"You're doing things with your hands that make blood leave my brain. I can't be held responsible for spatial awareness."
Adrian laughed against my throat. The vibration shivered through me.
We were about four steps in when my heel caught on my gear bag.
I went down—or would have, arms pinwheeling—except Adrian's arm shot out and caught me around the waist. He yanked me upright and against his chest in one motion. Smooth. Efficient. Almost like dancing.
"Graceful," he murmured.
"That bag is a hazard."
He catches me, I thought.Every time.
We made it to the bedroom without further incident—a minor miracle—and then his hands were under my shirt, and the thinking part of my brain started to quiet down.
Adrian undressed me like he was unwrapping something fragile.
Not careful exactly—there was urgency in it, hunger in the way his fingers worked—but deliberate.
"You're staring," I said when my shirt hit the floor.
"I'm looking."
"There's a difference?"
"With you? Yes."
His palm flattened against my chest. My heartbeat slammed against his hand.
"Your heart's racing," he observed.
"Near-death experience with a hockey bag. Adrenaline."
"Mmm." He trailed kisses down the side of my neck while I rolled my head back.
I continued to ramble about my collision with the hockey bag. "Nothing to do with feelings or—" His hand slid inside the back of my jeans, and I lost the thread entirely. "—any—fuck—"
Adrian laughed—low, warm, right against my ear. "You've never been normal about anything in your life."
"Rude. Accurate, but rude."
He kissed me again, and I stopped trying to form words.
We made it onto the bed properly—a minor logistical miracle—and then Adrian was over me, between my legs, his mouth tracing a path down my throat that made my spine arch off the mattress. He took his time with it. Collarbone. Sternum. The soft skin below my ribs, where I was embarrassingly ticklish, except when he touched it, I didn't laugh, I forgot how to breathe.
"You're very—" I started.
"Mm?"
"Thorough. You're very thorough. It's—" His tongue touched my hip bone, and my brain shorted out. "—it's a thing. That you're doing. A good thing."
"You're still talking," he observed against my skin.
"I'm always talking. It's a design flaw. You should just ignore—oh!"
He didn't ignore me. He paid attention like there was going to be a test later. When I made a sound, he repeated whatever caused it. When I tensed, he was gentler. When I grabbed his hair and pulled, he groaned in a way that made me want to do it again.
By the time he reached for the nightstand—and I thanked past-Pickle for being optimistic enough to stock it—I was already wrecked. Shaking with it. Making sounds I'd normally be embarrassed about, except Adrian was looking at me like they were exactly what he wanted to hear.
