My hand slid under the hem of his shirt to touch warm skin. The muscles of his lower back tensed under my palm, and Pickle shivered against me, rolling his hips forward.
"Off," he breathed. "Can we—I want—"
He didn't finish before he grabbed the bottom of his shirt and yanked it over his head, graceless and urgent, tossing it somewhere behind the couch. Then he tugged at mine.
"You too. Please. This is very unfair. I need to see—"
I let him undress me. He pulled the fabric up and over and away and spread his palms flat against my chest. His fingers danced across my body—light, curious, impatient—darting frommy shoulders to my stomach to my sides like he couldn't decide where they should land.
"Holy shit," he said. "Okay. Wow. I knew you'd be—but you're really—" He gestured vaguely at my torso. "This is so much better than I imagined."
"You imagined?"
"I've been imagining constantly since you got here. I have pictures of it in my mind. None of it was accurate." His hands kept moving. "You're—can I just—" He leaned down and pressed his lips to my collarbone. Then my chest. Then, lower, a trail of scattered kisses that had no pattern or logic. It was Pickle following his impulses.
"You're all over the place," I said.
He looked up at me, briefly worried. "Overdoing it?"
"No." I pulled him back up and kissed him properly. "It's very you."
"I can focus. I can be—"
"I don't want you to be anything." I cupped his face and made him look at me. "I want you."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
"Okay." He kissed me again, grinning against my mouth. "Okay. Good. Bedroom. We should—bedroom is better. More space. Horizontal possibilities."
He climbed off my lap and grabbed my hand, pulling me through the doorway. Tripped over a sneaker. Caught himself against my chest.
"Graceful," I said.
"Shut up. I'm a professional athlete. That shoe was a hazard. I should sue myself." He kicked it out of the way and kept moving. "Come on, come on—"
His bedroom was smaller than the living room and more chaotic—clothes everywhere, a hockey stick in the corner, andsheets that had been hastily straightened and were already coming untucked. Still, it was clean and smelled clean.
Pickle spun to face me, already reaching for my belt.
"Can I? Is this—"
"Yes."
His fingers worked the buckle, the button, and the zipper—fast and efficient. "I've been thinking about this. Like, a lot. An embarrassing amount. I kept getting distracted at practice. Hog asked if I was sick."
"What did you tell him?"
"That I was having a spiritual crisis. Which—honestly, wasn't untrue." He pushed my jeans down and gasped. "Oh my god. You're—this is—" He looked up at me, slightly wild-eyed. "You're really hot. I said that before, I know, but I have to say it again. For the record."
"Noted."
"Good. Okay." He hooked his thumbs into his own waistband. "My turn. Fair warning, I'm not wearing underwear, because I never wear underwear, because underwear is a scam invented by Big Fabric—"
He shoved his sweatpants down and stepped out of them, naked and flushed and completely unselfconscious.
My mouth went dry.
