Page 56

"Rémy—"

"Two," I murmur against his skin. "You're already ahead of schedule."

He huffs something that might be a laugh if he weren't breathing so hard.

I ease him back until he's lying against the pillows. I straddle his thighs and work his belt open slowly, giving him time to stop me. He doesn't. The button of his jeans. The zipper. I slide my hand inside and feel him already hard through the cotton of his briefs.

His hips jerk.

"Still okay?"

"Yes. Fuck. Yes."

I stroke him once, firm, over the fabric. He groans and his head tips back. I do it again, slower, watching his face. His eyes are half-closed, mouth open. The captain of the team who never looks lost is looking lost now, and it's because of me.

I peel his jeans and briefs down together. He lifts his hips to help. When he's naked from the waist down I sit back on my heels and just look at him. Thick cock, flushed dark, resting against his stomach. The rest of him is all solid muscle and old scars and the faint tan line from where his gloves stop. He's beautiful in a way that makes my chest ache.

"You can look at me the same way," I tell him. "Whenever you want."

He does. His gaze tracks over my chest, my stomach, the open fly of my jeans where I'm hard enough it hurts. I shove my own pants and underwear down and kick them off. Now we're both bare.

I climb over him again, knees outside his hips, and lower myself until our cocks slide together. The first contact is electric. Owen's hands fly up and then freeze in the air like he doesn't know if he's allowed to hold on.

"Put them on me," I say. "Wherever you want."

He settles them on my hips first, careful. I rock forward, letting our lengths drag against each other, and his grip tightens. I do it again, slower, adding a little pressure. Precome is already making it slick.

"Like this," I tell him, and I wrap one hand around both of us. My fingers don't quite close all the way; he's thick and I'm not small. I stroke us together, long and steady.

Owen's breath punches out of him.

"Rémy—"

"Three."

I keep the rhythm easy, not too fast. His hips start to move under me, small aborted thrusts like he's trying to hold back. I lean down and kiss him while I work us, and he kisses back harder this time, almost desperate. His hands slide up my back, then down to my ass, then back up again like he still can't decide.

"You can hold me tighter," I say against his mouth. "I won't break."

He does. Fingers dig into my shoulders. I stroke us faster, twisting my wrist on the upstroke the way I like it myself. His cock is hot and hard against mine, leaking steadily now. Every time the heads catch and drag, he makes a broken sound.

"I'm—Rémy, I'm close⁠—"

"I know. It's okay. Let go."

"Too fast⁠—"

"There's no too fast. Not tonight." I kiss the corner of his mouth, the scar through his eyebrow. "Come for me. I want to feel it."

He does. His whole body goes rigid under me, and he comes hard, spilling over my fist and both our cocks in thick pulses. He says my name again when it hits him—four—voice wrecked. I keep stroking us through it until he shudders and tries to twist away from the sensitivity.

I ease off, but I don't stop touching him. I smear the mess over his stomach, then take his hand and wrap it around my cock. Show him the grip I like. He looks dazed, a little embarrassed now that the urgency has broken, but he follows the motion.

"You don't have to," he starts.

"I want to. Watch."

I rock into his fist, still slick with him. It doesn't take long. I come across his stomach and chest with a groan, and he watches every second of it like he's memorizing the way I look when I fall apart.