Stray Hearts
Chapter Nine: Your Turn, Part 2
Pairing: Brendon Park x Fem!Reader
Word Count: 13, 539
Summary: Brendon said no gifts. So you gave him dinner, cake, a massage, and the terrifying experience of being cared for without earning it first. Or: Brendon Park learns how to let someone take care of him. Thoroughly.
Warnings: explicit smut, established relationship, birthday sex, massage turning sexual, oral sex — male receiving, unprotected piv sex, creampie, riding, praise, aftercare, shower aftercare, soft vulnerability, emotional intimacy, Brendon Park receiving care against his better judgment, Biscuit being five pounds of betrayal and abandonment trauma
Author’s Note: Part Two of Brendon’s birthday is finally here, which means the massage oil has served its intended purpose. This chapter is explicit, but the emotional thesis is really Brendon being forced to experience tenderness without being useful about it first. Reader said “your turn” and meant it. Biscuit, unfortunately, was excluded from most of the evening and will be contacting his legal team immediately.
Xoxo, Del
Previous: | Chpt. 1 | Chpt. 2 | Chpt. 3 | Chpt. 4 | Chpt. 5 | Chpt. 6 | Chpt. 7 | Chpt. 8 | Chpt. 9-Pt. 1 |
“Your turn,” you said.
His eyes stayed on yours. For a second, he did not move.
Then his gaze flicked toward the bed. “On my back?”
Your face warmed immediately. Brendon noticed. Of course he did. His mouth almost moved.
“No?” he asked.
“No,” you said, trying very hard to sound composed. “On your stomach.”
His gaze held yours for one charged second. Then he looked at the bed again.
“Specific,” Brendon said.
“You like specific,” you said.
“I like competent,” Brendon said.
You lifted your brows. “Then lie down.”
That almost got you a smile.
Almost.
Brendon turned toward the bed, and you watched him move with the kind of attention that would have embarrassed you if you had any shame left. He sat on the edge first, then shifted onto the mattress, stretching out on his stomach with one arm folded beneath the pillow and his face turned slightly toward you.
Your thoughts disappeared. Just gone. Tragic, really.
Because Brendon Park shirtless in your bed was apparently an event your brain had not properly trained for. His back was all warm skin, holding tension in the golden light, broad shoulders tapering down to the narrow line of his waist, muscles shifting subtly as he settled against your sheets. The sight of him there, quiet and waiting, made the room feel smaller. Made the whole night feel suddenly less theoretical.
Brendon turned his head enough to look at you. “You’re staring.”
You blinked. “You are shirtless in my bed.”
“You told me to lie down,” Brendon said.
“I did not say I was prepared.”
His mouth almost moved against the pillow. “Poor planning.”
You exhaled a laugh, breathless and ridiculous, then reached for the massage oil before he could see exactly how affected you were. The bottle was warm from sitting near the candle, and when you poured a little into your palm, the scent rose immediately, subtle and clean, something close to cedar and something softer underneath it. Nothing sweet. Nothing sharp.
You rubbed your hands together, warming the oil between your palms. Brendon watched you from the bed. Still. Quiet. Too aware.
You looked down at him. “Stop looking at me like that.”
His brow moved faintly. “Like what?”
You gave him a look. “Like you’re waiting for me to admit this was a gift.”
“It is a gift,” Brendon said.
You set the bottle back down with careful dignity. “It is a practical service.”
His eyes stayed on yours. “No.”
You climbed onto the bed beside him, one knee sinking into the mattress near his hip. “No?”
“No,” Brendon said.
Your pulse fluttered as you moved over him, carefully settling your knees on either side of his hips. You kept your weight light at first, giving him time, giving him room, waiting for any sign that the position was too much.
Brendon went very still beneath you. Not tense exactly. Still. Like his body had not decided what to do with being held in place by care instead of responsibility.
You placed your hands gently on his lower back. “Good?”
His head turned slightly toward you. “Yes.”
You studied the side of his face for half a second, not because you doubted him, but because you were learning the shape of this too. The quiet. The stillness. The difference between discomfort and restraint.
Brendon’s jaw shifted against the pillow. Then he exhaled.
“It’s hard for me,” Brendon said.
Your hands stayed where they were, warm against his back. “What is?”
He was quiet for a second.
Then his voice came lower, rougher around the edges. “Sitting still like this.”
Your chest softened.
Brendon’s fingers flexed once against the pillow. “Not having to do anything.”
Oh.
The words landed gently and broke your heart a little anyway.
You let your palms smooth once over his lower back, slow enough that he could feel you hearing him.
“Yeah,” you said softly. “I know.”
His eyes shifted toward you.
You leaned forward slightly, careful not to put too much weight on him. “Do you want to stop?”
“No,” Brendon said. Immediate. Certain.
Your stomach flipped for an entirely different reason. His gaze held yours from the pillow, steady despite the vulnerability sitting between you now.
“No?” you asked.
“No,” Brendon said again.
You let the corner of your mouth soften. “You want to keep going?”
His hand flexed once more against the pillow. “Yes.”
There it was. Not obedience. Not endurance. Choice.
You believed him.
So you did not ask again. You listened instead.
You rubbed your palms together once more, spreading the warmed oil over your hands while Brendon watched you from the bed, still and quiet and too aware.
You looked down at him. “You can just be here.”
His brow moved faintly. “That sounds easy when you say it.”
You smiled. “It isn’t.”
His gaze stayed on yours.
You lowered your hands to his back. “But you don’t have to be good at it right away.”
Something in his face changed. Barely. Enough. Then you began.
The first pass of your hands was gentle, more oil than pressure, just spreading warmth over the hard line of his back and up toward his shoulders. His skin was warm beneath your palms, smooth in some places, rougher in others, alive under your hands in a way that made your focus narrow to touch and breath and the slow give of muscle.
Brendon did not make a sound. But his shoulders dropped by a fraction. You smiled to yourself and did it again. This time, you pressed a little deeper. His back tightened first, like his body had to decide whether it trusted relief. Then, slowly, it eased.
“There,” you murmured.
Brendon’s voice was muffled against the pillow. “You sound smug.”
“I am smug,” you said, working your thumbs carefully into the tight muscle near the base of his neck. “I’m very good at this.”
His breath left him a little harder. The sound was small, almost nothing, but it went through you so sharply that your hands paused before you could stop them.
Brendon’s eyes opened. For a second, neither of you moved.
Then his voice came low. “Don’t stop.”
Your pulse kicked.
You let your thumbs move again, slower this time. “Wasn’t planning to.”
His eyes closed.
You worked in silence for a while, letting the massage become its own rhythm. Your palms moved over his shoulders, down the sides of his back, then up again, careful and steady. You found the places that made his breath change and the places that made his fingers flex against the pillow. You learned the difference between pain and relief by the smallest shifts in him, because Brendon did not give much away, but he gave enough if you knew how to look.
And you did. You knew how to look. You knew how to listen. You knew how to pay attention.
That was the dangerous part.
Because once you started noticing him, it became impossible to stop. You noticed the way Brendon’s breathing changed when your thumbs worked along the tight line beside his spine. You noticed the way his hand flexed against the pillow when you pressed into the stubborn muscle beneath his shoulder blade. You noticed the way his body stayed still under yours at first, as if relaxing were something he had to approve in stages.
You noticed, too, when that began to change. Slowly. Reluctantly.
His shoulders lowered another fraction. The tension beneath your hands softened where you had warmed the oil into his skin. His breathing deepened, still controlled but less disciplined than before, and the quiet weight of him beneath you made something in your chest ache.
Not from wanting.
Though God, yes, from that too.
But from the intimacy of it.
Brendon, who noticed everything. Brendon, who arrived useful. Brendon, who stood in your kitchen and asked if he could help before he even took off his jacket. Brendon, who carried plates, made coffee, and told Biscuit no like he had legal authority in your apartment.
Brendon, lying quiet under your hands because you had asked him to.
Because he wanted to. Because he was trying.
Your palms moved slowly up his back again, spreading over his shoulders before your thumbs pressed into the muscle at the base of his neck. His breath caught. His fingers flexed once against the pillow, but his body did not pull away. His shoulders stayed loose beneath your hands, warm and heavy and slowly giving in. You eased the pressure slightly, then worked the muscle again with careful circles of your thumbs.
Brendon’s breath left him harder. Not quite a sound. Not quite not one.
Heat moved through you so fast it left you dizzy. Your hands slowed, not because you were worried, but because you needed a second to survive the knowledge that you had done that to him.
