Page 29 of The Fall
He cradles the back of my neck and traces his thumb over my bottom lip. His hand skims down my throat to my chest. My heart stutters beneath his palm, rabbity and raw.
The first brush of his lips against mine is achingly gentle. I bring my hands up to frame his face before the kiss deepens and—oh. He drags his tongue along mine, draws me in, and the pleasure is raw as salt, as obliterating as hunger. I cling to him, knuckles white, water drowning both of us.
My fingers curl around his neck, pulling him closer, and my cock grinds against hard muscle and hot skin. He breaks the kiss, and his breath hitches, then steadies. “You come to warm me up or steal the hot water?”
I squeeze his ass. “Stealing all of you.”
He grins into my neck—light at first, then biting—behind my jaw. I close my eyes and let myself fall apart beneath his touch.
“What do you want, babe?” His voice comes out rough and wrecked already.
What do I want? Everything. I want to claw back the year I’ve lost, and I want his body to tell me who I am. I want to be whole again, more than this half-person stumbling through memories, and I want to lose myself in him until I forget that I’ve forgotten anything at all.
But how do I say that?
My mouth crashes into his instead. Blair matches me, his grip on my hips bruising. I’m so hard, and I arch into him, chasing more. “Want you.” My hands roam, rediscovering him. The taut curve at the base of his spine, the firm swell of his ass under my palms; I’m greedy for it all.
His hands map me in return, confident like he’s already charted every part of me. Have we done this so many timesthat he knows exactly how and where to linger? Maybe we have; maybe we’ve done this a hundred times, a thousand before, but for me, it’s the first time I’ve let myself crave this.
Blair’s cock grinds into my hip. God, I did this to him, and he wants me like this. I’m caught between the pull of the past and the heat of the present, between the man I was and the one I could be in his arms. I need the memories we’ve made and the ones we haven’t yet. I need all of him, in every way imaginable.
Blair slides a hand between us, taking our cocks in his fist. It’s obscene, it’s filthy, it’s everything I need and more, hot and tight and wet. Each stroke builds a white-hot thread inside me. I’m his; I’m completely his.
“Blair—” His name breaks apart in my mouth.
“I’ve got you.” The words rumble against my neck. “Always got you.”
He brushes his thumb over the head of our cocks, a perfect, too-perfect pressure, and my world shatters. I shudder and clench and come so hard stars burst behind my eyelids. It’s a ruinous wave, pulling me under, and I cling to him. Blair goes rigid against me, his release triggered by mine. I hold him close as we ride out the aftermath.
Then there’s nothing but the sound of our breathing and the water coming down around us. Blair looks so fucking happy, like he has everything he’s ever wanted in his life right in front of him.
His lips brush my temple. I don’t remember loving him, but like this, with his heart thudding against mine, I can’t imagine not.
“You’re supposed to be resting,” he says.
“I am resting. With you.”
His laugh rumbles through me as he pulls me closer. “So much for concussion protocol.” His lips quirk into a smile against my cheek. “I hope Doc clears you this morning.”
“I’m fine.”
I’ll need to face Dr. Lin again today and convince her that everything is good, that everything is normal, and I’m normal. I’m in far too deep now to admit that I can’t remember a thing. The only way forward here is straight through.
“Well then, let’s get you checked out and cleared.” He reaches for the shampoo and starts washing my hair. “We need our Kicks back for this roadie. Gotta seal the deal.”
Right. Playoffs. There are two more weeks to go in the regular season, and the Mutineers are pushing for the playoffs for the first time in years, thanks in large part to Blair and me.
It’s time to live my life.
Seven
“Kicks, catch!”
I snag the flying protein bar out of reflex. Hollow grins from across the lounge, already tearing into his own. He catches my eye and winks. My stomach twists. Is this something we do?
Our lounge in the private terminal at Tampa’s airport buzzes; preflight energy hums as my teammates sprawl across leather chairs and couches. Floor-to-ceiling windows frame the tarmac, where the pilot is on his final walk-around, moving into and out of shadows.
A phone chimes. Someone curses. The air is charged, a mix of pregame jitters and road trip excitement. Svoboda’s sprawled, long limbs akimbo, snoring softly. How he sleeps through Novak and Fischer’s heated FIFA battle on their phones is beyond me. Their trash talk flies back and forth in a mix of German and Czech. Mikko rolls his eyes.
