When We Were Still Ours – Chapter 3

In the last installment…

When We Were Still Ours – Chapter 2

In the last installment…

The House of ThorneR. Adrian Thorne ⏾⋆.˚

CHAPTER THREE: MIDMORNING DELIGHT – TRIPP

Author’s Note
This is the last free chapter in this series. The story of Tripp and Aaron will continue. But will require a paid subscription. But, since you’re already invested, I’m offering a 60% off discount that’s good for the life of your subscription and includes a price lock guarantee, so you’ll be insulated from future price increases.

THE DOOR CLOSED BEHIND me, and I just stood there for a second, blinking under the hallway lights. Everything felt off-kilter—too bright, too loud. My backpack dug into my shoulder like I’d packed bricks instead of a laptop. The midterm was over, but my brain hadn’t registered it. The questions blurred together already. I knew I’d written something. Pages, maybe. But I couldn’t remember a single thing I said.

I couldn’t even be sure if I passed or failed. I’m pretty sure I wrote something about eminent domain under a prompt about statistical modeling, and halfway through a paragraph I caught myself conflating Rawlsian distributive theory with predictive regression. Poli sci and applied math bleeding into each other like I was writing a manifesto instead of a midterm.

It wasn’t even 10 a.m. yet, and somehow I’d already taken two midterms back-to-back before most people had finished their first cup of coffee. Honestly, I’m convinced there’s a clause buried in the Geneva Convention that bans this kind of academic cruelty. If not, there should be. Some subsection about sleep deprivation and statistical abuse.

Technically, I was done for the day. I could’ve gone home. Could’ve curled up next to Aaron on the couch, watched something half-distracted, let him lean into me the way he always does when he’s trying to remind me we’re still a we. God knows he’s earned more than that—he’s been patient. More than patient. But instead of opening the app and punching in my home address, I find myself typing something else.

Union Square Park.

Here’s the thing about the park. During the day, it plays by all the rules—joggers, dog-walkers, nannies pushing strollers built like mini racecars. It’s green and predictable and almost charming, if you like that sort of thing. But at night, it shifts. Doesn’t announce it, just becomes something else. Something a little off-script. It’s not dangerous exactly, but it has that feel—like the lights never quite reach the corners, like everyone’s pretending not to notice the people who are only half-pretending to be there for the air.

And even then, there are always a few who cruise during daylight. Confident. Polished. The kind of guys who look like they just stepped out of a client meeting and decided to take a walk on the wild side. Button-ups, sleeves rolled. Leather shoes that have never seen a puddle. You can always tell the ones who know what they’re doing.

By the time the car drops me off, it’s only 10:30 a.m., and the sun’s already got that late-spring sharpness—bright but not warm, casting hard shadows that cut across the trail like slashes. The park is quiet—technically. But I know better. My people aren’t loud. They wait. They watch.

As I move through the park, I clock the usual suspects—men loitering with the kind of casual stillness that isn’t actually casual. I pass at least three of them before someone else catches my eye.

He’s standing just off the path. Navy blue khakis, light blue button-down, sleeves rolled with precision. Sunglasses, short-cropped hair, and a watch that looks like it could pay off my student loans twice over. He doesn’t glance around nervously like some of the others—he just exists there, still and sharp, like he knows exactly what he’s doing.

I glance once. Keep walking. Glance again. He’s already looking at me.

He gives a barely perceptible nod, then turns and disappears deeper into the trees.

I hesitate only a second before following.

As I step off the path, he’s already facing away from me—still, expectant. His pants are perfectly tailored, the fabric hugging the sharp lines of his ass in a way that looks both deliberate and expensive. My cock stirs instantly, like it recognizes something before I do.

He glances once over his shoulder, just enough to make eye contact. My feet crunch over a scatter of dead leaves, the sound too loud in the quiet space between us. As I draw closer, he shifts slightly—one hand trailing down to his groin, fingers pressing into the front of his pants, slow and deliberate.

The outline of his cock is unmistakable. Thick. Hard.

I step into his space and grab a fistful of his ass, squeezing through the fabric. He doesn’t flinch. Instead, his free hand slides over to me, finds my cock through my jeans, and rubs with just enough pressure to make my breath hitch.

“Damn,” he mutters, barely louder than the wind through the trees.

The thing about these encounters is that we usually don’t talk. Not before. Not during. Sometimes not even after. There’s an unspoken rhythm, a choreography built from glances and gestures, not words. Even when it ends, all we ever exchange is the vague suggestion of maybe doing it again sometime—like a ritual we both understand but don’t need to explain.

He works my belt buckle with practiced ease, fingers moving slow and steady. His shirt clings to the shape of his chest, stretched slightly where his muscles flex beneath it. The fabric pulls taut over his nipples, clearly visible through the soft cotton. I reach up and press my thumb to one, then give it a light squeeze. He moans—quiet, but immediate.