Brendon’s eyes opened halfway. “Don’t stop.”
The words were low. Rough. Immediate. Your pulse kicked.
You let your thumbs move again.
His eyes closed.
You worked him open slowly after that. There was no other way to think of it. No other way to name the gradual loosening beneath your palms, the warm give of his body under yours, the careful way his breathing deepened when he finally stopped bracing for every touch like it was something he had to survive.
Your hands moved lower, over the long slope of his back and down toward his waist.
Not too far. Not yet.
But far enough that his fingers curled again into the pillow. Far enough that his breathing changed. Far enough that when you shifted your weight slightly over his hips, his body went still beneath yours in a way that had nothing to do with discomfort.
You felt it. He knew you felt it. Neither of you spoke for a second.
The candle flickered beside the bed. Somewhere beyond the closed door, Biscuit’s bell jingled once, then went quiet again, like even he had finally accepted he was not invited to this part.
Your hands rested on Brendon’s lower back.
His voice came low against the pillow. “You’re thinking again.”
You looked down at the back of his neck, at the warmth beginning to gather there beneath the lamplight. “You say that like you’re not.”
“I am,” Brendon said.
Honest. Immediate. Your pulse kicked.
You let your thumbs move gently along his lower back. “About what?”
Brendon did not answer right away. That alone told you enough. You leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss between his shoulder blades, right where your hands had worked the tension loose.
His breath stopped. You felt it. Your lips lingered for half a second, then moved lower, following the line of his spine.
Brendon’s voice was quieter when it came. “That is not a massage.”
You smiled against his skin. “No?”
“No,” Brendon said.
You kissed his shoulder, then let your mouth brush the warm, oiled skin there. “It’s practical.”
His fingers tightened in the pillow. “That word is losing meaning.”
“Good,” you murmured.
You kissed him again. Lower this time. Brendon’s body shifted beneath yours. Not away. Not even close. His back moved under your mouth with the deeper pull of his breath, and the sound he made this time was too low to hide completely.
Your eyes closed for half a second.
You had meant to take care of him. You were taking care of him. That was the problem.
Because taking care of him apparently also meant learning exactly where his control thinned. It meant knowing how his body softened under your hands. It meant hearing the rough edge of his breathing when your mouth followed the path your palms had made. It meant realizing that Brendon letting go did not look loud or reckless.
It looked like trust. It looked like this.
You pressed your hands into his back again, firmer this time, dragging your thumbs slowly up toward his shoulders. Another sound left him, deeper than the others, and this time he did not swallow it fast enough. Your body went warm all over.
“There,” you whispered.
Brendon’s eyes closed harder. You felt his breathing under your palms. You felt the way he let the sound exist this time. You felt the way something in him finally gave. Not all the way. Not completely.
But enough.
You leaned down and kissed the side of his neck, just below his ear. His body went still beneath you again. Then his hand moved. Slowly, Brendon reached back, not enough to grab and not enough to stop you, just enough for his fingers to brush the outside of your thigh where the satin shorts had ridden higher.
Your breath caught.
Brendon turned his face toward you. His eyes were dark. Careful. Hungry. Your pulse beat everywhere. You shifted slightly over him, and his hand closed around the side of your thigh. Not hard. Not yet. Just there. Warm and grounding and devastating.
Your fingers spread over his back. For a moment, neither of you moved.
Then Brendon’s voice came low. “Come here.”
You swallowed. “I’m already here.”
His hand tightened once on your thigh. “No.”
Your stomach flipped. He shifted beneath you, careful but decisive, rolling enough that you had to lift your weight and brace your hand against the bed. In one smooth movement, he turned onto his back beneath you, bringing you with him until you were straddling his hips again, only now his hands were on your thighs, and his bare chest was beneath your palms.
Your breath left you.
Brendon looked up at you in the candlelight. Still controlled. Barely.
“There,” he said.
You stared down at him, your palms pressed to his chest, your knees on either side of his hips, the green satin bunched higher on your thighs than it had been a minute ago. The massage oil shone faintly across his skin. His hands rested on you like he was trying very hard to be respectful and failing in slow motion.
Your voice came out uneven. “You were supposed to be relaxing.”
Brendon’s thumbs moved once against your thighs. “I was.”
“You rolled over,” you said.
“Yes,” Brendon said.
You tried to look stern. You had no idea whether it worked. “That is not relaxing.”
His gaze moved over your face, then down to where your hands rested on his chest. “It was getting difficult.”
Your throat went dry. You knew what he meant. You still wanted to hear him say it.
“Difficult how?” you asked.
Brendon’s eyes lifted back to yours. For a second, he did not answer.
Then his voice dropped. “You know.”
Your fingers flexed lightly against his chest. “Maybe I want you to tell me.”
His jaw shifted. His hands slid a fraction higher on your thighs, still careful, still waiting for you to pull away if you wanted to. You did not.
His voice came rougher. “It was hard to lie still with you on top of me.”
Heat climbed your neck, your chest, every place his words touched.
“Oh,” you said.
His eyes stayed locked on yours. “Yes.”
You tried to breathe normally. Failed. Brendon’s thumb brushed the inside of your thigh, just beneath the hem of your shorts. You bit your lip.
His gaze dropped immediately. “Don’t.”
Your pulse jumped. “Don’t what?”
His eyes returned to yours. “Do that unless you want me to do something about it.”
The room tilted. Just slightly. Just enough.
You leaned forward, your hands sliding up his chest, over his shoulders, until you hovered above him. His hands tightened on your thighs, and the satin skimmed against his stomach.
You looked down at him. “What if I do?”
Brendon went very still. The good kind. The dangerous kind.
His eyes moved over your face slowly, like he was giving you time to take it back.
You did not.
His voice was quiet when he answered. “Then say that.”
Your breath caught. There it was. Not a command. Not really.
An invitation.
A door left open for you to walk through on purpose.
You lowered one hand to his jaw, your thumb brushing the place where his control always seemed to gather first.
“I want you to do something about it,” you said.
Brendon’s eyes darkened. His hand slid from your thigh to your hip, and he pulled you down to him.
The kiss was not like the one at the door.
It was slower than that. Deeper. Worse.
Brendon kissed you like he had spent the whole dinner learning the shape of your care and had finally decided he could answer it with hunger. His mouth opened beneath yours, warm and deliberate, and when your hips settled more fully over his, his breath left him hard against your lips.
Your fingers slid into his hair. His hand tightened at your hip. The other moved up your back, over the satin, steady and possessive in a way that made your whole body go soft and hot at once.
You broke away just enough to breathe. Brendon followed, catching your lower lip once between his before letting you go. Your eyes fluttered open. He was looking at you like the massage had been a mistake. Or maybe like it had worked too well.
You smiled, breathless. “Still practical?”
Brendon’s hand moved slowly up your spine. “No.”
Your stomach flipped. “No?”
His eyes stayed on yours.
“No,” Brendon said again. “Not anymore.”
The words moved through you slowly, settling somewhere low in your stomach. Brendon’s hand stayed at your back, warm over the satin, while the other held your hip with careful restraint. Too careful, maybe. His fingers flexed once, like he was reminding himself not to take over just because he wanted to.
You noticed.
You lowered your mouth to his again, softer this time, just enough to feel the shape of his breath before you pulled back.
Brendon’s eyes followed you. “What?”
You brushed your thumb along his jaw. “You’re still trying very hard to behave.”
His mouth went still. “Yes.”
The honesty made your pulse kick. You shifted over him, barely, and his hand tightened at your hip before he could stop it. Your breath caught. His eyes darkened.
“Brendon,” you said softly.
His gaze stayed locked on yours. “I know.”
You tilted your head. “Do you?”
His jaw shifted beneath your thumb. “You’re on top of me in green satin after dinner, cake, wine, and a massage.”
Heat climbed your neck.
Brendon’s voice stayed low. “Yes. I know.”
Your mouth parted, but nothing useful came out.
His thumb moved once against your hip, slow and deliberate. “Your turn to be quiet?”
You laughed under your breath, shaky and helpless. “That was rude.”
“It was accurate,” Brendon said.
You leaned down until your mouth hovered over his. “You are very difficult to take care of.”
His eyes moved over your face. “You’re doing fine.”
Your chest softened. That should not have hit you the way it did. But it did. You kissed him before he could see too much of it, and Brendon let you. More than that, he followed you into it, his mouth opening under yours, his hands holding steady at your hip and back while you set the pace. It was slow at first. Almost careful.
Until you shifted and felt him beneath you.
Really felt him.
