He soaps up a loofa and begins to carefully wash me—and my impatience must show because he kisses me, and then I feel the laugh against my lips.
“Patience. I like when you smell like my soap.”
God, that’s so fucking sexy and sweet at the same time. I grab him, pulling him in for another kiss.
“There are other ways to make me smell like you.”
Thatch just ignores me, focusing on my legs and even my feet. He pauses at every bruise from the last game and the yellowing ones from the games before, his touch even softer, gentler when they cover that skin.
He can see how hard my dick is as he bends down, but he ignores it and his own.
I lean my head back, enjoying the feel of being taken care of.
“If you touch my dick, I make no promises as to how long I will last.”
I get a laugh and a kiss for that, but I can tell, even though I’ve closed my eyes, that he’s worried about something.
“I want—” Thatch begins and shifts his feet.
I wrap my arms around his neck, pulling our bodies into just enough of the spray to keep us warm.
“What is it, Gabe?” I see the wrinkle in his forehead.
“I forgot exactly how to ask a guy what they’re . . . in to.”
“In to?”
I slide my hips closer, making sure he’s aware of how much I obviously want him. Clearly, I’m into him. But otherwise, I’m lost on what he wants.
“I want—wondered if you . . .”
Watching him struggle with wanting something he can’t ask for isn’t okay with me. I grab the soap and begin slowly washing his incredible body—fit from work and an active life. His bedroom eyes are back but he quits trying to find the words. When I’m just about done, he turns the shower off and pulls me to him.
The kiss is deep. Fortifying.
“Rory,” he asks against my lips, before pulling back to look at me. “If I was to make love to you, how would you want it? Condoms or not? Would you want me inside you?”
I shiver at his words more than the cool air hitting my damp body and lay a kiss on him that should definitively answer his last question.
“I would love for you to top me, baby.” Blindly, I reach for a towel, doing the bare minimum required to dry us off, because now I’m more interested in getting him in bed than just about anything else. “I’m on PrEP. You?”
Thatcher shakes his head, following me out of the glass shower. “I don’t . . . you know, enough for that. I’ve had a checkup since my last hookup, though, and I was all clear. I just use condoms.”
I stalk him out of the en suite and to his king bed until he’s scrambling up, and I follow, walking on my knees toward him and only pausing to grab some lube from the bedside table where we have it stowed.
“What I’m hearing is that I could have you bare.”
Thatcher goes very still and his breath hitches.
“You would want that?”
“Hell yeah, I want that.”
I’ve no more said the words before I get to work prepping myself under his watchful gaze.
It turns me on. I know that I like to put on a bit of a show. Anyone who’s seen me on the ice can attest to that. Gabe’s eyes on me take that to a whole new level.
“Can I . . . ?” he asks, running his hands up my thighs. Those work-roughened hands are killing me, and I shake my head.
