The doors began to close. With a sigh, Niklas reached for the button to open them again. I wanted to snatch his hand off the button and close my eyes, letting the rest of my senses take over. Instead, I laced his other hand in mine and walked out of the elevator, into the empty hallway.
We said nothing as we walked to the room. Niklas fumbled in his pocket to find the key to the door, but he didn’t let go of me. He opened it and walked straight over to the bed, pulling me against him again, the way we had stood in the elevator just minutes before. But the tone had shifted. His erection still pressed firmly against me—that part hadn’t changed—but the playfulness was gone.
He held me close. Didn’t move, just breathed. I reached up to touch the warm skin of his neck. I traced the muscles down as they disappeared into his shirt and then reappeared in thick ropes along his arms. His breath quickened. He reached for the hem of my tank top and lifted it over my head. He pulled his own shirt off but stopped there, bringing his hands around my waist.
“Do that again,” he whispered, “Please.”
I raised my hands to his shoulders this time, following the contours the material had hidden. My stomach rested against his, skin to skin, and I felt his hard muscles twitch. I took my time, tracing his biceps down and up again. Niklas closed his eyes and groaned. I splayed my fingers over the broad, flat muscles of his chest, over the dusting of hair, over his nipples. His hands tightened around me, and he bent down to kiss my forehead.
“Tomorrow is going to hurt,” he said, his lips brushing against me as he spoke. “And the next day. And the next.”
Dizzying heat twisted inside me, tinged with the fear of what the next day might bring. I ran my fingers along his jaw, scraping them against the dark stubble that had grown over the last days. I stroked until the lines on his forehead began to ease.
“This already hurts,” I said, pulling him closer.
He slipped his hands under the straps of my bra, pushing them out of the way as he moved his thumbs around the undersides of my breasts. He held them both in his hands, kneading and teasing.
“Good,” he whispered, a bite of anger in the word.
I opened my mouth, but the only sound that came out was a moan. Whatever I thought I would say was gone. Sensations raced through me: The rough brush of his fingers over my nipples. Firm, taut muscles under my hands. His steely erection pressing into me, stroking against me. I wanted him.
He breathed Swedish words into my skin as he kissed and nipped at my bare shoulders.
“Jag älskar dig. Jag är rädd att jag kommer alltid att älskar dig.”
I reached down to find the button of his jeans, tracing the brush of hair down his stomach. After spending every day of the summer together, I thought this burning need for him would fade. We should have moved on from this stage by now, but somehow we hadn’t. How long would it last? Would our relationship hold up if we lost this urgency?
He leaned forward into my touch, and my train of worries gave way to more immediate sensations.
I unzipped his jeans and pushed them open. I reached inside, brushing my fingers over the tip of his erection. It stretched and strained against the fabric of his boxer briefs. Niklas froze. His hands stopped, mid-caress, and tightened around my nipples. I gasped. He let go, taking a step back.
“Sorry,” he mumbled.
This wasn’t rejection, but the sting didn’t feel so much different. I dropped my hands and gave him a little room. These were his limits. When pressed to the place where his taut hold on his control threatened to snap, he backed down.
I knew somewhere inside him, frustration and hockey and fear and lust all came together in a messy mix he tried to avoid. He had told me as much one hot night in Greece after a less-than-friendly exchange with a couple of drunk men. Though he meant the conversation as a warning, I couldn’t stop myself from thinking about what it would feel like if he didn’t hold back.
But I had already pushed him far enough tonight.
Niklas stepped out of the last of his clothes and took a step toward me, sizing me up with half-lidded eyes. He knelt down in front of me and caught my hips with his hands, brushing his thumbs just under my waistband. He kissed my stomach and let his tongue trail down further. I laughed and squirmed, but he held me firmly in place.
“You get to tease me, but I don’t get to tease you?”
My voice came out in breathless pants, taking the sarcasm out of my words. His thumbs explored lower, easing my pants down over my hips, his lips following close behind.
“That’s right,” he said, his breath hot on my skin.
He took his time lowering my jeans to the floor, spreading his hands over my legs as he moved down. My body couldn’t stop responding.
“You’re shaking,” he whispered.
“Too much walking.”
Niklas chuckled.
“Is that all?”
He helped me step out of my jeans and traced a path back up my legs, his thumbs trailing along the insides. But when he reached the top, he stopped. His fingers teased the curve of my legs, and I felt the heat of his breath through my panties.
