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His mouth moved down my throat.
I gripped his shoulders and let my head fall back.
The ceiling tile above us had a water stain shaped like Texas, which was exactly the kind of detail my brain would choose to notice while a professional hockey player’s mouth was making a very convincing argument against higher thought.
“Focus, Cole,” I muttered.
His mouth paused against my skin.
Then he laughed.
Not much. Barely a sound. But I felt it against my collarbone, and that small break in him hit harder than another kiss would have.
I pulled him back to me.
He came willingly.
The next kiss had no patience left in it.
My body shifted toward his before I could plan it. His hands settled at my hips again, holding me with enough pressure to make the desk feel less like furniture and more like a bad decision we had both agreed to pursue. He looked down between us, expression tight, then back at me.
There was a question in his face.
There was always a question in Evan when it mattered.
I answered by pulling him closer.
He made a rough sound and pressed his forehead to mine.
For a second, neither of us moved.
That was when I felt how much he was holding back. He wanted to cross the line with me watching him do it.
The realization landed low and hot.
“Evan,” I said.
His eyes opened.
“I am not fragile.”
“I know.”
“Then stop treating me like I might break.”
His hand tightened at my hip.
“I’m not worried about you breaking.”
The room went very still.
Then I understood.
He was worried about himself.
The control. The man who had built an entire life around keeping every part of himself contained because contained things could not hurt anyone.
I touched his face.