The hard length of him pressed up against you through his jeans, unmistakable now, and your body went hot before you could stop it. Brendon went still beneath you. Not away. Not uncertain. Waiting. Giving you the second he thought you might need. That, somehow, made it worse.
You pulled back barely, your hands still braced on his chest. “Brendon.”
His eyes opened, dark and steady. “I know.”
Of course he did. Of course, he knew exactly what you had felt. You were sitting on top of him in green satin with your hands on his bare chest, and his body had finally stopped pretending this was only about tension in his shoulders.
He did not pull you down again. He did not guide your hips. He just looked up at you, jaw tight, mouth parted from kissing, eyes fixed on your face like he wanted to see every second of you realizing what your hands and mouth and care had done to him.
You shifted again before you could talk yourself out of it. Slow. Testing.
His breath left him hard.
“Oh,” you whispered.
Brendon’s hand tightened on your thigh. “Careful.”
A shaky laugh slipped out of you. “You keep saying that.”
“Because you keep needing it,” Brendon said.
Your pulse kicked. You rolled your hips again, and this time his head tipped back into the pillow like the friction had gone straight through him. That ruined you. Not because it was loud.
Because it was Brendon.
Controlled, careful, impossible Brendon, letting pleasure show on his face because you were the one giving it to him.
Your fingers curled against his chest. “You’re hard.”
His eyes opened. For a second, neither of you moved.
Then his voice came low and rough. “Yes.”
Heat rushed through you. One word. No denial. No deflection. No attempt to make it smaller. Just yes.
You shifted over him again, and the drag of him beneath you made your thighs tighten on either side of his hips. Brendon’s hands flexed, still not guiding you, still not taking, just holding on while you learned what it felt like to make him honest.
You leaned closer, your mouth hovering above his. “Because of the massage?”
His gaze dropped to your mouth. “Because of you.”
Your breath caught.
“The satin,” Brendon said, his thumb pressing once into your thigh. “Dinner. Cake. You on top of me with your hands on my back.”
Your face went hot.
His voice dropped lower. “Your mouth on my neck.”
You swallowed.
Brendon’s hand moved up your spine, slow over the satin. “You asking me to let you take care of me like you didn’t know exactly what that would do.”
Your hips moved again at the sound of his voice. His jaw flexed.
“There,” Brendon said.
Your pulse kicked hard. “There?”
His hand slid to your lower back, not pushing, just holding you where he could feel the smallest movement of your body over his. “You felt me.”
You nodded, breathless.
His eyes stayed on yours. “Now I can feel you.”
Your whole body went hot.
You kissed him because there was nothing else to do with that, and Brendon caught your mouth like he had been waiting for you to break first. His hand stayed at your lower back while the other moved slowly up your side, warm over the satin. Still restrained. Still giving you room.
You did not take it.
You rolled your hips again, and the sound he made disappeared into your mouth.
You pulled back, breathless. “You keep doing that.”
His eyes opened slowly. “Doing what?”
“Trying not to make noise,” you said.
His jaw shifted.
You smiled before you could stop yourself, soft and a little wicked. “I thought we were being honest.”
Brendon looked at you for one long second. Then his hand slid higher on your side. Your breath caught when his palm moved over the thin satin beneath your arm, then lower again, slow enough that the drag of it made your skin prickle. His eyes stayed on yours the whole time, focused and dark and too aware.
“You want honest?” Brendon asked.
You nodded.
His thumb brushed just beneath the edge of your tank.
“You’ve been killing me since you opened the door,” Brendon said.
Your breath left you.
His mouth barely moved. “Dinner did not help.”
A laugh broke out of you, shaky and surprised. “Dinner didn’t help?”
“No,” Brendon said.
His thumb slipped beneath the satin at your waist, just warm skin against warm skin now, and your smile faltered. His eyes dropped to where his hand had disappeared under the fabric. Then he went still. Completely still. You knew the second he realized. Your pulse kicked hard. Brendon’s gaze lifted back to yours, slow and lethal.
“You’re not wearing a bra,” he said.
Your face went hot. “No.”
His hand stayed where it was, fingers resting against your bare side beneath the satin. He did not immediately touch more, and somehow that made it worse. Somehow, the restraint made every inch of your skin feel awake.
“You opened the door like this,” Brendon said.
Your thighs tightened around his hips. “Yes.”
“You made me sit through dinner,” Brendon said.
You tried to smile. It came out breathless. “You liked dinner.”
“I did,” Brendon said.
His hand moved slowly upward beneath your tank, and when his palm found the bare curve of you, his composure slipped. Only a little. Only enough for his eyes to close for half a second, like he needed one private moment to survive you. When he looked at you again, he looked ruined.
“You’re dangerous,” Brendon said.
Your pulse fluttered. “Me?”
“Yes,” Brendon said.
His hand finally moved, not rough, not rushed, but certain now, cupping you through nothing but his palm and the thin fall of satin around his wrist. Your breath broke. Brendon watched your face change, and something in his own expression loosened. You shifted over him again, and his hips jerked up before he caught himself.
Your mouth fell open.
Brendon froze.
Then he exhaled hard through his nose. “Sorry.”
Your whole body softened and burned at the same time.
You leaned down until your mouth hovered over his. “Don’t apologize for wanting me.”
His hand tightened at your side. His eyes searched yours.
You touched his jaw. “I like it.”
His restraint cracked a little more. You felt it in the way his hand flexed beneath your top, in the way his breathing went uneven, in the way he looked at you like you had just handed him permission and he did not know what to do with all of it at once.
“You like it,” Brendon said.
You nodded.
His thumb moved over your skin. “This?”
Your breath shook. “Yes.”
His hips shifted beneath yours again, slower this time, controlled but deliberate, and you gasped at the drag of him against you. Brendon heard it. His eyes darkened.
“And that?” Brendon asked.
You nodded again, less steady this time. “Yes.”
His mouth almost curved.
“Good,” Brendon said.
The praise hit you so sharply that your hips moved again without permission. Brendon’s breath caught. His eyes closed for one second, and when they opened, the control in them looked thinner than before.
“Again,” Brendon said.
Your stomach flipped. You moved again. Slow. Deliberate. The hard ridge of him pressed exactly where you needed it through his jeans, and his hand under your tank tightened around your breast like he was trying to hold onto the last of himself.
You leaned forward, your lips brushing his jaw. “You’re supposed to be letting me take care of you.”
His voice came rough beside your ear. “I am.”
“You don’t look relaxed,” you whispered.
His laugh was almost silent. Almost broken.
“No,” Brendon said.
You kissed the corner of his mouth. “No?”
His other hand slid down your hip, over satin, lower, until his fingers found the loose hem of your shorts. His eyes lifted to yours. Waiting. Still asking, even when he could barely breathe evenly. Your heart turned over.
“Yes,” you whispered.
Brendon’s fingers slipped beneath the satin. He touched bare skin. Then he stopped. Your pulse pounded everywhere.
His fingers stayed high on your thigh, frozen beneath the soft fabric of your shorts, and his voice came out dangerously quiet. “No underwear?”
Your lips parted. You shook your head. For one long, suspended second, Brendon looked like a man who had been handed information he could not metabolize fast enough. Then his hand closed around your thigh.
“Fuck,” he said, low and almost reverent.
The word went straight through you. You gave him a shaky smile. “Still practical?”
Brendon looked up at you.
“No,” he said.
His thumb moved against the bare inside of your thigh, careful and devastating. “Not even close.”
You made a sound you could not swallow back. There he was. Not performing. Not managing. Not helping. Just wanting. Letting you see it. Letting you feel it.
You touched his cheek, your thumb brushing beneath his eye. “There you are.”
Brendon went still. The words hit somewhere deeper than the heat. You could tell by the way his eyes held yours, by the way his hand softened on your thigh, even though his breathing did not.
Your voice gentled. “Hi.”
For a second, he only looked at you. Then Brendon turned his face into your palm and kissed the inside of your wrist. Your heart broke open.
His voice came low against your skin. “Keep going.”
You swallowed.
“You sure?” you asked.
His eyes lifted. Honest. Wrecked. Certain.
“Yes,” Brendon said. “Please.”
The word went through you like heat.
Brendon Park did not give please away easily. He did not scatter it carelessly into a room. He used words like tools, precise and necessary, and that one landed between you with the weight of something chosen.
You stared down at him, your hand still against his face, your knees on either side of his hips, the green satin bunched high on your thighs and his hand still warm beneath the hem of your shorts.
