Page 25 of Stroke Rate

In the past, this was how Chris had taken care of his family, the way he cared for his brothers; he was their little chef. Learning at a very young age that if he didn't cook, or learn to cook, the three of them would live off of peanut butter and jelly, and the occasional undercooked box of macaroni and cheese. So after school, he would sit at the table while Harrison and Flynn did their homework, and he would watch cooking videos, asking the boys what they would like, and then figuring out what they had in the kitchen to make those meals. His parents were at least good for that. The kitchen was always stocked with food and supplies; Chris simply needed to learn how to use them.

And so began Chris’ love for cooking and being able to throw things together to make others happy. The void in him filling with every moan of pleasure, every “that's delicious” out of his family's mouth, and every small “thank you” from his little brothers. Providing food had been the only easy way he received the praise he craved, and he soaked it up like dry bread in broth.

He felt more settled knowing he was providing a welcoming home for River. Doing so made Chris feel more prepared, like he had some kind of weird food armor? Another shield to hide behind, while still providing for his man. Like here, River, look, I made you all of this food. Please stay, please love me, please don’t rip my heart out. He glanced up at River, who stood silent and stoic in his kitchen, tall and broad and as sexy as he had remembered. River was tall enough that when they stood in the driveway holding each other, Chris found shade from the high summer sun, feeling sheltered, safe, and whole. Chris sensed the same feeling as he stood taking in River’s form. He felt whole. After a month of hollow nights at the club, searching for answers, he had discovered what he was looking for. But not in pointless demonstrations or in conversations with Bran, but here, his fingers intertwined with River’s. Here, sensing the gentle heat of his skin, and seeing the genuine warmth in River’s gaze.

“I, um, I couldn't sleep last night. So I cooked. I know you brought lunch, but this is what I do.” Chris shrugged and spread his arms wide towards the mess of his kitchen, then continued rambling, “Why don't I take this?” Grabbing the bag of food from River’s hand, “and you can sit at the counter while I pick up a bit and cut these up for us?”

River released Chris’ hand, and his immediate instinct was to reclaim it, terrified that River might flee again, just as he had the night in Indianapolis. “Can I help?” River asked.

“No, it's fine, just sit and um. Why don't you tell me what you have been up to for the last month?” Chris placed his hand on the small of River’s back, the heat of his skin warm on Chris’ palm as he gave him a nudge forward. “Sit, Riv,” the nickname falling so naturally from his lips as he watched a deep red blush bloom across River’s cheeks, a blush that he had missed so much.

“Okay.” But River did not move as Chris shuffled past him into the kitchen. Chris turned, taking in the whole of River standing in his kitchen, a vision he had dreamed about but never thought would happen—enjoying the peacefulness that had settled over him.

He looked so handsome and cute, even with the uncertainty radiating off him. River played with his protruding lower lip, his eyes flicking everywhere, while a slight smile made ‌one eye crinkle. Dressed in a comfortable outfit of a tight gray t-shirt and black tapered joggers that left the bones of his ankles exposed, he made Chris's brain scramble as he suddenly needed to have him barefoot in his kitchen. The vision was almost too much to handle. You fucking weirdo, barefoot in your kitchen? What the fuck, dude? The next thing you’ll be trying to do is knock him up. Well, that was a thought. Fuck yes. River barefoot and pregnant in his kitchen, better yet River knocking me up.

He scoffed at himself, because, yeah, that was something new. The thought of River breeding him, filling his hole in the kitchen, had spit filling his mouth and blood rushing to his cock so fast he had to grip the counter, worried he might faint. Did he have a fucking breeding kink? Maybe the month at The Barn was a bad idea, filling his brain with various images of the kink he had witnessed night after night—because then all Chris could see was himself folded over the counter, and River fucking his cum into his ass, over and over.

He imagined River whispering a command to stay in his ear with a firm grip on his nape, as River stooped down to watch as his cum dripped out of Chris’ used hole, then River leaning in to lick up the mess. The visual was so clear behind Chris’ eyelids that his breathing had picked up, and his heart was hammering so hard against his chest he felt like it might punch a hole through his ribs to escape its confines.

Chris heard River clear his throat. “Chris, are you okay?” His bushy eyebrows furrowed with a distinct crease between them, like two caterpillars about to kiss.

“Yeah, yeah,” he grunted, rubbing at his eyes and shuffling further into the kitchen to adjust himself, in hopes River did not call him on the obvious situation he had in his pants and the fact that he zoned out for more minutes than was socially acceptable. “Sorry, can I get you something to drink? Iced tea, soda, Gatorade?” Chris heard himself speak, but he couldn't grasp that words were coming out of his mouth because his raging boner distracted him so much.

“Iced tea would be great. Are you sure you’re okay? You seem a bit… distracted,” River said with a huge smile spread across his gorgeous lips. Fuck, Chris wanted to hop over the counter, climb into River’s lap and eat at his mouth instead of eating these sandwiches. Chris' arousal was almost to the point of overwhelming, and the clouds of desire that had settled over his brain had him almost considering excusing himself to ‌relieve the situation in his pants. Maybe then he could have an actual conversation.

