His mouth almost curved. “You came anyway.”
Because you told me to.
I didn’t say it, but he heard it. His thumb moved once along my cheekbone.
“Shirt off,” he said.
My fingers fumbled on the buttons.
“Slowly.”
A shiver moved through me. I forced myself to slow down, which was almost worse than rushing. Each button became a task. Each exposed inch of skin became something he watched. By the time the shirt hung open, my breathing was rough.
“Finish.”
I pushed it off my shoulders. It dropped behind me on the bed.
Declan’s attention moved over my chest, my scars, the rise and fall of my ribs. I expected to feel judged. Instead I felt cataloged. Kept.
He pulled his own shirt over his head.
I forgot how breathing worked.
I’d seen pieces of him before. Practice clothes, rolled sleeves, the tattoos down his forearms. This was different. His chest was broad and inked, dark lines over muscle and old scars, his shoulders big enough to make my hands flex with the need to hold on. He looked like impact. Like control built out of damage survived.
“Touch,” he said.
My palms hit his stomach first. His skin was hot. Firm. The hair low on his abdomen disappeared under the waistband of his sweats, and my eyes followed before I could stop them.
Declan caught my chin.
“Not yet.”
The words made my cock throb.
“Yes, Coach.”
His inhale changed. Not much. Enough.
He pushed me back onto the bed and came down over me, one knee between my thighs, his weight braced on one arm. When his bare chest pressed to mine, every thought I had scattered.
Skin.
His skin on mine.
I grabbed his back, fingers dragging over tattooed muscle, and kissed him hard enough that our teeth clicked. He gave me one second of it, then took control back, pinning one of my wrists above my head.
“Pace,” he said.
I let my head fall back against the mattress. “Fuck.”
“Color.”
“Green. Impatient green.”
“That isn’t a separate color.”
“It should be.”
