Slowly, he leans into my touch, just a millimeter, like a plant seeking the sun. It’s a surrender.
I tug gently on his neck, urging him closer. He moves to follow, shifting his weight on the mattress, but then freezes. His gaze drops to the bulky ice pack wrapped in a towel and the swath of compression bandages peeking out from the neck of my T-shirt.
“I’m too heavy,” he says softly. “I’ll hurt you. Christ, Louis, you’re literally held together with tape right now.”
“I’m not made of glass,” I say, ignoring the throb in my pec that argues otherwise. I gently turn his face toward me, forcing him to look at me until our faces are so close I can feel his breath on my lips. “Just get close to me.”
He hesitates, his blue eyes wide and vulnerable, stripped of all their usual icy, detached focus, and I realize I was wrong. This isn’t about helping him deal with losing the game or providing comfort—it never was. This is about being close to him. It’s about connecting with him and tasting him and feeling his body against mine.
I pull him down and crush his mouth onto mine. He freezes for a split second before melting into the kiss. Our mouths move together urgently, until I lick at his lips and he opens for me. I push my tongue inside his mouth, and damn if he’s not the best thing I’ve ever tasted. He groans, and I swallow it down, sliding my fingers into his short hair.
“What—?” he gasps, breaking the kiss. “What is this?”
“It’s kissing,” I murmur, urging him closer and taking his mouth again. The only thing I care about is keeping his mouth against mine right now. This time, it’s my turn to moan, and his hand tightens on my uninjured bicep.
He shifts, swinging a leg over mine, and breaks our kiss, pulling back until he’s kneeling between my legs. I’m still propped up in the pillow nest he built me earlier, so I can meet his eyes without lifting my head or using any muscles in my chest.
He runs a hand through his damp, messy hair. “I’m burning up,” he mutters, plucking at the buttons of his dress shirt.
“Take it off.”
He pauses. “Are you sure?”
“I want to see you,” I say, surprising myself, because I do. I want to see him, all of him. This man who fights so hard to be perfect, stripped of his armor.
He nods jerkily, undoing the buttons with trembling fingers. He shrugs the shirt off, letting it drop to the floor.
My breath hitches. I’ve seen Tanner shirtless in the locker room a hundred times. We’re professional athletes; nudity is part of the job. But here, in the soft, low light of a hotel room, with the silence heavy between us? It’s different.
He’s leaner than me, corded with wiry muscle that looks carved from marble. His skin is flushed and slick with a sheen of sweat. Contrasted with my broken, bandaged body, he looks alive and powerful.
He looks me up and down, his gaze snagging on my waist. I’m still wearing my dress pants; I was so desperate to get ice onto my shoulder I didn’t bother to change into sweats. My hard-on is obvious through the fabric, and his tongue darts out to lick his lips, his eyes flicking back up to mine.
“What do you want, Louis?” His voice is low and husky.
“I don’t know,” I whisper truthfully. “I want to be close. Want to feel your skin against me.”
I reach for my belt with my good arm.
“No.” Tanner’s hand shoots out, grabbing my wrist in his firm grip. “Let me,” he growls. “That’s mine right now.”
His eyes burn with intensity he usually saves for the crease. He needs this. He needs to do something right, to feel confident and powerful after feeling like he failed everyone tonight.
“Okay. Show me,” I whisper, letting my hand drop.
He leans forward, and the frantic energy that was between us a few moments ago melts into something slow and deliberate. He makes quick work of my belt before slowly, carefully, dragging the fabric down, leaving me lying on the bed in nothing but my black boxer briefs. The cool air hits my skin, followed immediately by the heat of his hands as he moves them slowly up my thighs, from my knees to my hips.
He shifts backward and bends at the waist, keeping his eyes locked on mine as he lowers his face toward my groin, like he’s waiting for me to stop him. But there’s no way that’s happening.
Finally, he closes his eyes, nuzzling into the crease of my thigh, and sucks in a deep breath through his nose.
“Fuuuuck,” he groans softly. “You smell so fucking good.”
I need to touch him, so I scratch my fingernails against his scalp gently as he moves. He mouths my balls and my achingly hard shaft through the soft cotton of my underwear, and his hot breath damn near sets my entire body on fire.
He treats me like I’m something precious. Like my body is something he wants to worship.
I let out another groan, desperate for more. I’m dying to feel him against my skin with nothing between us. This over-the-underwear action is hot, but I want so much more.