Once the belt is undone, he moves to the button, unclasps it, and slides the zipper down with the kind of confidence that comes from doing this often and well. He pulls my cock free, stroking it with a grip that’s firm but not hurried—just enough to make me twitch in his hand.

Then, without a word, he drops to a squat. One knee carefully angled against a patch of dry ground, his other foot braced so he doesn’t slip. All of it intentional. Clean. Controlled. Like everything about him.

His mouth is hot—wet and relentless as it works over the head of my cock. He wraps one hand around the base, twisting gently as he sucks, the rhythm building in tight, controlled pulses. His other hand anchors itself against the back of my thigh, fingers spread, steadying us both. I can feel the heat of his palm through my jeans where they’re still half-pushed down.

The wet sounds of his mouth—slick and obscene—mix with the shallow breaths slipping past my teeth. I let out a low grunt, and he responds with a hum around me, the vibration running straight up my spine.

He doesn’t speed up. Doesn’t need to. Every motion feels measured, almost clinical, but never cold. Focused. Like this is the only thing in the world that exists for him right now—me in his mouth, under his control.

Damn, this guy was good. Every movement of his mouth, every twist of his hand—he wasn’t guessing. He knew exactly what he was doing, like he’d memorized the way I wanted to be touched without me having to say a word. It wasn’t frantic. It wasn’t greedy. It was skilled. Intentional. Devastating.

And in the back of my mind, pulsing beneath the pleasure, was a single thought looping itself like a refrain:

Damn.

I repeat—damn.

After a few more minutes of sucking and stroking, dragging moans out of me like he was collecting them, he stood. His mouth glistened. He didn’t hesitate—just leaned in, cupped my face with both hands, and kissed me.

I used to have a rule. No kissing. Not during these kinds of encounters. Too intimate. Too risky. But I’d broken that rule so many times it had become a formality—something I told myself to maintain control I didn’t actually have.

His lips were soft but firm, parting just enough to draw me in. It wasn’t sweet. It wasn’t rough. It just was. Present. Intentional. The kind of kiss that says: I know what this is, and I’m still doing it.

He pulled away without a word. His hands moved to the hem of his shirt, tugging it slowly from where it had been tucked neatly into his belted pants. As the fabric lifted, I caught the sharp V-line of his hips, carved and visible above the waistband.

“Fuck,” I breathed. It slipped out of me without thinking.

He let the shirt hang loose but didn’t remove it. Instead, he undid his belt with one hand, then slid his pants down as he turned to face the nearest tree. The fabric slipped over his ass like water off polished stone—taut, muscled, shameless.

He spread his legs just enough to give me the full view. Bent slightly at the waist. His pants still hooked around his thighs, loose but ready to yank back up at a moment’s notice.

“You gonna fuck me,” he said, voice low, calm, like he was asking if I planned to finish what I’d started.

It was the first thing he’d said. And it hit like a match struck in the dark.

I grabbed both cheeks and squeezed, hard enough to feel the tension flex beneath my palms. His skin was hot to the touch, the muscles beneath it shifting as he braced against the tree. My cock throbbed, straining against the edge of control.

I leaned in, pressing my face between the curve of his ass, and slid my tongue over him—slow at first, just enough to taste salt and skin and heat. Then deeper.

His reaction was immediate. A sharp inhale, followed by a broken string of curses that cracked apart into moans. The kind of noise that couldn’t be faked—raw, surprised, involuntary.

I kept going, letting his moans guide me, each one sharpening the edge of my arousal. There’s something about getting a rise out of men—the way they unravel in your hands, the way control slips through their fingers—that always gets me harder. I live for that moment when they stop trying to hold it in.

I kept licking, circling him slowly, then pressed my tongue into his hole without warning. The reaction was instant—a stifled cry torn from somewhere deep in his chest, the kind of sound you try to swallow but can’t. He pushed back slightly, as if his body had made the decision before he had time to process it.

That sound. That need. It did something to me.

“Fuck! I want you inside me,” he cried out, voice cracking open with need.

I stood quickly, my breath catching somewhere between my chest and throat. My hands moved without hesitation—muscle memory by now. I reached into my pocket and pulled out a condom, tore the wrapper open with my teeth, and rolled it down over my cock. The cool air kissed the heat of me, but it barely registered.

Next came the lube, smooth and cold on my fingers. I slicked myself, slow but firm, then reached between his legs and rubbed some between his cheeks—my fingers spreading him open, coating the tight ring of muscle until it glistened.

He didn’t move. Just waited, braced and ready.

I pressed forward. One steady push. The tip of my cock met resistance, then slid past it, inch by inch, until I was buried inside him.

He let out a low, broken sound—half gasp, half moan—that echoed in the space between the trees.

I stayed there for a moment, completely still, my hands firm on his hips, letting both of us feel it.

“Fuck me like you own it!” He said.

