"So pull over."
He shot me a look, half warning and half want, and I grinned at him because I could.
Red's house was in a quiet neighborhood, the kind of place where people had lawns and garages and lives that made sense. He pulled into the driveway and killed the engine, and for a moment we just sat there in the dark cab.
"I can't believe you're here," he said.
"I told you I was coming."
"I still can't believe it."
I unbuckled my seatbelt and climbed across the center console into his lap. It was graceless and awkward, my knee hitting the steering wheel, his hands grabbing my hips to steady me. But then I was straddling him in the driver's seat with my back against the dashboard, and his face was right there.
I kissed him.
It wasn't gentle. I could have him now. He was right here, warm and solid beneath me, and I was done being careful.
I fisted my hand in his hair and pulled his head back, exposing his throat. He made a sound low in his chest, and I bit down on the tendon of his neck hard enough to leave a mark. His hips jerked up against me and I ground down, letting him feel how hard I already was.
"Inside," he managed. "We should—"
"Not yet."
I rolled my hips against his and he grabbed my back, trying to pull me closer. His hands were scrambling, uncoordinated, and I liked him like this. I'd spent years watching him command a locker room, a press conference, and a defensive zone with equal ease. This was Red with all of that stripped away.
We stayed in the truck until the windows fogged and my thighs were burning from the angle and Red was shaking underneath me. I had one hand in his hair and the other pressed flat against his chest, his heart hammering against my palm. He was hard against my ass, straining against his sweatpants, and every time I shifted my weight he made a desperate sound.
"Joel," he whined. "Please take me inside." He swallowed hard. "I need you. In a bed. I can't—I need—"
I pulled back and looked at him. Pupils blown, lips swollen, throat already starting to bruise where I'd bitten him. He was wrecked, and I'd barely started.
"Okay," I said. "Let's go."
I climbed off him and got out of the truck. He sat there for a second, dazed, before he managed to open his door. His legs were unsteady when he stood.
I grabbed my bag from the back seat and followed him to the front door, and the moment he got it open I shoved him inside and pinned him against the wall.
"Call me Sparkles."
Red laughed, breathless, pinned between my body and the wall. "What?"
"You heard me." I cupped him through his jeans and his eyes lost focus. "You've been calling me that for years. So say it."
"Joel—"
"That's not my name." I squeezed him through his jeans. "Try again."
He was flushed all the way down to his collar, trying to get friction I wasn't giving him. I waited. I'd been patient for six years. I could be patient now.
"Sparkles," he said. It came out choked. "Please, Sparkles, I need—"
"Better."
I kissed him hard and started walking him backward. We hit a doorframe, a corner, something that crashed to the floor. I didn't care. Red's hands were pulling at my shirt, and I was biting his lip, and we were both breathing too hard to navigate properly.
His bedroom was at the end of the hall, a king-sized bed with rumpled sheets and morning light filtering through the curtains. I shoved him down onto the mattress and stood over him, pulling my shirt over my head.
"Strip," I said.