Chris exhaled a heavy breath as he squeezed his throbbing dick, trying its damnedest to push its way out from behind his zipper. “Fuck, River, I'm sorry. It's just, having you in my house is really…it's a lot. I just. I really thought I'd never see you again. You fucking ghosted me for an entire month, and now all the sudden you are here and I'm, I'm just overwhelmed. And I'm so happy, and I'm also kind of pissed, and my brain is pulling me in a million different directions.” That's what Chris said, but what he really wanted to say was that he was so fucking horny that he wanted to rub himself off on River like a cat in heat, but he didn't. Instead, he tried to be an adult and talk about his emotions…blah. Chris was going to face his fears and try not to hide behind sex and masks.

“I'm sorry,” River croaked through his whisper of a voice—that sounded so sad. Chris had a hard time holding on to anything; all he wanted to do was go over to River and take his face in his hands. To kiss his beautiful fucking face and tell him everything would be fine—even if he wasn't sure that was the truth. Chris didn't know if things would be fine, and he wasn’t sure they would figure things out. He wasn’t sure what River wanted anymore. All Chris knew was that he wanted River—he wanted River in any way he couldn't have him. He cared little whether their relationship remained purely professional or something more; he needed River’s presence because his presence fostered a sense of completeness in Chris.

“It's fine, Riv. Why don't you start with your voice? Tell me about what's going on there. We can talk about the rest later.” Chris was filled with such a whirl of emotions that he needed a minute to think. He needed River to talk and explain at least his voice, because the sound of it hurt Chris’ heart.

He cut the sandwiches and got their drinks, joining River at the kitchen island. Sitting face-to-face, legs slotted between one another, Chris soaked up the warmth of having River so close and listened to the unfamiliar voice coming out of River’s mouth. River was quiet but steady as he explained what had happened the night he left Chris without a word. Gone was the choking stutter he had in Indianapolis, and in its place was a soft, gravelly voice that almost sounded as if it hurt with every word River said. Chris sat with his hand on River’s knee as he explained his speech disorder, which had caused his speech to be so messy when they met. He listened as River explained every painful detail of what it had been like having this disorder his whole life.

He sat with rapt attention as River explained what CAS (Childhood Apraxia of Speech) was, what it looked like for him as an adult, and what it had been like as a child.

A child who was often silent, locked away in his mind, with a brain that kept his mouth and words imprisoned in a cell for which he didn't have a key. How River endured a lonely and friendless childhood, labeled the weird kid because of his lack of talking. A childhood filled with a lot of starts and stops, but filled with joy by a mother who was no longer alive. A childhood filled with summers at the lake and endless nights looking at the stars; a hard childhood, but one that made him the man he was.

A man who struggled to be patient with himself, usually failing.

River recounted the night he left Chris, haunted by deep regret. The weight of their actions and the irreversible lines they had crossed, which caused a suffocating fear, leaving River convinced running would be his only salvation. Scared that he had lost his only chance to coach again. Ashamed that he had taken advantage of Chris, and worried he might lose his ability to speak. River confessed he ran and hid, hoping Chris would forget about him and move on, “because you deserved better,” he said—and all Chris could do with that statement was pull River's quivering hand to his mouth and kiss his palm. Shaking his head in disbelief at how wrong River was, Chris felt tears well in his eyes. As River whispered his apologies over and over again, head bowed over Chris as if anointing him, he could only hold his hands tighter.

“I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry,” River chanted the words like a prayer as Chris got up and wrapped his arms around River’s neck, breathing in the spicy warm scent of snickerdoodle cookies and home, because that's exactly what being in River’s arms felt like.

Home.

Chapter twenty-two

River

River couldn’t believe what had happened. Chris had wrapped his arms around his neck and had murmured words through sniffles and tears that had dripped onto River’s shoulder, making his shirt damp as he had run his fingers through Chris’ hair, soothing him with muted sounds.

River thought Chris had whispered, "You sweet, dumb man," into his neck. Chris nestled his face so tight against River's skin that everything sounded like one long, muffled, and emotion-thick word. “Why would you think that?” he asked, pulling back and looking at River, his eyes red-rimmed and glassy, as he pursed his lips and tilted his head back and forth—looking like a curious puppy.

“Chris, I'm a mess, my speech is a mess, and I have a lot of baggage. We crossed a line we really shouldn't have, and now I'm not sure how to backtrack,” River said as he thought, and I'm really not sure I want to. “I owe you an apology. I know I've said I'm sorry, but I'm so sorry that I left you to wake up alone after we. Well, you know.” He waved his hands around. “I'm sure you woke up and felt used, like what we did meant nothing. I need you to know that it meant something. It meant so much and it rocked my world; it meant so much I didn’t know what to do with all the feelings I was having. So, I ran. Like a coward.”

“And you thought, what? You actually thought that I would just forget you and move on? That what we did meant nothing to me?” Chris pouted, his eyebrows drawn down, and River wanted to kiss that pout off his face. He restrained himself—but only just. He should try to be professional. He should hold some kind of boundary, even though it seemed impossible with Chris so close.

“I hoped?” River said it like the question it was, as he pinched his lip and placed his other hand on the small of Chris’ back, rubbing his thumb back and forth on the exposed soft skin above the waistband of Chris’ pants.