For a second, you thought he might take it back. Not because he wanted to. Because he was Brendon, and honesty cost him more than it cost most people. But he did not take it back.
His fingers tightened on your bare thigh. “Yes.”
You leaned down and kissed him, softer than the heat deserved, and Brendon answered immediately. His mouth opened beneath yours, rougher now, less patient than before, and when your hips rolled over him again, his breath broke against your lips.
There it was.
The hard drag of him beneath you. The denim of his jeans. The thin satin between your body and his. The unbearable almost of it.
Your hands slid over his chest as you moved again, slow and deliberate, and Brendon’s head tipped back into the pillow like the friction had gone straight through him. His hand under your shorts flexed but did not move higher. His other hand held your hip, fingers digging in just enough to tell you exactly how much restraint he was spending to keep from guiding you harder against him.
You lifted your head. He looked wrecked. Quietly, of course. Still Brendon. Still controlled around the edges. But his mouth was parted, his eyes heavy, his breathing uneven in a way he could no longer hide, and every careful line of him seemed pulled tight beneath you.
Your breath caught. “Brendon.”
His eyes opened. You moved again before you could say anything else. His hips jerked up into you. Not much. Enough. The sound he made was rough and low and almost swallowed, but not fast enough. Your whole body went hot.
He froze beneath you, as if even that tiny break in control had startled him.
You cupped his jaw. “Don’t stop doing that.”
His eyes sharpened on yours.
Your thumb brushed the corner of his mouth. “I mean it.”
Brendon’s hand tightened at your hip. “You are making that difficult.”
A breathless laugh slipped out of you. “Good.”
His gaze darkened.
You rolled your hips again, slower this time, dragging yourself over him through his jeans, and Brendon’s hand left your thigh to grip the sheet beside him. The movement was immediate. Necessary. Like he had to put that hand somewhere that was not on you, or he was going to lose the last of his patience.
That did something awful to you.
You looked at his hand, knuckles tight in your sheets, then back at his face.
“Oh,” you said softly.
His jaw worked.
You smiled, but it came out shaky. “You’re really trying.”
His eyes stayed locked on yours. “Yes.”
No deflection. No denial. Just yes.
The word sat between you, rough and certain, and something in you finally stopped trying to be careful with how badly you wanted him.
You rolled your hips over him again, slower this time, dragging yourself along the hard length of him through his jeans, and Brendon’s hand tightened so hard in the sheet that his knuckles went pale. That was it. That was enough.
You sat back slightly, your hands sliding down his chest, over the firm line of his stomach, until your fingers reached the button of his jeans. Brendon’s breathing changed. You looked up at him through your lashes. He did not tell you to stop. He did not even try.
His jaw flexed once, and his voice came low. “Yes.”
You had not asked. That made it worse. Your fingers opened the button. The sound of the zipper lowering felt impossibly loud in the warm quiet of your bedroom, and Brendon’s head tipped back against the pillow like he needed somewhere to put the last of his restraint. You shifted carefully down his body, your knees sliding against the sheets as you worked his jeans lower over his hips.
Brendon lifted just enough to help. Not taking over. Just letting you. The distinction made your chest ache.
You dragged the denim down his thighs, then lower, and he kicked it the rest of the way off with less patience than he had shown all night. His underwear followed because you were done pretending this was anything but what it was, and when he was bare beneath you, hard and flushed and breathing unevenly, every thought in your head went quiet.
Brendon looked at you. Still Brendon. Still watching. Still somehow more exposed than he had been when he was lying on his stomach under your hands.
You reached for him before you could talk yourself out of it, wrapping your fingers around him and feeling the heat and weight of him in your hand.
His abdomen tightened instantly.
“Fuck,” Brendon said, low and controlled only by force.
You stroked him once, slow, watching his face. His jaw clenched.
Again, you thought. You wanted that again.
So you leaned down and licked the head of his cock.
Brendon’s hips bucked hard beneath you. The movement startled both of you. Your hand tightened gently around him as you lifted your head, your mouth already wet, your heart pounding so hard you could feel it everywhere. Brendon had gone completely still, one hand fisted in the sheet, the other hovering near your shoulder like he had almost reached for you and stopped himself at the last second.
His eyes were dark. Wrecked. Almost disbelieving.
You smiled, breathless and more confident than you felt. “Is this what you want?”
Brendon’s throat worked. For a second, he looked like the answer cost him. Then he gave it to you anyway.
“Yes,” Brendon said.
The word went through you like heat. You lowered your mouth again. This time, Brendon did not buck. Not immediately. His body went rigid beneath you instead, every muscle pulled tight while you took him between your lips and let your tongue move slowly over the sensitive head of him. His breath left him in a rough, broken sound, and your whole body responded to it.
You wanted to hear it again.
You wanted to hear everything.
You took him deeper, careful at first, learning him the same way you had learned the tension in his shoulders. Pressure. Breath. The smallest shift of his hips. The places where his hand twisted harder in the sheet. The places where his control slipped.
Brendon’s hand finally settled in your hair.
Not pushing. Not guiding. Just there. Warm and shaking slightly.
That almost ruined you.
You pulled back enough to look up at him, your hand still moving slowly around him. His eyes were on you. Of course they were.
His voice came rough. “You okay?”
Your chest softened even with him hard in your hand and your mouth wet from him. You nodded. Then you lowered your mouth again before he could ask anything else. Brendon’s head dropped back. The sound he made this time was deeper. Less controlled.
You felt it everywhere.
Your hand worked what your mouth could not take, slow and firm, and you let yourself enjoy the way he came apart by degrees. The way his breath turned uneven. The way his hand tightened in your hair and then loosened immediately, like he was reminding himself not to ask for too much. The way his hips shifted beneath you, restrained but no longer perfectly still.
You hummed around him once, just to see what he would do.
Brendon cursed under his breath.
Your thighs pressed together.
God.
You had wanted him relaxed. You had wanted him cared for. You had wanted him softened under your hands. You had not expected how badly you would want him like this, too. Bare beneath you. Trying. Failing. Yours in a way that felt less like possession and more like trust.
You pulled off him slowly, letting your tongue drag along the underside of him before your hand took over. Brendon looked down at you, his chest rising and falling harder now, his mouth parted, his eyes dark enough to make your skin prickle.
You held his gaze as you stroked him. His hand moved from your hair to your cheek, thumb brushing along the corner of your mouth.
“You look very pleased with yourself,” Brendon said.
His voice was rough enough to make the words scrape.
You smiled against his thumb. “I am.”
His mouth almost moved. Almost. Then your hand tightened slightly, and whatever he had been about to say disappeared into a low sound that made heat pool low in your stomach.
You leaned down again, but this time your mouth moved lower, kissing along him, down the length of him, over warm skin and the tense line of his thigh. Brendon’s hand went still against your cheek.
Then your tongue moved lower.
His entire body tightened.
Your name left his mouth, rough and warning and wrecked.
You looked up at him.
Brendon’s eyes were fixed on you, and his control was thinner than you had ever seen it. One hand in the sheet. One hand near your face. His body held tight beneath you like he was trying to survive the sight of you between his legs. You smiled softly. Then you licked him there too. Brendon’s head fell back against the pillow.
“Fuck,” he said again, and this time there was almost nothing controlled about it.
The sound went through you like a spark. You kept one hand wrapped around him while your mouth moved lower, slow and deliberate, kissing and licking until his breathing turned ragged above you. His thighs tensed on either side of you, and when your hand stroked him again, firmer now, his hips lifted into your touch before he could stop them.
This time, he did not apologize. Good. You did it again.
Brendon’s hand slid into your hair. Still careful. Less steady.
Your mouth returned to him, taking him between your lips again while your hand moved in a rhythm that made his breathing fall apart. He was close. You could feel it in the way his body tightened, in the way his fingers flexed against your scalp, in the way his hips stopped trying to stay perfectly still.
He was trying to let you have this. Trying to let you take care of him. Trying to let himself want it. You pulled back just enough to breathe, your hand still moving.
Brendon’s voice came low and strained. “You need to stop.”
You paused immediately and lifted your head. “Do you want me to?”
His eyes opened. Dark. Desperate. Honest.
“No,” Brendon said.
Your stomach flipped. His jaw clenched, and his hand softened in your hair as if even now, even like this, he wanted to make sure you heard the difference.
“No,” Brendon said again, rougher. “But I’m close.”
Oh.
The words hit you hard, low, and hot.
You looked at him, at the flush across his chest, the wrecked line of his mouth, the way he was looking back at you like stopping you might kill him, and letting you keep going might do the same. Your hand slowed. Then stopped.
