Page 69 of Ice Dance

I stepped inside. His apartment was a shambles. Clothes over almost every surface. Empty protein bar wrappers, underwear where underwear had no right to be, like on the kitchen counter. “Have you been burgled?”

“Ha, funny guy.”

Which in itself was amusing, because we both knew I wasn’t.

He winced, grabbed the pants, and tossed them somewhere no less alarming. The motion had him wincing.

“You’re not alright,” I told him.

“No, it’s just . . . all the falls, you know? Not the big one.” Shoulders rolling, he tried to work out the knots while standing in his kitchen. “If I stop for too long, everything hurts, so I don’t stop.”

I understood precisely what he meant, and without putting too much thinking into it, I stepped behind the counter, behind him, and gripped his shoulders. “This will hurt.”

“Uhm, okay?”

The balls of my thumbs went into his muscles.

He buckled. “Ow, fuck.”

“Don’t fight me.” Our hands knew each other better than we did. This wasn’t personal. More a professional courtesy.

“Oh-kay,” he replied, with more than a little trepidation, then braced one hand against the countertop as I dug into his shoulder muscles. “Okay, ow. Ouch. Does it have to be so hard?”

“Breathe. Loosen up.”

“I was loose before you showed up . . .” He breathed out and finally let his shoulders drop, then bent forward some, and moaned.

And that was probably the moment I should have considered stopping. But why would I? He needed it. I was there. Where was the harm?

“The fall was my fault,” I said.

“Yeah, no, as much as I want to hear you admit that, I came in off center, wrong edge.”

“I could have corrected—should have.”

“I shouldn’t have gotten the entry wrong to begin with. You don’t need to correct my fuckups.” A deep dig, and he grunted again, leaning further forward.

I breathed out, still working my thumbs into his shoulders, then rolled them outward from his spine. His muscles were tight, hot. Some oil would have been helpful. My gaze trailed the curve of his neck, then teased along the curls at his hairline. I wet my lips and lowered my hands, circling my thumbs down his back. I’d had my hands on him more times than most people touched their own lovers. I’d mapped his body in motion under my palms, knew every knot, every curve, every point of resistance.

But I wasn’t ever allowed to touch him outside of the dance. And when I did . . . like now . . .

I slowed, then took my hands off him. He tensed, both elbows on the counter now and turned his head, looking over his shoulder. The question was in his eyes, the same question that had been in our kiss in the rink corridor a few days ago. Did I want more?

I knew my answer, but I didn’t know how to say it.

“Put your hands on my waist,” he said, and the new authority in his voice did something illicit to my body, waking it up in ways that were not proper or correct.

I laid my hands on his waist, and at this angle, with him bent away from me, there was no stopping my thoughts from going where they pleased. He came up, straightening, presenting his shoulders to the top of my chest. I breathed out hard. He’d have heard. He was as tuned in to me as I was to him. Did he know how I ached to touch him in a way that had nothing to do with dance? Could he hear it in my breathing, perhaps even feel it in my hands? There was no hiding from this, not anymore. I didn’t want to.

He leaned back, dropped his head against my shoulder. My hands were still on his hips, still frozen with uncertainty. I could still step back, could stop this from going any further.

“God, touch me, will you?” he groaned, his voice turning rough.

The permission broke my stillness wide open. I dropped my hands down the front of his hips and jerked him back. He sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth. God, there it was. The surrender. I had him against me now, my chin tucked into the curve of his neck, his shoulders against my chest, ass against my dick. I bowed my head, skimmed my lips over the skin of his neck. He smelled like soap and shampoo, fresh and clean. His hair tickled my cheek.

He breathed faster now, expectation rising.

We had time. An hour, at least, before anyone would come looking for us.