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He tips my chin up with two fingers, and his mouth finds mine, unhurried, tasting faintly of sleep and something that is just him. I press into him and feel the shift in his breathing, the way his hands tighten at my waist. When I slide my palms down his chest, his stomach tightens beneath my fingers, the muscle jumping under my touch, and I feel him hardening against my hip.

“Hey,” he says quietly, pulling back just far enough to look at me, water streaming down his face.

“Hey,” I answer.

That is all either of us needs. He walks me back one step until my shoulders meet the cool tile, a sharp contrast to the heat of his body against my front. His mouth drops to my throat, my collarbone, moving slowly, deliberately, while his hands map the lines of me like he has nowhere else to be. His palm slides up my ribcage, his thumb grazing my nipple, and I pull in a breath at the contact, my back arching to press myself harder into his hand. He takes his time there, his thumb moving in slow circles until I feel the sensation pull tight and low in my belly.

His hand travels down, fingers trailing over my stomach, and when he presses between my thighs, I’m already slick and swollen, the heat of the shower nothing compared to the heat pooling there. He parts me slowly with two fingers, dragging them through the folds before pressing the pad of his thumb against my clit, and I bite down on my lower lip, my hips rolling into his hand without permission.

“Look at me,” he says quietly.

I lift my eyes to his face and hold his gaze as he slides one finger inside me, unhurried, feeling the way my body draws him in. My fingers curl into his shoulders. He adds a second finger, curling them forward until he finds the spot that makes my thighs tremble, and works them in a slow, deliberate rhythm, his thumb never leaving my clit. I feel the pressure building, my breath coming in short pulls, my hips moving against his hand in a rhythm I can’t control.

I reach between us and wrap my hand around his cock, feeling the weight and heat of him, the way he twitches at my grip. I stroke him slowly at first, matching the pace he’s setting with his fingers, and feel him grow harder in my hand, his hips pressing forward into my fist. His breath breaks against my temple.

“Christ,” he exhales.

I tighten my grip and stroke him faster, and his fingers respond in kind, curling deeper, his thumb pressing firmer circles until I am right at the edge, thighs clenched around his hand, a sound escaping my throat I don’t bother to suppress.

He lifts me without warning, hands firm under my thighs, and I wrap my legs around him on instinct, a short breath escaping me at the shift. My back presses fully against the tile as he positions himself, the blunt head of his cock nudging against my entrance. He holds my gaze as he presses forward, slow and deliberate, filling me inch by inch, watching my face as my mouth falls open and my eyes flutter at the stretch of him. I press my forehead against his when he is fully seated inside me, both of us still for a moment, breathing each other in.

Then he pulls back and drives forward, and I tighten my legs around his waist and hold on.

“Okay?” he asks, his voice rough.

“More than.” I manage.

He moves with the same unhurried patience, each motion rolling through me in long, deep waves that build steadily. The water drums against his back and shoulders, steam curling around us. I can feel every point of contact—his chest against mine, the tile cool at my back, his hands holding me like I am something worth holding carefully. I turn my face into his neck, lips finding his pulse, and feel him exhale sharply.

His rhythm deepens, and I tighten my legs around him in answer. The sounds of the shower blur into the background, replaced by his low, unguarded sounds close to my ear, and the soft broken ones I can’t seem to keep back myself. My fingers press into his shoulders hard enough to leave marks neither of us will mind.

When I finally come apart it is slow and total, unwinding from somewhere deep, and he follows shortly after, his forehead dropping to mine, both of us breathing ragged and still.

For a long moment neither of us moves. The water runs warm over our shoulders. He presses a single kiss to my temple, then my cheek, then the corner of my mouth.

“Still fancy,” he says finally, breathless.

I stand from the couch where I've been reading, or trying to read, and cross to meet him as he comes through the door.

"Hey," he says, dropping his bag by the entry, his hair still damp from the rink showers.

"Hey yourself."

His eyes sweep over me, lingering just enough to make my pulse quicken.

"How long do I have you?" He steps closer, fingertips brushing my jaw. "Three hours."

"Three hours," I repeat. It feels like both an eternity and nowhere near enough.

His mouth finds mine, unhurried, his lower lip dragging against mine before he deepens it, one hand sliding into my hair and the other finding the small of my back. I press into him and feel the solid warmth of his chest against mine, his fingers tightening in my hair just enough to tilt my head back.

We make it as far as the bedroom, clothes left in a trail behind us—his jacket at the door, my shirt somewhere in the hall, the rest in a heap at the foot of the bed.

When he lays me back against the sheets, he doesn't rush. He props himself over me, one forearm beside my head, and takes his time looking at me. Not performing it. Just looking, like he's making a record of something. His free hand traces from my collarbone down the center of my sternum, between my breasts, over the plane of my stomach, slow enough that my skin rises under his touch.

He dips his head and puts his mouth to my throat, open and warm, working his way down to my collarbone, my breast. His tongue circles my nipple and I arch into it, fingers curling into his hair. He takes his time there, switching between them until my hips are already shifting against nothing, restless with wanting him.

"Rez," I say.