Zain felt it happen, the exact moment the training exercise stopped being an exercise and became something else. Seth's hips shifted. His fingers tightened in Zain's shirt. The sound he made, low, involuntary, pulled from somewhere deeper than speech, went through Zain like voltage.
His wrists twisted in Zain's grip, not to break free but to get closer, to arch up against him, to press their bodies together in a line of contact that went from chest to hips. Zain released his wrists and Seth's hands were immediately in his hair, pulling, dragging him down, and the sound Seth made against his mouth was the sound of a man who'd been starving for this without knowing it.
Zain's hand found the hem of Seth's shirt. Slid under. Skin: hot, damp with sweat, stretched over ribs that were still too prominent. Seth shuddered at the touch, his back arching off the mat.
"Wait. " Seth gasped.
Zain froze. Immediately. Completely. "What?"
"No, I don't mean stop, I mean. " Seth's hands tightened in his hair. "Don't be careful with me. Whatever you're holding back. Don't."
Something in Zain cracked open.
He flipped Seth over. One smooth motion, hand on his hip, body weight shifting, and Seth was face-down on the mat withZain pressed against his back. Seth's breath punched out of him. His hands scrabbled at the rubber surface.
"Hands flat," Zain said. Low. In his ear.
Seth's palms spread against the mat. His whole body was trembling.
Zain rolled his hips. Slow. Deliberate. Let Seth feel exactly how hard he was through two layers of fabric. Seth moaned, not a sound of distress but of what had been locked up too long finally finding a key.
"This is what you want?" Zain asked. His hand slid down Seth's side, over his hip, around to the front. Found him hard, straining against his sweats. "This?"
"Yes. God, yes."
"Then don't move."
He took Seth apart on that gym mat. Rough and slow and ruthlessly thorough, pulling sounds out of him that Zain would remember for the rest of his life. He stripped Seth's sweats down enough to wrap a hand around him, stroking with a grip that was just this side of too tight while his other hand pressed between Seth's shoulder blades, holding him against the mat. Seth cursed and begged and tried to push back against him, and every time he moved, Zain stopped. Held still. Waited.
"I said don't move."
"I can't. Zain. "
"You can."
Seth sobbed. Actually sobbed. And then he went still, boneless, surrendered, letting Zain set the pace. Letting someone else hold the controls.
Zain rewarded him. Stroked him faster. Bit the back of his neck, the juncture of shoulder and throat, tasting sweat and soap and the clean salt of skin. Seth came with a shout that echoed off the basement walls, his whole body convulsing, Zain's name torn out of him like something involuntary.
After, they lay on the mat. Seth on his stomach, face turned to the side, eyes glazed and half-lidded. Zain on his back beside him, staring at the water-stained ceiling, his own body still hard and aching and demanding and absolutely not relevant right now.
Seth's hand found his. Fingers interlaced. Neither of them spoke.
Then Zain stood up.
He pulled his shirt straight. Adjusted his pants. Ran a hand through his hair.
"Same time tomorrow," he said, and walked upstairs.
He didn't look back. If he looked back, he wouldn't leave. And if he didn't leave, he was going to do something stupid, like pull Seth into his arms and hold him until the trembling stopped, and then he'd have to face the fact that this wasn't just physical, and he wasn't ready for that.
Not yet.
Maybe not ever.
CHAPTER 8
The gym mat held the shape of them.
