Page 242 of The Fall
His skin tastes like summer. I suck a bruise into the muscle of his pec, over his left nipple.
By the time I reach where he really wants me, he’s writhing, and from the waistband of his jeans, my gaze travels up to his. He’s watching me with eyes gone black, chest heaving, bottom lip caught between his teeth. I smile slowly, then pop the button of his jeans with my teeth.
I drag his zipper down. His cock springs free; he’d gone commando. He’s gorgeous, flushed from chest to cock, precome beading at the tip. His cock strains against his stomach, and I breathe over the slick head, watching him squirm, watching his abs clench. He whimpers, hips lifting off the sheets. I shove them back down.
“Torey,” he breathes.
I hold his hips down firmly and finally, finally wrap my hand around him. He’s velvet-soft skin over iron hardness, hot enough to burn. I lick the bead of precome from his tip, savoring the salt-bitter tang, and his whole body tenses.
I take him into my mouth inch by inch. He’s thick enough to stretch my lips, long enough that I have to concentrate to take him all the way. But the sounds he makes—desperate, wrecked, completely undone—make it worth it. I hollow my cheeks and suck hard as I pull back, tongue swirling before sinking down again. He fucks my mouth with shallow thrusts and chants my name.
I lose myself in the taste and feel of him, the way his hips rock up short and sharp, the way he moans my name as he tugs my hair.
When Blair unravels, it’s art. I know the signs—the hitch in his breath, the tightening in his balls. He’s close. I take him to the root and focus on just the head, my tongue working the slit until his thighs shake.
“Fuck, Torey, I’m—I can’t?—”
I take him as deep as I can, and he comes with a shout that probably carries through the wall. His release floods my mouth, pulse after pulse that I swallow greedily, working him through it until he curls around me with a whimper.
When I finally release him and crawl back up his body, he looks devastated in the best way. Hair wild, lips bitten red, a flush painting his chest.
We lie tangled in the aftermath, my head on his chest, his lips dropping lazy kisses to my hair.
“God, Torey,” he whispers.
I turn my face into his chest, breathing in, and his arm wraps tighter around me, pulling me against his side. His breathing slows, deepens.
How is it possible for everything inside me to go quiet all at once? For every jagged edge to smooth out under the hush of his heartbeat and the heat of his skin?
The bed creaks as he shifts, but he doesn’t let me go. His thumb drifts along my jaw, gentle and aimless, and I close my eyes. The world goes dark and soft.
Let everything else fall away except for Blair’s heartbeat, steady beneath my ear.
Fifty
Hayes’s armloops around my neck before the elevator doors finish closing. His voice is victory-bright. “Damn, who are you right now? I still cannot believe how lit up you were, Kicks! You were on fire!”
We’re twenty-three hockey players drunk on victory in this cramped elevator, me pressed into the corner with Hayes heavy on my left and Hawks’s elbow digging into my ribs on the right. The guys shout over each other, replaying goals, hits, each perfect pass from Philly. Hollow’s recounting his breakaway for the third time.
Then Hayes’s grip on my shoulder shifts, and the walls feel closer than they were ten seconds ago. The wrongness hits me between the shoulder blades, like walking into your childhood home and finding the furniture rearranged by strangers.
I force oxygen into my lungs, focus on?—
Ding.
We spill out onto a Boston rooftop bar. The place is a sleek pocket of quiet wealth, low couches and glass walls that hold out the city’s smeared lights. Potted palms rustle in the breeze. Everything refracts: the sunset staining the buildings gold and rose, our reflections multiplying in windows, the harborthrowing back pieces of sky. The air tastes of salt and summer heat, grilled seafood threading through laughter. Embers pop in a nearby fire pit as the city hums its evening song, car horns and engines and distant sirens weaving.
I hang back while the guys claim tables, their backslaps and raucous voices rising across the rooftop. The view tilts; I’ve stood here before.
I grip the rail harder, let the chill of it steady me. Real metal. Real bruises from the game throbbing beneath my gear. Real sweat still cooling on my skin.
My daily déjà vu comes in softer waves now, less like drowning and more like trespassing through my own life. I think I could deal with the déjà vu if my nightmares would relax their hold on me.
“Hey.”
Blair materializes beside me, leaning back against the rail with his arms crossed. His shoulder inches toward mine, and his warmth radiates between us while memory tugs at my mind. This exact moment, this exact light?—
“Hey.” I shift closer until our shoulders touch.
