Page 37 of The Fall
Have we done this before? Slipped into each other’s rooms on the road for pregame naps and postgame overnights? It feels right to come here. My own hotel room was achingly empty, and all I could think about, perched on the edge of my bed, was getting back to him.
The tension bleeds out of his shoulders as he smiles, that slow burn that starts in his eyes and spreads down to his mouth. That’s my smile, the one he only gives to me.
“Hey.” His voice is rough velvet. He doesn’t say a word, stepping back. I move before my brain catches up, and his hand ghosts over my lower back as I pass.
Heat radiates off him. The scent of coconut and Key lime on his skin is like summer and sunbeams and sand between my toes. He smells like home, and some jumbled-up part of me, some deep-seated instinct, is whispering, “Yes, here. With him.”
The door clicks shut behind me. It’s a usual hotel room—bed, window, bathroom—and everything is in its place: sneakers by the closet, gear against the wall. A half-empty bottle of Gatorade sits on the bedside table next to a pair of earbuds. His suit hangs in the closet, waiting for the game.
The bed is right there, and we both gravitate toward it. Blair sits first, and when I join him on the edge of the mattress, it dips under our weight like we’re sinking into each other. It’s sofamiliar, so instinctively in sync, like we’ve done this a thousand times before. Maybe we have.
I want to kiss him again. I want to tell him everything I’m feeling: how much I want this life with him, how much I want him, but I’m tongue-tied and paralyzed.
He leans back against the headboard, stretching out one long leg until it brushes mine. Our knees touch when he settles in.
It’s easy to relax with him, to fall into his orbit. We trade low-level bullshit about the team, full of quiet laughs and moments where all we do is look at each other.
“Game later.”
I smile. “We’re going to crush them.”
Blair chuckles. It’s stupid how much I love the sound of his laugh. “You mean you’re going to crush them.”
“You say that like it’s a foregone conclusion.”
“It is.” He nudges my knee. “With you on my line? We’re unstoppable.”
Our conversation flows about the upcoming game, about Coach’s pep talks, about how Axel always manages to eat three full plates at the buffet.
He angles toward me until our thighs graze together. His heat seeps into my leg like sunshine soaking into sand. He leans back on one arm, unfolding a long line along my side that holds all my attention.
In the lull between words, I study the planes of his face, the cut of his jaw, the arch of his brow. He is a sculpture come to life, hard angles and smooth curves. I need to sketch him. Those sketchbooks from our house; I’ve clearly picked it back up this year. Was he my muse?
Blair bumps his knee against mine. A quirk touches his lips. “Torey.” His voice is a caress. “What are you thinking about?”
There’s only one way to answer: “You.”
His gaze darkens, pupils dilating until only a thin ring of storm blue remains. The air changes, charged. He shifts closer, his thigh against mine.
I soak up every detail in vivid Technicolor. The play of lamplight across his face. Each slow breath, the expansion and contraction of his chest.
He ghosts his fingers over my knuckles. Blair’s hands are calloused from a lifetime of gripping a hockey stick, but they’re gentle on my skin. I crave his touch, the feeling of being anchored to him. We bring our foreheads together.
He slides his hand to the nape of my neck. The gentle pressure guides me closer until our breaths mingle. Time suspends as we hover in this moment.
“Tell me,” he says against my lips, not quite touching. “Tell me what you want.”
I close the distance, pressing my lips to his. God, his mouth feels like a homecoming, and I melt into him, boneless.
The kiss deepens slowly, like honey dripping from a spoon. His lips were made for kissing me. He traces the seam of my lips with his tongue. When I open to him, the low groan that rumbles through his chest vibrates into mine.
His hands are on my waist, pulling me closer until our bodies lock from chest to thigh. I tangle my hands in his hair; the strands are a lifeline pulling me back from some distant shore. I want this, I want him, and I want everything that comes after this kiss.
Blair’s calloused hands are gentle as he cradles my face. There’s something raw about how vulnerable he looks right now: his cheeks are flushed pink, his lips are swollen, his pupils blown wide.
“Every time,” he breathes. “Every single time, you rock my entire world.”
God, there is no part of me that isn’t his.
