Page 35 of Can't Refuse Him
I guide him gently to the cardboard we laid on the pallet behind the bin; the ground is still sticky with phantom residue, but we don’t care. This isn’t about the setting. It’s about the feeling. The trust. The way his body arches into mine, seeking contact with devotion, not desperation.
My fingers trace him like a map.
I start at his ribs. Then, the curve of his hip, then up to a small scar beneath his collarbone. He flinches when I find it.
“You, ok?” I ask, pulling back my hand.
He shakes his head. “No. It’s just… no one’s ever touched me like this, or asked me that, either. I feel… desired, but not just sexually. I feel like I matter.”
My throat catches. “You matter,” I say. “You absolutely matter.”
I undress him slowly, piece by piece. No rush. No tearing. Just quiet reverence for every inch of his reclaimed skin. He watches me with eyes that sparkle, not with his Grouch magic, but with emotion. Each layer I shed isn’t just clothing. It is fear. Shame. The weight of years spent believing he is trash.
And when he is finally bare beneath me, trembling in the moonlight, he looks… free.
I let him undress me too, fumbling at first, but curious.
Gentle.
Like I am something precious, not just convenient.
“Can I touch you?” He asks.
I nod. “Yes.”
His hand slides across my chest. Down my stomach. Not with lust, but with awe. He whispers little things as he explores me with his mouth and tongue—compliments, surprises, apologies for not suggesting this sooner.
“You smell like spring.”
“It’s the lemon disinfectant-”
“No, I can smell that, but there is something else underneath it all. Your scent. Inviting. Warm like a spring afternoon.”
I kiss his wrist. “And I can feel your kindness. Bravery too, and hope.”
His eyes well up.
We move together carefully, slowly, our bodies finding rhythm not from instinct but from listening. A fingertip. A hip roll. A breath. There are no demands. Only invitations. No performance. Only presence.
He keeps checking in, asking if this feels OK, if I need more, or less, or to stop. I do the same. And every ‘yes’ is sacred. It is the opposite of what he’d told me about Mark. About all of them.
This isn’t transactional. Nor survival.
This is connection. Love.
Behind a dumpster, we finally make love for the first time; Eddy relinquishing his fears. I grip his legs up around my waist and guide my cock into him, slick with my spit. The moon watches over us like a soft voyeur, and I see his eyes roll backwards as he takes me. It is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
His breath in my ear with every thrust is just a signal of our connection growing deeper and deeper. I don’t want it to end, but my arousal had got the better of me.
Eddy reaches down and strokes himself as I thrust into him harder and faster, but in that gentle way out of love, not lust.
We finish together, breathless, hands clasped. My dick slips free, slick and heavy, saturated with warmth. The warmth of him. He leans into my neck and kisses me. I feel the last remnants of the curse dissolve like mist as the sun rises.
I glance at the bin. There’s no more arousal at the sight of trash, no more bin-slicked shame.
Just us. Oscar and Eddy.
Two broken things who have finally stopped feeling disposable.
