Page 28 of Make Me Mean It

CHAPTER EIGHT

THEO

Connor takes his bottom lip between his teeth, worrying at it while he concentrates on keeping his balance.

I watch the skin pull beneath his teeth, already knowing exactly how it would feel beneath my thumb. Soft. Slightly damp. It would take nothing to reach up and tug it free, let my thumb sit against his mouth, and see what he would do with it.

Instead, my fingers press deeper into his hips, which does absolutely nothing to take the edge off the impulse.

“It’s like riding a bike,” I tell him, easing my grip before I leave marks.

I turn him carefully, guiding him around until his back settles against my chest and I’ve got him centred between my skates. His body presses along mine from shoulder to hip, heat bleeding easily through the thin compression shirt while my hands settle around his waist to keep him steady.

There’s no real reason to notice how well he fits there, but I do anyway, letting myself feel the weight of him against me for a moment before I shift my attention back to his skates.

“Skate.”

My eyes settle on the curve of Connor’s neck, where a fine line of goosebumps has risen beneath his hair.

He stiffens against me, the movement pressing him more firmly into my chest, and my fingers flex around his hips.

I feel every fucking inch of it.

“I’ve got you, princess, so skate,” I murmur, my mouth near enough to the back of his neck that my breath skims his skin.

The goosebumps spread.

His first push is tentative, barely enough weight behind it to catch the inside edge, and Connor immediately stiffens when his balance shifts. I keep my hands firm on his hips, letting him find it instead of correcting him, and the second push is better.

His blades start cutting cleaner lines through the ice, each stride a little less careful than the last. He’s still too stiff through his knees and thinking far too hard about something his body clearly remembers how to do, but I can feel the moment he stops fighting every shift of his weight. His shoulders loosen against my chest, his strides lengthen.

I stay with him, keeping my hands firm at his hips without doing the work for him. It would be easy enough to steer him from here, shift his weight when he gets it wrong and keep him moving exactly where I want him, but that wouldn’t teach him shit. Connor needs to find his own edges, feel when his weight sits wrong and correct it before I have to.

He’s getting there.

I feel it through my hands before I see it in his skates, the tension slowly leaving his hips as he stops trying to control every inch of the movement. His weight shifts more naturally with the next push, his body following the blade instead of bracing against it, and I loosen my grip enough to let him have it.

Then he pushes again, and his ass presses back into me.

My teeth sink into the inside of my cheek, losing track of what his skates are doing.

I drag my attention back where it belongs, following the cut of Connor’s blades across the ice instead. His stride is already cleaner than it was a minute ago, his knees finally loosening enough to let the edges do their job instead of trying to force them.

This is something I could pick apart in my fucking sleep, every mistake obvious the second the blade hits the ice, but having Connor pressed against me is making something that should be instinct require considerably more concentration than I’d like.

It takes another few strides before I realise I’m not doing anything anymore.

Connor’s carrying himself now, his blades holding steady beneath him while I’m still skating behind him with my hands on his hips.

He doesn’t need them.

I ease my palms away, keeping them close enough to catch him while Connor continues forward without seeming to notice. The next push opens a few inches between us, then another, until his back is no longer pressed along my chest and there’s cold air filling the space instead.

My skate starts forward after him, blade cutting half an inch across the ice before I stop it.

Connor keeps moving, his strides still rough around the edges, enough confidence creeping in that he’s starting to trust the blade instead of questioning every movement.

Then he starts to turn, putting too much weight through the inside edge, and I know he’s going down before Connor has any idea there’s a problem.