His hand came up to cup the back of my neck, fingers threading through my hair, and he tilted my head to get a better angle. The grip was firm, possessive, like he was claiming me, and fuck if that didn't make my cock throb. His tongue traced my bottom lip and I opened for him immediately, desperate for more, desperate for everything.
The kiss deepened, turned demanding, and I could taste coffee and want and weeks of restraint finally breaking. His tongue stroked against mine, exploring, claiming, and I sucked on it—hard—just to hear the groan that vibrated through his chest into mine.
“Bed,” he muttered against my mouth, and his voice was already wrecked. Rough and low and completely gone.
“Yeah.”
We moved together, stumbling slightly because neither of us was willing to break the kiss long enough to navigate properly. His hands were on my waist, gripping hard enough to bruise, fingers digging into the muscle there, and I fucking loved it. Loved that he was losing control, loved that I could feel how much he wanted this in the way his fingers dug into my skin like he was afraid I might disappear.
The back of my legs hit the mattress and I sat, pulling him down with me. He followed, bracing himself above me with both hands on either side of my head, and for a second we just looked at each other.
His pupils were blown wide, almost swallowing the grey of his eyes. His chest was heaving, rising and falling like he'd just skated a full shift. A strand of hair had fallen across his forehead, and I reached up to brush it back without thinking.
His skin was warm under my fingers. Slightly damp.
“Last chance,” he said quietly. “We can still stop.”
“I don't want to stop.”
“Jace—”
He kissed me again, and this time there was no hesitation. No careful testing. Just raw hunger. His mouth was demanding, possessive, tongue stroking deep like he was trying to taste every part of me. I gave as good as I got—biting his lower lip hard enough to make him hiss, sucking on his tongue, swallowing the groans he made.
His hands moved under my shirt, and I arched into the touch, desperate for skin on skin. His palms were rough and warm as they slid up my sides, callused from years of gripping hockey sticks, and the texture against my skin made me shiver. He pushed the fabric higher, fingers splaying across my ribs like he was measuring me, learning the shape of me.
We broke the kiss long enough to strip the shirt over my head, and then his mouth was back on mine while his hands explored. Tracing the lines of muscle. Finding the ridges of my abs. Mapping every scar from blocked shots and high sticks.
“Fuck,” I breathed when his thumbs brushed over my nipples. The touch was light, almost accidental, but it sent electricity straight through me. “Do that again.”
He did, harder this time, rolling them between his fingers until I was gasping against his mouth. The sensation was almost too much.
“So responsive,” he muttered, and there was something almost reverent in his voice. “Christ, look at you.”
I reached for his shirt, tugging at it impatiently. “Off. Get it off.”
He pulled back just enough to yank it over his head,
I stared at his body and I wanted to put my mouth all over him.
“You're staring,” he said, and there was the faintest hint of self-consciousness in his voice.
“Yeah, I am.” I reached up and traced the line of his collarbone, felt his breath catch under my fingertips. Felt his pulse jump. “You're fucking hot, Coach.”
“Grant.” His voice was rough, scraped raw. “When we're like this, it's Grant.”
“Grant,” I repeated, testing the name on my tongue. It felt intimate. Dangerous. Right. Like crossing a line I could never uncross. “Come here.”
He lowered himself back down, and the feel of his bare chest against mine made me groan. Skin on skin, heat and pressure and the scratch of his chest hair against my smooth skin. The weight of him settling between my legs, solid and real and finally, finally mine.
I wrapped my legs around his waist and pulled him closer, rolling my hips up to grind against him.
We were both hard. I could feel the thick line of his cock pressing against mine through our pants, and the friction was almost too much and nowhere near enough. I needed more. Needed to feel him without barriers, needed to know what he felt like, what he tasted like, how he sounded when he lost control completely.
“Fuck,” he groaned, hips jerking forward involuntarily. His cock dragged against mine and we both shuddered. “You're going to kill me.”
“Good way to go.”
His laugh was breathless, almost helpless. “Greedy little shit.”
