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“Have any plans for the evening?” I ask, like the weak bastard that I am.
“Sure do,” he says, cheekily. “Same plans as you, in fact.”
With that, he sets off around the rink. Fixing my eyes on his wide back, I follow. I’m grateful that I don’t have to walk next to him, for once, and fixate on whether or not I’ll run into a wall. With him directly in front, I can treat him like a seeing eye dog and just follow along in his wake. Once we step through the exit, door held for me by Anthony, he falls into step beside me. His hands are tucked casually into his pockets, and his stride is loose. He seems perfectly at ease for someone who is on their way to their first tryst with a man. Honestly, I have no idea what to make of him.
“How’s your shoulder?” I ask, and he looks over at me, questioningly. “You ended the season on IR, right?”
I know this is right, because I Googled him. Several times, in fact, but nobody needs to know that but me.
“It’s fine.” Anthony gives an irritated shake of the shoulder in question. “If I’m not here, I’m at PT. I’ll be ready to go for next season.”
I don’t doubt it. I also don’t doubt that he would lie and tell me he was fine, even if he wasn’t. Hockey players aren’t known for admitting they’re in pain. Anthony, in particular, seems to be one who genuinely loves the game, as well; I imagine he had a hard time, being pulled during the Stanley Cup Playoffs earlier this year and having to watch from the bench as his team lost.
We make it back to my place in what seems like record time, and Anthony precedes me through the door again, holding it open for me.
“You know this is my house, right?” I ask, testily. He ignores this, bending to take off his shoes.
Taking a page from his book, I decide to go about my own business and pretend he isn’t here. Before he can follow me, I go upstairs to my bedroom, closing the door softy behind me. Changing out of my work clothes, I pull sweatpants and a long-sleeve shirt from my closet. The room is as bare as the rest of the house, which suits me fine as it gives me less to traverse. Unfortunately, it’s not exactly an environment that’s conducive to having company. It wasn’t a problem until Anthony came along, and invited himself in.
By the time I walk back downstairs, feet bare and silent on the floor, he’s seated himself on my couch and is waiting for me. His arm is resting along the back of the sofa, and he pats the cushion next to him as I come into the room. Pretending I didn’t see this, I carefully step around him and head into the kitchen. He laughs, softly, behind me.
Usually, I order food or eat a ready-made meal and call it a day. I hate cooking, and rarely make an effort to do so beyond toast for breakfast and the occasional omelet. Peeking into myrefrigerator, I grimace at the choices.Breakfast for dinner it is. I slide the egg carton onto the counter and go to fire up the oven; I hear him before I can see him, treading quietly behind me and laying a tentative hand on my hip. The touch is so light, if my shirt wasn’t thin enough to be considered threadbare, I might not know his hand was there at all.
“You don’t have to make anything,” Anthony says, voice close to my ear.
“I’m hungry.”
“Can I help?” His hand is still touching my back, palm warm against me. I want to shake off the touch; it feels personal. Too intimate for this thing that’s between us. And so does making him dinner, but I can hardly sit down and eat in front of him without offering him anything. Since I fully intend on us burning off these calories later, I better make sure he’s well fed.
“It’s just eggs. I got it.”
“I’ll handle the toast.” He slides his hand away, snatching the loaf of bread I placed on the counter. Before I can tell him I’ll handle it, he’s already pulling out two pieces of bread and popping them in the toaster. He’s humming, comfortable in the silence and in my kitchen. I wonder how comfortable he’ll be if we actually go through with this; if I finish what he started last week.God, this is such a bad idea.
“This is probably a bad idea,” I tell him, as he slides two plates of burnt toast onto the table between us.
“If you put some butter on there, it should soften it up.”
“Not the toast. This.” I point between us. Anthony starts piling scrambled eggs onto his toast. When he takes a bite, several pieces of egg fall onto the table. I sigh.
“Why isthisa bad idea?” He picks up the stray egg, putting it into his mouth.
“Because we work together, and you’re still acting like this is a relationship and not a casual hookup. I don’t want to dealwith hurt feelings when you decide you want to cuddle after we fuck; I’m not interested in that.”
Anthony chews slowly, staring at me. Per usual, I left the lights low in the dining room and he’s sitting in shadow. I can’t see his face well enough to parse out his thoughts.
“You can still back out. We haven’t done anything yet, beyond establishing your ground rules,” he tells me.
I straighten. “I’m notbacking out. I just want to be sure that you—."
“Don’t worry about me. If there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s having meaningless, no-strings-attached sex.” He holds up a hand, like he’s making a vow. “I promise not to profess my feelings, or overstay my welcome, or act like I actually like you in any way.”
“Thank you, smartass.” Snatching my plate and his, I push back from the table and bring everything over to the dishwasher. It’s early, the light just starting to fade.
I’ve barely straightened up from loading the dishes when I feel strong hands on my waist. Unlike earlier, this touch is neither light nor tentative. He turns me around and pushes me back against the counter, almost aggressively, as though he’s trying to prove something. The moment I’m facing him, he crowds me; his face is close enough to mine for me to feel a fission of panic that he’s going to try and kiss me after all. I’m half right—he tucks his face into my neck, kissing his way over every inch of skin. It feels like a substitute for making out, and heat floods my system. It takes no imagination to know how it would feel if he did this against my mouth.
Tipping my head back, I bite back a groan.Fuck, it’s been too long since I’ve done this. I want to tell him to hurry up, and stop wasting so much time on my neck. As though he read my mind, I feel cool air on my stomach as my shirt is pulled up. Unwilling to let him have all the fun, I grasp the hem of his ownshirt and tug it up. He pulls back just far enough for me to yank it over his head and toss it to the side. I get barely a glimpse of dark chest hair and a washboard stomach before he’s pressing up against me once more.
I can’t control the groan this time, when he bites lightly at my jaw. Heart pounding, I’m painfully aware of how long my dry spell has lasted. I want to suck him off; I wanthimto suck me off. I want to bend him over the counter and fuck him. And, goddamnit, I want to kiss him.
