“Jace—”
“And the worst part?” My voice cracked. “The absolute worst fucking part is that I can't even have this. Can't even haveyou. Because you're right—if anyone found out, it wouldn't just end your career. It would end mine. The media would eat us alive.' They'd make me the villain and you the predator, and we'd both be done.”
Tears were burning at the corners of my eyes, and I was so fucking tired of holding them back.
“So yeah, Coach. I know why you've been an asshole. I know why you're trying to push everyone away. I know why this can't happen.” My voice dropped to almost a whisper. “But I'm so fucking tired of pretending I don't want you. I'm tired of lying. I'm tired of being alone.”
The silence that fell was absolute.
Then he moved.
He crossed the space between us in two steps and pulled me into his arms, and I broke.
I fucking broke.
My face pressed into his shoulder and I shook with the force of everything I'd been holding back—the fear, the loneliness, the exhaustion of performing every single day of my life. His arms tightened around me, solid and warm and steady, and he didn't say anything. Didn't try to fix it. Just held me while I fell apart.
“I'm sorry,” he said finally, voice rough against my hair. “I'm so fucking sorry.”
“For what?”
“For making it worse. For thinking I could protect you by pushing you away.” His hand moved to the back of my neck, fingers threading through my hair. “You're right. You're not him. And I'm sorry I treated you like you were.”
I pulled back enough to look at him, and his face was so close I could count the grey hairs at his temples.
“This is still a mistake,” he said quietly.
“I know.”
“We could lose everything.”
“I know.”
“If anyone finds out?—”
“I know.” I met his eyes, held his gaze. “But I don't care. Not right now. Not tonight.”
His thumb brushed along my jaw, and I felt the touch everywhere. “Jace?—”
“Tell me no if you mean it,” I said, and my voice came out steadier than I felt. “Tell me no, and I'll stop. Tell me this isn't what you want, and I'll walk away.”
He stared at me for a long moment, and I watched the war play out across his face—duty against want, fear against need.
Then he said, “I can't.”
“Can't what?”
“Can't tell you no.” His voice was rough, wrecked. “I've tried. I've tried so fucking hard, and I can't.”
“Then don't.”
The space between us disappeared.
His mouth found mine, and the kiss was slow, careful, like he was giving me every chance to pull away. I didn't. I leaned into it, opened for him, let him in.
His lips were softer than I expected. Warm. The pressure was gentle at first, testing, and I felt his breath hitch when I kissed him back. My hands came up to grip his shirt, pulling him closer, and he made a sound low in his throat that went straight to my cock.
The second kiss was hungrier.