Brendon’s breath left him in a hard, frustrated exhale.
You kissed the inside of his thigh, gentle now, almost sweet. His hand tightened once in your hair. You lifted your head, mouth swollen, pulse racing, and smiled up at him.
“Good,” you said.
Brendon stared at you. For one second, he looked ruined enough to be angry about it.
“That was cruel,” Brendon said.
You crawled slowly back up his body, letting the satin brush over his skin, letting him feel the bare heat beneath it when you settled over him again.
You looked down at him. “No.”
His hands found your hips immediately. Your breath caught. Brendon’s gaze stayed locked on yours. You lowered your mouth to his, close enough that your next words brushed his lips.
“That was me taking care of you,” you said.
His fingers tightened. His voice came rough. “Then finish it.”
The words moved through you like a command, except he had not taken anything from you. He had given it back. Your turn. Still.
You stayed over him for one breath, your mouth hovering above his, your hand braced against the warm, unsteady rise of his chest. Brendon’s hands held your hips, firm and shaking only enough for you to know how close to the edge he really was.
You had done that.
You had taken controlled, careful, impossible Brendon Park apart with your hands and your mouth, and now he was beneath you, bare and hard and looking at you like you were the only thing holding him together.
Your pulse beat everywhere.
You sat up slowly, your knees on either side of his hips, and reached for the hem of your satin tank. Brendon’s hands stilled on your thighs.
His voice came rough. “You don’t have to.”
Your chest softened even as heat moved through you. Of course he would say that. Of course even now, even like this, he would give you the room to change your mind.
“I know,” you said.
His eyes held yours. You pulled the satin over your head. For one second, Brendon did not breathe. Then his gaze moved over you, slow and controlled only because he forced it to be. The air changed under the weight of it, under the quiet devastation of being seen by him, even though he already knew what was beneath the fabric, and still looked as if the sight had ruined him all over again.
“Beautiful,” Brendon said.
The word hit you harder than it should have. Maybe because he did not make it sound decorative. He made it sound factual.
Your fingers tightened in the discarded satin before you let it fall beside the bed. “Brendon.”
His eyes lifted to yours. “What?”
You shook your head because you did not know how to explain the way he could undo you with one word while lying naked beneath you, still hard, still flushed, still breathing like you had nearly killed him and he would let you do it again.
He seemed to understand anyway.
His hand slid slowly from your thigh to your waist, skin against skin now, and his thumb moved once beneath your ribs.
You exhaled shakily.
Brendon noticed. His mouth almost curved. “There.”
Your face warmed. “Do not get smug right now.”
“I’m not,” Brendon said.
“You are,” you replied.
His thumb moved again. “A little.”
You laughed under your breath, shaky and helpless, then climbed off him long enough to stand beside the bed. Brendon’s eyes followed every movement, dark and fixed and no longer pretending not to want. You hooked your thumbs beneath the waistband of your satin shorts.
His jaw flexed.
“You already knew,” you said softly.
Brendon’s gaze lifted to yours. “Knowing is not the same as seeing.”
Your breath caught. You pushed the shorts down and stepped out of them.
Brendon’s hand tightened in the sheet. There it was again. That restraint. That effort. That quiet, brutal evidence of how badly he wanted.
For a second, you let him look.
Not because you felt brave exactly. You did not. Your pulse was racing, and your skin felt too warm, and some vulnerable part of you wanted to cover yourself even while another part of you wanted him to see every inch.
But Brendon looked at you as if there were no part of you he would not choose. Like wanting you was not a reaction he was having.
It was a fact.
His voice came low. “Come here.”
You smiled, breathless. “Impatient?”
His eyes stayed locked on yours. “Yes.”
No deflection. No denial. Just yes. You climbed back onto the bed, naked now, and settled over his hips. His hands found your waist like instinct. Skin on skin this time. No satin. No denim.
Nothing softened.
Brendon’s breath left him hard.
Your hands settled on his chest, and for a moment, neither of you moved. You could feel him against you, hot and hard between your bodies, close enough that every small shift made both of you react. His fingers pressed into your waist like he was trying to memorize the shape of you without taking control of it.
Your voice came out uneven. “Still my turn?”
Brendon’s eyes stayed on yours.
“Yes,” he said.
Your hips shifted slightly, and the head of his cock dragged against you, slick and hot enough to make your hands curl against his chest.
Brendon’s jaw clenched.
You breathed through it once, then reached between you, wrapping your hand around him again.
His eyes closed for half a second.
You stroked him once, guiding him against you, and the feel of him there made your whole body go soft and aching.
Brendon’s hand moved toward the nightstand. You caught his wrist before he could reach it. He went still beneath you, his eyes lifting to yours immediately.
“What?” Brendon asked.
Your pulse beat hard in your throat. You knew what he was reaching for. Of course, you knew. Responsible. Careful. Brendon, even like this, even wrecked beneath you, still trying to take care of you before he let himself have anything else.
Your fingers tightened gently around his wrist. “I don’t want one.”
For one second, nothing happened. Then Brendon’s face changed. Not dramatically. Not enough for anyone else to understand it. But you saw it. The way his jaw went still. The way his breathing stopped. The way his eyes darkened with something so raw and immediate that heat moved through you in a rush.
His voice came quiet. “Say that again.”
Your stomach flipped.
You leaned closer, your hand still around his wrist. “I don’t want a condom.”
Brendon’s throat worked once. “Are you sure?”
Your chest softened at the question, at the effort it cost him to ask when his hands were already tight at your waist, and his body was hard beneath yours.
“Yes,” you said. “I’m sure.”
His gaze searched yours. You let him look.
“I’m clean,” you said softly. “I’m on birth control. And I want to feel you.”
Brendon’s eyes closed. Just for a second. Like that was the thing that finished taking him apart. When he opened them again, the control was still there, but thinner now. Frayed. Held together by almost nothing.
“Jesus,” Brendon said, rough and low.
Your breath caught. His hand turned in your grip until he was holding yours instead. His thumb pressed once against your palm, grounding himself or grounding you.
Maybe both.
“You understand what that does to me,” Brendon said.
You swallowed. “I think I’m starting to.”
“No,” Brendon said.
His other hand slid up your thigh, slow and shaking only a little.
“You don’t,” he said.
The words went through you like heat. You lowered your mouth to his, close enough that your lips brushed when you spoke.
“Then show me,” you said.
Brendon’s hand tightened at your waist. For one heartbeat, he looked at you like he was still giving you time to take it back. You did not.
His voice came rough. “Still your turn?”
Your pulse stumbled. You nodded. “Still my turn.”
Brendon’s eyes stayed locked on yours.
“Then take me,” he said.
Your breath left you. You reached between your bodies again, your hand closing around him, and Brendon went perfectly still as you guided him to you. The first press of him made your whole body tense, not from fear, not from hesitation, but from the overwhelming heat of it. The intimacy. The impossible closeness. The fact that there was nothing between you now but breath and skin and the careful way Brendon watched your face like he would stop at the smallest sign that you needed him to.
You lowered yourself slowly. Just a little. His head pressed into you, and your mouth fell open. Brendon’s hands tightened at your waist. Not pulling. Not pushing.
Holding on.
Your name left his mouth, low and broken at the edges. You froze for half a second, overwhelmed by the sound.
His eyes searched yours. “Okay?”
You nodded quickly, breathless. “Yes.”
His jaw flexed. “Slow.”
You gave him a shaky smile. “I know.”
His mouth almost moved. “Do you?”
You laughed once, weakly, then sank down another inch. The laugh broke into a gasp. Brendon’s head tipped back into the pillow.
“Fuck,” he said.
It did not sound controlled this time. It sounded like you had finally found the last thread holding him together and pulled. You took him slowly, inch by inch, your hands braced against his chest while your body stretched around him. It was too much and exactly right, a slow, aching fullness that made your thighs tremble around his hips. Brendon stayed still beneath you with visible effort, his hands firm at your waist, his breathing rough and uneven.
When you finally sank all the way down, both of you stopped.
Completely. Your eyes closed.
Brendon’s hands slid up your sides, then back down to your hips, like he needed to feel the fact of you there.
“Look at me,” Brendon said.
Your eyes opened. His gaze was already on you. Wrecked. Focused. Yours.
“There,” he said, voice rough. “Stay there a second.”
Your pulse jumped. You nodded, unable to speak. For a moment, you only breathed together. His chest rose beneath your hands. Your body adjusted around him. His thumbs moved slowly at your hips, grounding, careful, almost reverent.
