He grabbed my hand and pulled me through the crowd, laughingthe whole time, shushing me every time I laughed too loud. Which made me laugh louder. Which made him grip my hand tighter and hissRhys,I mean itwhile clearly not meaning it at all because he was grinning the entire time.
Up the stairs. Down a hall. First empty room he found.
He pulled me in and closed the door and the party noise dropped to a muffled thud and it was just us and the dark and his hands finding my face immediately, mouth on mine before my eyes even adjusted.
He was different when we were drunk. Freer. Less careful. He kissed me like he wasn't thinking about anything except the kissing, slow and deep, one hand sliding into my hair and the other pressed flat against the door beside my head. I grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled him in closer and felt him smile against my mouth.
"God." He pulled back enough to look at me, eyes ravenous, slightly unfocused in the best way. "You're so fucking hot. Do you have any idea how hard it is to concentrate at practice?"
"Do you think it's easy for me?" I pulled him back in. "You literally yell at me during drills and I find it so hot. It's a real problem, Marcus—"
He laughed into my neck and then bit down lightly, which effectively ended that sentence. I tipped my head back and his mouth traveled up my throat, taking his time the way he always did when he wanted to take me apart properly.
I had my hands in his hair. He had me pressed against the door. He kissed my neck. The corner of my mouth. Then back to my lips, voracious that time, eating me alive, the patience dissolving with every touch of our lips.
"I want you," he murmured against my mouth. "Right here. Right now."
"Marcus. That's a fucking terrible idea."
"I know." He kissed me harder. "But I really don't care."
"We're at a party with everyone—"
"Nobody's coming up here." Low. Right against my skin in between kisses. "Please, baby. I need you."
Every coherent thought I had. Gone.
"Fine." I pulled him back up to my mouth, kissing him once more, deep, before I reached down for my belt. "Help me, it's stuck—"
The door opened.
Light from the hallway cut in — sharp and sudden, a narrow cone of it landing directly on us, illuminating everything. Me with my hands at my belt. Marcus right there. Both of us frozen.
One second of complete stillness.
Then a voice. Tommy, one of the wingers, and someone shadowed behind him in the doorway.
"Marcus? Is that — what are you—"
"Fuck."
Not my voice. Marcus.
His hands shoved me. Hard. Both palms flat against my chest, pushing me back so fast I stumbled, catching myself against the wall. By the time I looked up he was already moving — three steps, four, to the door, putting the entire room between us in under a second.
The door slammed.
The sound of it cracked through the room.
Then silence.
I stood in the dark with my back against the wall and my belt half undone and the place on my chest where his hands had been still warm from his touch. I heard his voice in the hall. Muffled through the door. Calm. Easy. Already managing it, already building the story, already putting distance between himself and what Tommy had just seen.
I didn't move for a long time.
Just stood there in the dark while the party went on below us and Marcus's voice got further away and something cold settled into my chest.
Not panic.
