Page 70 of Ice Dance

Was I really going to do this?

I brought my hands up, under his hooded top. Skin on skin. He shuddered out a breath. I needed more than this.

“Take off your top,” I told him.

He tilted forward, tore the hooded top over his head and flung it. The tight tank top underneath did nothing to hide the gorgeous musculature of his back, or the tattoos and bruises, but I wanted that fabric gone too. He didn’t wait for me to ask. It went, like the top, and I had his whole naked back to explore. I kissed over his bare shoulder, kissed the trail of stars down his shoulder blade, over a bruise, kissed lower, down his spine. Ran my tongue back up, and Navarro rolled his hips, grinding back into me.

I was hard. Had been since the massage. He felt it now.

“Damn, Hasegawa.”

“Is there a problem?” I asked, voice husky in his ear.

“Not for me.”

It occurred to me that I’d started something I wasn’t sure how to finish. I had been with men, a long time ago. Rushed, anonymous encounters. Experiments, so I’d known what I was, what I wanted, and had spent the rest of my life pushing it down, denying it existed.

It was different now, with Navarro. I was different. This wasn’t about the rush to finish. I wanted to savor him, now that I’d given myself permission. But I wasn’t sure how, when there was a part of me that also wanted to unleash on him. Two halves: the need to explore with my mouth, my touch, other parts of me; and the hunger that just wanted to be sated.

I brought him back up and rolled my hips, seeking more friction, more heat and pressure.

He reached behind him, took my hand, and planted it on his dick, then made me grind my hand down on him. He gasped, rocked, turned into a writhing thing in my arms, working his ass against me while driving himself against my hand. Whatever thoughts I had about going slow vanished, and lust took over. There’d be other times for slowness. Clearly, he didn’t want that now. I pulled my hand out from under his, but only to slide it under his waistband and get inside. I had his cock between my fingers and thumb, gathering a little slickness at the head, and worked him, answering his thrusts.

With my mouth on his neck, his racing breaths filling my head.

He pulled my hand out, breathing too fast, then turned in my hands, facing me. I caught his mouth in a kiss as his hand dropped to my fly, tugging roughly. I helped, smiling into our kiss. He swore, struggling. Then his hands were in, and on me, and I stopped smiling. He stroked, then brought his hand up and spat, then went back down. He was clearly more versed in these things than I was.

The new slickness gave his hand a silken glide as it encircled me perfectly. I clutched him close, the pair of us rocking, moving together. My mouth on his neck, then back to his lips. His hand worked faster. It was cruel, because I wanted the slowness, but also needed this faster, harder.

He shoved me back a step, and for a second I stood there, exposed, swallowing hard. His soft blue eyes peered up through dark lashes. Then he dropped to his knees, and took me between his warm, wet lips. The firm, smooth press of his talented tongue almost undid me. I tipped my head back and thrust my hands into his hair, because if I looked at him, on his knees, there . . . I wouldn’t be able to refrain.

I wasn’t far off coming anyway.

But didn’t want to end, not yet.

I pulled him up, slammed a kiss on his mouth that demanded more. He grunted, tore at my shirt, and mumbled into my mouth. “Shirt. Off. Now.”

I leaned back, unbuttoned the first few buttons, then pulled it off, over my head. He stopped and stared, panting, then gripped my hips and swooped in to kiss my chest. Teeth nipped, his tongue swept and probed. All the paths he’d felt with his hands, he traced with his mouth. We’d been set free, unfenced, to do all the things we hadn’t been allowed before. And there was so much of him I wanted to explore. A night wouldn’t be enough. A week. A month. A year. Not enough.

I couldn’t think about that. There was only now, this moment, and living, breathing, feeling in unison with a man who cracked me open and broke my barriers down so I was the freest version of myself. The real me.

Only for him.

TWENTY-SIX

CAMDEN

I kissed every inch of his chest, sucking, biting, while my hands held his hips still, held him close. He trembled. I hadn’t expected that. Hasegawa was always so cool, so calm, so controlled that I hadn’t expected him to shake.

It was like kissing a dream. A person so far beyond my reach that all of this was forbidden in ways it never had been before. He was beautiful, his strength more obvious than mine. Muscles more defined. A body that had been honed into this shape with practice since he was six years old. There was no separating Hasegawa and dance; the two things combined to make him the man he was.

And I wanted all of him, in my mouth. Couldn’t get it quick enough. If he’d turned me around and fucked me, I’d have begged him for more. But that seemed like too much, too soon. We were touching, learning, revisiting our bodies in ways that hadn’t been allowed before.

I wanted to go down again, to make him come, his hands in my hair, my knees bruised in a way that had nothing to do with falling on the ice. But he’d made it clear, he wasn’t ready for that. I’d give whatever he wanted, and take whatever he gave back. I felt blessed, felt undeserving.

He pushed me back against the kitchen counter, pinned me there with one hand, then spat into his palm. I smirked. He was a fast learner.

Those goddamn dark eyes promised wicked things, and then his grip was back on my dick, slicker now.