You looked down at him, at the flush across his chest, the parted line of his mouth, the strain in his jaw, the way he was letting you see every second of what it cost him not to move.
Your throat tightened.
“You’re really letting me,” you whispered.
Brendon’s eyes softened by almost nothing.
“Yes,” he said.
Your hips shifted slightly around him. His breath caught hard. The sound went straight through you. You did it again. Small. Testing. His hands flexed at your hips, and his eyes closed for half a second before opening again.
“Again,” Brendon said.
You lifted yourself slowly, then sank back down. The feeling stole your breath. Brendon’s too. His hands tightened at your hips, but he still did not take over. He let you find the rhythm. Let you learn the angle. Let you ride him slowly while his body went tense beneath yours and his voice turned rougher every time you moved.
“Yes,” Brendon said, strained and low. “Just like that.”
The praise went through you sharply, and your rhythm faltered. His mouth almost curved despite the wreckage in his face.
“You like that,” Brendon said.
Your face went hot. “Brendon.”
His thumb pressed into your hip. “No hiding now.”
You moved again, harder this time, just to see what it would do to him. His eyes closed. His throat worked.
“Good,” Brendon said, rougher now. “You’re doing so good.”
Your whole body clenched around him. Brendon’s hands tightened.
“Fuck,” he breathed.
There. That was the crack. Not him taking over. Not yet. Just the loss of that careful silence. The praise slipping out of him because he could not keep it back, because every slow roll of your hips was dragging more honesty out of him than the last. You braced your hands against his chest and moved again. Brendon looked up at you like he was trying to memorize the sight.
“Yes,” he said. “There. Keep doing that.”
Your breath shook. “You’re going to ruin me if you keep talking like that.”
His jaw flexed.
Then his hands slid up your sides and back down to your hips, not guiding, not forcing, but gripping like he needed something to hold on to.
“Good,” Brendon said.
You opened your mouth. Nothing came out. His eyes darkened. Your hips rolled again, and the sound that left him was too rough to hide.
You smiled despite yourself, breathless and shaky. “You’re very sure of yourself.”
“Usually,” Brendon said.
The word came out so wrecked it could undo you. You stared down at him, caught by the confession buried inside it. Usually. Not now. Not with you like this, naked over him, taking him slowly while he tried and failed to remain anything close to composed. Your expression softened. Brendon saw it immediately. His hand moved to your jaw, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth.
“Don’t get sweet on me now,” Brendon said, voice rough.
You laughed weakly. “You’re the one praising me.”
His mouth almost moved. Almost. Then you sank down again, slower, deeper, and the almost-smile disappeared completely.
“Because you’re perfect,” Brendon said.
Your breath caught. His eyes stayed locked on yours, dark and steady and fraying at the edges.
“Like that,” he said. “Exactly like that.”
The words hit low and hot, and you moved again, chasing the sound of his voice as much as the feeling. Brendon’s hands tightened at your hips, and this time, when his body lifted beneath yours, he did not stop himself completely. The thrust was small. Controlled. Enough to make your rhythm break.
You gasped. Brendon froze beneath you.
His eyes searched yours. “Okay?”
You nodded quickly, breathless. “Yes.”
His hands stayed still.
You swallowed and moved over him again. “Do it again.”
His gaze sharpened.
Your voice came softer. “Please.”
That was what did it. You felt it. The last of his restraint did not vanish, exactly. Brendon was still Brendon. He would never be careless with you. But something in him stopped holding so tightly to the idea of staying still. His hands settled more firmly on your hips.
“Hold on,” Brendon said.
Your pulse jumped. You leaned forward, your hands sliding up his chest as he lifted into you again. This time, he moved with you. Slow at first. Then deeper. More certain. His hips met yours with a controlled force that made the air leave your lungs, and his voice stayed low at your ear, rough and breaking open one word at a time.
“Yes,” Brendon said. “Good. That’s it.”
You clung to him, your face tucked near his neck as he moved beneath you, still letting you ride him, still letting you set the pace even as his restraint finally cracked enough for him to meet you there.
“You’re doing so good,” Brendon said, his mouth brushing your temple. “Taking me like that.”
Your body tightened around him. He felt it. His breath caught hard.
“There,” Brendon said, almost a groan. “That. Again.”
You moved the way he asked, and his hands gripped your hips harder, pulling you down into the next thrust just enough to make both of you lose the rhythm for a second.
Your mouth opened against his shoulder.
Brendon’s voice dropped, rough and wrecked. “Look at me.”
You lifted your head with effort. His eyes were on you, dark and focused and utterly gone in the places he usually kept locked down.
“There you are,” Brendon said.
Your chest squeezed. His thumb moved once at your hip.
“Stay with me,” he said. “Just like that.”
You tried. You really did.
But staying with him felt impossible when every part of you was already slipping. His voice was too close to your ear, rough and low and breaking open one word at a time. His hands were too firm on your hips. His body was too hot beneath yours, meeting you now, moving with you, giving you the pressure you had asked for and still somehow making it feel like he was holding himself back for your sake.
Your forehead dropped against his. “Brendon,” you breathed.
“I know,” Brendon said.
His hand left your hip. For one dizzy second, you thought he was going to slow you down. Then his fingers slipped between your bodies. Your whole body jolted. Brendon’s other arm locked around your back, keeping you close as his fingers found you, precise and devastating, rubbing you in slow, firm circles while he kept moving beneath you.
“Oh my God,” you gasped.
His jaw flexed against your cheek.
“No,” Brendon said, his voice wrecked. “Just me.”
You made a sound against his mouth, helpless and high, and his fingers kept moving like he already knew exactly what would take you apart. Maybe he did. Maybe he had been learning you all night the same way you had learned him, watching every breath, every tremble, every place your rhythm broke.
“There,” Brendon said, rough and focused. “That’s it.”
Your hands slipped against his shoulders.
He held you tighter.
The pleasure built too fast, layered over the deep drag of him inside you and the relentless pressure of his fingers between your bodies. It was too much. It was not enough. It was Brendon underneath you, around you, inside you, finally losing enough control to let you feel how badly he wanted and still steady enough to make sure you got there first.
Your hips stuttered.
Brendon felt it. His mouth brushed your temple. “Yes,” he said. “Just like that. You’re doing so good.”
That broke you.
Your whole body locked over him, pleasure snapping through you hard enough to steal the air from your lungs. You came with your face tucked against his neck, shaking and breathless, your body clenching around him while Brendon held you through every second of it.
“There you go,” Brendon said, and his voice cracked low against your skin. “That’s it.”
You clung to him, trembling. His fingers slowed, then eased away, his hand returning to your hip as your body kept pulsing around him. Brendon cursed under his breath, rough and almost broken, and the sound of it made you lift your head.
He looked ruined.
His mouth was parted. His jaw was tight. His eyes were dark and fixed on yours like he was trying to stay with you and failing by inches.
Your voice came out soft and wrecked. “Brendon.”
His hand tightened at your hip. “Can I?”
Your chest clenched at the question. Even now. Even like this.
You nodded quickly. “Yes.”
His eyes searched yours. “Yes?”
You cupped his face with one shaking hand. “Yes.”
That was all it took. Brendon’s restraint snapped quietly, devastatingly, without ever becoming careless. His hips drove up into yours, deeper now, harder, one arm locked around your back while his other hand held your hip and guided you down into every thrust. You were too sensitive, still shaking from the force of your orgasm, but the overstimulation blurred into something hot and aching and impossible as he chased the edge you had brought him to.
His forehead pressed to yours.
“Look at me,” Brendon said.
You forced your eyes open. His gaze caught yours immediately. Barely controlled.
Completely gone.
“You feel—” Brendon started, but the words broke off, his jaw clenching hard as your body tightened around him again.
You touched his cheek. “Let go.”
His eyes closed for half a second. When they opened again, there was nothing guarded left in them. He thrust up once, twice, and then his whole body went tight beneath yours. Your name left his mouth, low and wrecked, and he came hard, holding you down against him as he buried himself deep and shook through it.
The sound he made was quiet. Rough. Almost broken.
It went through you softer than the rest of it somehow.
Because he let you hear it. Because he let you feel it. Because he did not hide.
You held him through it, your fingers sliding into his hair as his body slowly softened beneath yours. His breathing came hard against your skin. His hand moved once over your back, then stilled there, heavy and warm.
For a long moment, neither of you said anything.
The room was quiet except for both of you breathing, the candle still burning low on the nightstand, the sheets twisted beneath your knees, the faint scent of cedar and amber and massage oil clinging to his skin.