And so I did. I fucked him with wanton disregard, without abandon—every thrust fast, deep, and deliberate. The rhythm wasn’t graceful, it was primal, driven by a hunger I hadn’t known until now. My hands locked around his hips, pulling him back into every motion, and the only thing I could hear over the slap of skin and the ragged edge of his moans was the thud of my own pulse in my ears.

He grunted, loud and guttural, as I slammed into him again, and again, the wet sounds of our bodies colliding louder now, sharper, punctuating every thrust. His voice tore through the quiet, ragged and desperate—“Fuck, just like that—fuck!”—like he couldn’t believe how good it felt and couldn’t keep it to himself. Each word was ripped from him, helpless and hungry, and it only made me fuck him harder.

He let out a long, steady moan—deep and drawn from somewhere primal. One hand stayed braced against the rough bark of the tree, but the other reached back and grabbed a handful of my ass, fingers digging in, urging me deeper. He wasn’t asking. He was anchoring himself to me.

“Harder,” he rasped, voice barely audible but heavy with need—the kind of demand that slips out when you stop thinking and just feel. It was half a breath, half a command, and it landed with full weight, punching through whatever restraint I had left. “fuck me harder!”

I didn’t hesitate. My grip tightened, and I slammed into him harder, deeper, my breath ragged as I drove forward with everything I had.

I thought to myself—how come the best sex always seemed to happen with strangers, half-dressed and half-hidden, in places no one was supposed to be? Like the middle of a woods, mid-morning, with sun breaking through the leaves and no names ever exchanged. Maybe it was the danger. Maybe the silence. Maybe it was because here, nothing had to be explained.

“You like that ass?” he asked, his voice catching, breath still ragged from the force of it all.

I didn’t answer right away. Just gripped his hips tighter, felt the heat radiating off him, the tremble still working through his thighs. My mind was a blur of sensation, but one thought cut through, clear and true, like a bell in the haze.

It was good—tight in a way that felt almost greedy around me, like his body had been waiting for this exact moment, this exact kind of taking. Just like I liked it. I didn’t say it to flatter. I said it because it was true, because the truth didn’t need dressing up out here.

“It’s nice and tight,” I said, low and breathless. “Just like I like it.”

“Good,” he said between clenched teeth, “own it.”

I kept going, hips snapping forward in time with the coiled pressure winding tighter in my gut. My whole body tensed, every nerve drawn taut like a wire about to break.

“I’m getting close,” I gritted out, breath hitching.

He must’ve felt it—heard it in my voice or read it in the way my rhythm shifted—because he let go of my ass, reached down, and grabbed his own cock. He stroked himself fast, rough, chasing it.

Seconds later, his whole body locked up.

“Fuck, I’m cumming,” he gasped, and the next moment his load shot forward, splattering across the bark of the tree in thick streaks. His moan echoed, broken and guttural, like it had been ripped from the center of him.

That did it. My edge tipped into freefall.

“Me too—” I barely got the words out before he moved. In one swift motion, he pulled off me, turned, dropped to his knees, and slid the condom off in one practiced swipe. His mouth closed around my cock just as the first pulse hit.

“Fuck,” I choked out, my hand shooting to the back of his head, not to push, just to hold. To anchor.

I came hard, hips twitching as he took every thick, shuddering rope down his throat. My vision narrowed. My breath stalled. It felt endless—like my body was trying to pour out everything I hadn’t let myself feel all week in one sudden flood.

And then, silence.

Heavy. Still. Electric.

“Holy shit,” I breathe, still catching my breath. “That was hot as fuck.”

“Good,” he replies, already pulling up his pants with the kind of casual efficiency that makes it seem like this is just another stop in his day.

I adjust my belt, the metal clasp clicking into place with a strange finality. He takes a few steps toward the path, then pauses and looks over his shoulder.

“Axel,” he says. “Don’t worry—it’s my real name.”

Something in me flinches. Not out of fear or guilt, but recognition. This isn’t supposed to have names. It isn’t supposed to have memory.

“Tripp,” I answer, before I can stop myself.

He smiles. Just a little.

“Well, Tripp… this needs to happen again.”

“Yeah,” I say coolly, pretending my pulse hasn’t just spiked.

He reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a business card. Of course he has a business card. Older guys always do—like they can’t let go of the idea that everything needs a formal exchange.

He wedges it into the crook of a tree branch and walks back toward the trail, slipping into sunlight like he hasn’t just turned me inside out.

I stand there another beat, my chest still rising too fast, the blood still rushing in my ears.

I walk past the card. Past the branch. Tell myself to leave it. Tell myself that’s the whole point—no attachments, no names.

But I stop.

Tripp, what the fuck are you doing?

My fingers close around the card before I even make the decision. Axel Clark, Equity Partner, Bristow, Benson & Knox — Attorneys at Law.

I flip it once. Then again. Slip it into my pocket like it means nothing.

Then I turn back to the trail, the trees part behind me, and I walk out of the woods without looking back.

TO BE CONTINUED…