"You've been telling me to shut up for six years. Hasn't worked yet."
I bite the spot where her neck meets her shoulder. She arches into it, fingers digging into my back.
"Still talking," she whispers.
"Still trying."
She strips my jacket off my shoulders and yanks the shirt underneath over my head. It catches on my wrist and she rips it free. Her hands land on my bare chest.
Then she stops.
Her eyes move across the ink. The sleeve on my left arm. The script across my ribs. She has watched me from sixty feet up for four years. In warmup gear, in team polos, in the black uniform I wear like another layer of skin. She has never seen what's underneath.
Every place her eyes land, my skin pulls tight. Her eyes on me fully clothed were bad enough. With the shirt off, my ribs lock and I can't draw a full breath. Her fingers trace the line of Italian along my ribs, light, careful, and my muscles clench under her touch so hard my breath catches.
"What does it say?"
"Later."
Her sweatshirt comes off. Tank top underneath, thin, braless. The tank comes over her head and her hair falls across her bare shoulders. The kitchen light catches her skin: the dip of her collarbone, the curve of her breasts, her nipples hardening in the cool air, her pulse hammering in the hollow of her throat.
I lower my mouth to her collarbone and taste salt. She tips her head back against the wall, nails digging into my shoulders hard enough to leave crescent moons. I work my way down, mouth open against her sternum, then close over her nipple, tongue circling the peak before my teeth catch.
She hisses, fists a hand in my hair, and yanks me closer.
I do it again, harder. The moan that comes out of her vibrates through her ribcage against my lips. I switch sides. Same teeth. Same pressure. Her back arches off the wall, her hips grinding against mine.
Her hands go to my belt. She unbuckles it, clears the loops, and drops it. Her palm drags along the full length of me through my pants. My hips buck against her hand, and I press my forehead into the wall beside her head, breathing hard.
Slow and deliberate, her fingers trace the shape through denim until her hand stops.
Her palm presses harder.
The first barbell is there through the fabric. The ridge of metal where she didn't expect it. Her thumb slides up and finds the next one.
"What—"
"Later."
I undo her jeans. She shimmies them down, and I hook my fingers in the waistband, taking them the rest of the way. She kicks them off. Black cotton underwear, damp when I press my hand between her legs.
She sucks in a breath, hips tilting forward into my palm. I press harder, two fingers circling her clit through the fabric inslow, tight passes. Her thighs start shaking. I push the cotton aside, slide my fingers through the heat of her, slick and swollen, then push two fingers inside her.
The sound she makes is guttural, broken open. Her hand slams against the wall.
My fingers curl forward inside her, searching. When I find the spot, her legs buckle. I catch her with my other hand on her hip, holding her upright while I fuck her with my fingers. Slow. Deep. My thumb on her clit. Her breathing disintegrates, and her nails tear at my shoulder. I add a third finger. She clenches around me so hard my hand aches.
She's close. The fluttering. The trembling in her thighs. The helpless, furious way she grips my shoulder like she would drag me down with her if she had to.
I take my hand away.
Her eyes snap to mine. "What the fuck—"
"Not yet."
I bring my fingers to my mouth. Her taste floods my tongue. Salt and warmth. I hold her gaze while I lick them clean.
"Not standing up."