Brendon’s mouth brushed your shoulder. Not quite a kiss. Almost.
You smiled weakly against his hair. “Happy birthday.”
His breath moved against your skin, something close to a laugh but too tired to become one. Then his arm tightened around you.
“Very good,” Brendon said, rough and quiet.
You lifted your head just enough to stare at him. His eyes were still closed, but his mouth almost moved. Almost.
You laughed, breathless and stunned. “That’s what you’re going with?”
Brendon opened one eye. “It was accurate,” he said.
Then his palm settled more firmly at your hip.
“I need to move you,” Brendon said, voice still low and rough.
You made a small, exhausted sound against his neck.
His hand smoothed over your back. “I know.”
You lifted your head enough to look at him. His expression had softened, but his eyes were careful again. Not distant. Just aware of you, of your body, of the way you were still trembling over him.
“Just for a second,” Brendon said.
You nodded. He helped you lift carefully, his hands steady at your waist as you eased off him. The movement made your breath catch, oversensitive and aching, and Brendon’s jaw tightened immediately.
“Easy,” he murmured.
You settled beside him with a shaky exhale, and before you could move farther away, Brendon reached for you. His arm curved around your waist and drew you back against him, your body tucked along his side, your cheek near his chest.
There. Still close. Still warm. Still him.
For a moment, neither of you spoke.
His hand moved over your back in slow, absent strokes, and your breathing began to settle by degrees. The room felt softer now, candlelight low against the walls, sheets twisted around your legs, his skin warm beneath your cheek.
Brendon’s mouth brushed your hair. This time, it was a kiss. Small. Certain.
You smiled against his chest, still too loose and shaky to lift your head fully. “That was different.”
His hand paused on your back. For a second, you felt his body go quiet beneath you in a way that had nothing to do with tension and everything to do with listening too closely.
Then his voice came low near your ear. “Bad different?”
Your chest squeezed. You lifted your head enough to look at him. His face was still flushed, his hair mussed, his mouth soft from kissing, but his eyes were careful now. Focused. Searching yours like he was bracing for an answer he did not want.
You touched his jaw. “Amazing different.”
The smallest thing in him eased. Not all the way. Enough.
His thumb moved once against your back. “Good.”
You smiled faintly. “You sound very relieved.”
“I am,” Brendon said.
Your smile softened. That honesty still got you. Every time. You let your fingers move through his hair, gentle now, and watched his eyes lower for half a second before he made himself look at you again.
“You okay?” Brendon asked.
You nodded. “Yeah.”
His gaze moved over your face. “Sore?”
“A little,” you admitted.
His jaw shifted immediately. You pressed your thumb against his chin before he could disappear into responsibility. “Good sore.”
His eyes narrowed faintly. “That’s not a medical category.”
“It is tonight,” you said.
His mouth almost moved. Almost. Then his hand slid lower on your back, careful and warm, holding you a little closer.
“Stay with me,” Brendon said.
Your breath caught softly. “I’m already here,” you said.
His eyes stayed on yours. “I know.”
There was something underneath the words. Something quieter than the heat. Something that made your chest ache.
You brushed your thumb along his jaw. “You mean like this?”
Brendon did not answer right away. Then he nodded once. “Yes.”
You softened fully against him again, your body settling along his side while his arms closed around you. His heartbeat was steady beneath your cheek, still faster than usual but calming slowly, and for a while, neither of you said anything.
Then Brendon’s voice came quiet against your hair. “I haven’t done that before.”
You went still.
He felt it immediately. His hand moved once over your spine. “Not sex.”
Your lips curved faintly against his shoulder. “I was going to ask.”
“I know,” Brendon said.
You lifted your head. “Then what?”
His eyes stayed on the ceiling for a second before coming back to yours.
“That,” Brendon said. “Letting someone have me like that.”
Your chest tightened. Brendon’s hand remained steady on your back, but you could feel the vulnerability under it. The cost of the admission. The trust in giving it to you instead of swallowing it down.
You kept your voice soft. “You mean letting me take care of you?”
His gaze held yours. “Yes,” Brendon said.
You kissed him. Not deep. Not heated. Just once, softly, because there was no other place to put what that did to you. When you pulled back, his eyes were still on you.
“I liked it,” you whispered.
His thumb moved once over your waist. “I noticed.”
You smiled. “Smug.”
“No,” Brendon said.
You raised your brows.
His mouth almost curved. “A little.”
You laughed softly, and his arms tightened around you like he liked the sound there, right against his chest.
Then his expression shifted, just enough for you to see the doctor trying to come back into the room.
You pressed your palm to his chest before he could get there. “Not yet.”
His brow moved faintly. “Not yet?”
You shook your head. “Still your turn.”
Something in his face softened. Barely. Enough. Brendon looked at you for a long second, then let his head fall back against the pillow.
“All right,” he said.
The quiet obedience of it warmed you all over. You tucked your face back into his neck. His hand resumed its slow path over your back.
And Brendon stayed.
He stayed with your face tucked into the warm line of his neck and his hand moving slowly over your back. He stayed while your breathing settled and the room softened around the edges, while the candle burned lower on the nightstand and the sheets cooled beneath your legs. He stayed until the quiet stopped feeling like something either of you had to manage.
Eventually, his mouth brushed your temple.
“We should clean up,” Brendon said.
You made a small, protesting sound against his chest. “You lasted almost three minutes before becoming responsible again.”
“Four,” Brendon said.
You laughed softly.
His hand moved over your back. “Shower.”
You lifted your head. “That sounded like a command.”
“It was a location,” Brendon said.
You shot him a look.
His mouth almost moved. “Can you stand?”
Your face warmed. “Probably.”
Brendon’s eyes narrowed faintly. You sighed. “Yes. But I am accepting assistance.”
“That’s better,” Brendon said.
“You’re very bossy after sex,” you grumbled.
His gaze stayed steady on yours. “After?”
You stared at him. Brendon’s expression did not change. Then his thumb moved once at your waist. You pointed at him weakly. “Do not start.”
He helped you sit up slowly, one hand steady at your back and the other at your hip. Your body felt loose and heavy, still tender in places that made your breath catch when you shifted. Brendon noticed every bit of it, of course he did, but this time he did not tense like he had hurt you. He only moved more carefully.
“Easy,” Brendon murmured.
“I’m okay,” you said.
His eyes flicked to yours. You softened. “I am.”
He accepted that with a small nod, then stood first and reached for you. You let him help you up because refusing would have been pointless and because, honestly, your legs were not making a compelling case for independence. The bedroom air cooled against your skin as you crossed toward the bathroom. Brendon’s hand stayed at your waist, not possessive now, not heated.
Steady.
The bathroom light felt too bright at first, and you blinked against it while Brendon turned on the shower. He tested the water with one hand, adjusting it until steam curled gently against the glass. You leaned your hip against the vanity and watched him. Focused. Practical.
Naked in your bathroom like this was normal.
Like taking care of you afterward was as natural to him as breathing. Your chest tightened.
Brendon looked over his shoulder. “What?”
You shook your head. “Nothing.”
He did not believe you. You could tell. He let it go anyway. When the water warmed, he stepped in first and held out his hand. You took it, letting him guide you under the spray. Heat rolled over your shoulders, and your eyes closed on instinct.
“Oh,” you breathed.
Brendon’s hand found your waist. “Good?”
You nodded. “Very.”
His thumb moved once against your skin. “There’s that word again.”
You opened one eye. “Do not get smug in my shower.”
His mouth almost curved. “Your shower?”
“Yes,” you said. “You are a guest.”
Brendon’s hand slid slowly along your side, warm beneath the water. “Am I?”
Your breath caught despite yourself.
His eyes dropped to your mouth, but then his expression softened into something less heated, more careful. He reached for the soap instead.
“Turn around,” Brendon said.
You gave him a look.
His brow moved faintly. “Location?”
“That was absolutely a command,” you said.
“Yes,” Brendon said.
You laughed softly and turned, letting the warm water run down your front while Brendon stood behind you. His hands were gentle when they settled on your shoulders, thumbs smoothing once over the muscles there before he worked soap between his palms.
The first pass of his hands over your back was careful enough to make your throat tighten.
Not sexual. Not clinical. Just care.
His palms moved over your shoulders, down your spine, across your ribs, slow and thorough in the way Brendon did everything. You tipped your head forward, letting the water soak through your hairline while his touch eased the last shaking tension from your body.
“You okay?” he asked quietly.
