“Hey, you made it up on your own.” I dropped my bag and crossed to him, leaning down to kiss him. “Miss me?”
“It’s been seven hours.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“Yes. I missed you. Rough game?” he asked quietly.
“Yeah.” I sat down beside him heavily.
“Étienne—”
“I don’t want to talk about it.” I kissed Marco again, harder this time. “I want to be here. With you. Want to forget about everything else.”
He understood. His hand came up to cup my face, his thumb brushing along my jaw. “Okay. We’re here. Just us.”
“Just us,” I repeated.
I stood up and changed into the sleep clothes I’d moved to Marco’s room—soft flannel pants, no shirt because thehouse was always warm. When I turned back, Marco was watching me with hooded eyes that made heat pool low in my stomach.
“What?” I asked.
“Nothing. Just… come here.”
I crossed back to the bed. He took his boot off, slid under the covers, and shifted over, making room. I climbed in beside him, the unfamiliar territory of someone else’s bed becoming familiar because it was his bed. Our bed.
He reached for me, and I went willingly, gratefully, settling against his big body with a sense of rightness that made my throat tight. His mouth found mine, and we kissed slowly, thoroughly, without the frantic urgency of earlier kisses. This was deeper. More intentional. This was us in his bed with the whole night stretched out ahead and no reason to stop, no reason to hold anything back, and the magnitude of that—the permission and promise of it—sent butterflies fluttering through my stomach.
My hand slid under his shirt, palm flat against the warm skin of his stomach. Heat radiated from him, and his muscles jumped and flexed under my touch. His breath caught against my lips. His skin was soft over hard muscle, and I traced the contours of his abs with my fingertips, feeling the line of hair that trailed down from his navel—surprisingly soft. He shivered under my touch, and his hands tightened on my waist before sliding up my sides, his callused palms rough and warm against my ribs. Every point of contact felt charged: his hard chest pressed against mine, our legs tangling together, the way his fingers traced my spine and made me arch into him. I could taste the mint of his toothpaste, feel the soft scratch of his beard, hear the way his breathing had gone ragged and uneven. My heart was pounding so hard I was sure he could feel it, and I wanted to press closer, wanted to memorize the weight of him, the heatof him, the way my body responded to his like it had been waiting for this all along.
“Okay?” I asked.
“Yeah.” His voice was rough. “More than okay.”
I explored cautiously, learning the terrain of his body through touch. Everything differed from touching women. Harder where they’d been soft. All muscle and bone and strength. His chest hair was rough under my fingers, his skin textured differently, his scent spicy instead of sweet. His body responded to my touch in ways that were new and fascinating and intensely arousing.
“Can I…” I tugged at his shirt.
He sat up enough to pull it off, and then he was bare-chested in the dim light from the bedside lamp. I’d seen him shirtless before—locker rooms, practices, the shower. But this was different. This was permission to look, to touch, to want.
I ran my hand over his chest, feeling the solid muscle, the rough hair, the differences from my own body in subtle ways. His nipples peaked under my touch and his breath hitched.
“You’re beautiful,” I said, meaning it.
“I’m not?—”
“You are.” I kissed him again, my hand still exploring. “To me, you are.”
He pulled me closer and suddenly we were pressed together, skin against skin, and the sensation was overwhelming. Different from anything I’d experienced before. The flex of firm muscles beneath my hands, the solid planes of his body, the unfamiliar angles and textures.
His hand slid down my back, fingers tracing my spine, and I shivered.
“Okay?” he asked, echoing my question from earlier.
“Yeah. Really okay.” I kissed his jaw, his neck, exploring the landscape of him. “Is this—are you okay with this?”
“Étienne, I’ve been thinking about this for days. Weeks. Years. I’m very okay with this.”
Relief flooded through me. “Okay. Good.”
