but I was familiar with the sentiment.
When his father had found out that he’d been going to YA instead of spending time after school practicing, he’d flipped out. Anders had told him he was just going there to support a friend. That it didn’t mean anything. He looked ashamed when he told me that, as if he owed them the truth as some kind of familial tithe. But he knew his parents wouldn’t like it. His father especially would be disappointed. Something about business and being the oldest son, Anders said, but clearly beneath it was just the same kind of old-fashioned disgust that Pop had displayed since I was a kid.
And that was the heart of why Anders had come to me, I think. He’d been looking for someone who had the same issue as him. It wasn’t very flattering, being sought out because you have the same shit going on that a teenager does when you’re supposed to be an adult. It was the adult part Anders was clearly after, though. He knew Rafe better, sure, but Rafe was a damn shining beacon of integrity, whereas I… well, I may have had a similar problem, but I had no solutions. Not even for myself. I wished I could tell him a brave story like Rafe’s—always having been honest about who he was and damn the consequences. Hell, I wished I could tell him a story like Daniel’s, even. Where he hadn’t chosen the moment to tell people he was gay, but when it had happened, he’d taken control over it.
I even started to tell him those stories. As if we were in some soppy movie and my words would inspire him and change everything. But in real life we were just in a messy office at the back of a damn auto shop, and the only perspective I could bring myself to give him was my own. And maybe it had helped, knowing someone else was going through something similar.
I have no clue if Rafe will think I said the right thing, though.
“I told him that his personal shit wasn’t anyone’s business, not even his parents’. That he’d be out of the house in one more year, and if telling them he was queer meant that he’d have to put up with a bunch of awful shit for a whole year, then it wasn’t worth it. He has a lot of time later on to figure everything out. He doesn’t have to decide anything right away.”