You nodded. “Yeah.”
His hands paused. You smiled faintly. “I’m not lying.”
“Good,” Brendon said.
His hands moved again, rinsing soap from your skin before he guided you gently under the water. You let yourself lean back against him for a second, your wet shoulders pressing to his chest. His arm came around your waist immediately. You closed your eyes.
“There,” he murmured.
You huffed a quiet laugh, but it faded when his hand moved lower, careful between your thighs with the washcloth. He did not make it sexual. He did not make it strange. He cleaned you with the same steady attention he had given everything else, and somehow the tenderness of it made your eyes sting more than anything heated would have.
When you shifted slightly, he stilled. “Too much?”
You shook your head. “No.”
His hand resumed, gentler than before.
Your voice came softer. “Thank you.”
Brendon’s mouth brushed your wet shoulder. “You don’t have to thank me for that.”
You opened your eyes. His hand stayed at your waist. For a moment, neither of you moved. Then you turned in his arms and reached for the soap. Brendon’s brow shifted faintly.
You smiled. “Your turn.”
His eyes held yours. The words landed differently now. Softer. Still true. He let you take the soap from him. He let you rub it between your hands.
He let you put your palms on his chest and wash the places your mouth and hands had marked earlier. You moved slowly, not because you needed to tease him now, but because you wanted him to feel every second of being cared for. His chest. His shoulders. The strong line of his arms. The back of his neck, where your fingers lingered until his eyes closed.
“There,” you whispered.
Brendon’s jaw shifted.
You smiled softly. “See? I can say it too.”
His eyes opened, warmer than before. “You’ve been saying plenty.”
Your face warmed. “Rude.”
“Accurate,” Brendon said.
You laughed and reached up, smoothing water from his hairline with your fingers. “Do you want me to wash your hair?”
His expression changed by almost nothing. Almost nothing. But you saw it. The quiet surprise. The brief, careful hesitation. The way he looked at you like the offer was too ordinary and too intimate at the same time.
“You don’t have to,” Brendon said.
“I know,” you said.
His eyes searched yours. You lifted your hand to his cheek. “I want to.”
Brendon was quiet for a second. Then he bent his head. Your chest softened so much it almost hurt.
You reached for the shampoo and worked a small amount into your hands before sliding your fingers into his hair. Brendon exhaled as your nails moved gently over his scalp, and the sound was so tired, so relieved, that you had to blink hard against the steam.
He let his forehead rest against your shoulder.
You froze for half a second. Then your hand moved more slowly through his hair.
“Oh,” you whispered.
His voice came low against your wet skin. “What?”
You swallowed. “Nothing.”
Brendon did not push. He stayed there while you washed his hair, his body heavy and warm against yours, his arms loose around your waist. For once, there was no sharp edge to his competence. No guarded distance. No careful redirection.
Just Brendon. Quiet. Wet. Warm. Letting you.
You rinsed the shampoo from his hair with gentle fingers, tipping his head back under the spray and smoothing the water away from his face. His eyes opened and found yours. Your heart turned over.
“Hi,” you said softly.
His mouth almost moved.
“Hi,” Brendon said.
You stood there for another second, water running over both of you, before the air started to cool beyond the shower’s steam and Brendon became Brendon again.
His thumb moved once at your waist. “Bed.”
You laughed. “Another location?”
“Yes,” Brendon said.
“With command energy,” you added.
“Correct,” Brendon said.
You shook your head, smiling as he turned off the water. He stepped out first and handed you a towel, then wrapped one around his waist. You dried off slowly while he watched with the kind of attention that would have made you flustered if you had the energy left for it. When you reached for your clothes, Brendon silently handed you your sleep shirt from where it had been folded near the dresser.
You glanced at him. “You found that fast.”
“I know where you keep things,” Brendon said.
You raised your brows. He paused.
Then his mouth almost moved. “Some things.”
You laughed and pulled the shirt on, warmth blooming through you at the quiet domesticity of it. Brendon stepped into his boxers, then blew out the candle on the nightstand before pulling the covers back.
You watched him for a second from beside the bed, clean and tired and still warm from the shower. “You’re very comfortable here.”
Brendon looked over at you. “Yes.”
The answer came so easily that your chest warmed.
You tried not to smile too hard. “Biscuit is going to be unbearable.”
“He already is,” Brendon said.
You laughed.
A soft scratching sound came from the bedroom door, followed by a tiny, offended chirp.
Your eyes closed. “Speak of the devil.”
Brendon looked toward the door. “He waited longer than I expected.”
“He’s been emotionally abandoned for at least an hour,” you said.
“Tragic,” Brendon said.
You went to open the bedroom door, and Biscuit immediately trotted in with the kind of urgency usually reserved for natural disasters. He stopped in the middle of the room, looked at you, looked at Brendon, then meowed like he had filed several complaints.
You crouched carefully and held out your hand. “Hi, baby.”
Biscuit sniffed your fingers, then walked directly past you toward Brendon.
Your mouth fell open. “Wow.”
Brendon looked down as Biscuit rubbed against his ankle. “Smart cat.”
You stood slowly, offended. “He is my son.”
Brendon’s eyes lifted to yours. “He has taste.”
You pointed at him. “Do not bond with him after he betrayed me.”
Biscuit chirped and jumped onto the bed.
“Unbelievable,” you said.
Brendon stepped closer, his hand sliding around your waist from behind. “He missed you.”
You looked at the cat already making biscuits on your comforter. “He has a funny way of showing it.”
“He’s five pounds,” Brendon said. “He’s doing his best.”
You turned your head to look at him. “Are you defending him right now?”
“Yes,” Brendon said.
Your mouth dropped open. “After he betrayed me?”
Brendon’s expression stayed calm. Too calm.
“He made a choice,” Brendon said.
You stared at him. Biscuit chirped from the bed.
Brendon’s thumb moved once at your waist. “Apparently he stands by it.”
You laughed despite yourself and pushed lightly at his chest. “Bed.”
His brow lifted faintly.
“To sleep,” you clarified.
His mouth almost moved. “Specific.”
“You like specific,” you said.
“I like competent,” Brendon said.
You smiled. “Then get in bed.”
That almost got you a smile. Almost.
He climbed in beside you, and you followed, wincing just a little as sore muscles reminded you exactly what the two of you had done. Brendon noticed, but this time he did not make a comment. He only settled beside you and reached for the blanket, drawing it over your body before his arm came around your waist.
You let yourself sink back into him.
His chest was warm against your back. His legs tangled carefully with yours. Biscuit circled twice near your feet before settling in a smug orange loaf at the end of the bed like he had personally approved the arrangement.
For a while, no one moved.
You listened to Brendon breathe behind you, slow and steady now, his hand resting low on your stomach beneath your sleep shirt. Not possessive. Not demanding. Just there. Your eyes grew heavy.
“Brendon?” you murmured.
His thumb moved once. “Mm.”
You smiled faintly into the pillow. “Happy birthday.”
His arm tightened around you by a fraction. For a second, he did not answer.
Then his mouth touched the back of your neck, barely there. “Thank you.”
Your chest softened. You let your hand settle over his where it rested against your stomach. “Thank you for letting me do this for you.”
Brendon went quiet behind you. Not asleep. Not distant. Just quiet in that way he got when something landed too deeply for him to answer fast. Then his fingers shifted beneath yours, threading through them slowly.
“You don’t have to thank me for that,” Brendon said.
You closed your eyes. “I know.”
His hand tightened around yours. You smiled faintly. “I wanted to.”
His breath moved against the back of your neck, slow and warm.
“So did I,” Brendon said.
The words were quiet. Almost rough. They settled over you more gently than sleep.
His mouth touched the back of your neck again. “Sleep.”
You should have teased him for the command. You should have said something about bossy surgeons or birthday boys or how Biscuit was taking up too much room for someone who did not pay rent. But Brendon was warm behind you. His hand was steady against your stomach. His breathing was slowing into sleep.
So you only closed your eyes and let yourself drift there, wrapped in clean sheets, his arms, and the quiet certainty of him across your back. At the foot of the bed, Biscuit gave one sleepy chirp. Brendon’s arm tightened around you by a fraction. You smiled into the dark.
“Goodnight, boys,” you whispered.
Brendon’s voice was rough with sleep when he answered. “Goodnight.”
Biscuit chirped again.
Brendon’s arm stayed warm and certain around your waist.
You smiled into the dark, tucked between the two of them, and let yourself believe, just for tonight, that this was what home could feel like.
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I have no words to describe how this made me feel
